After letting his stomach settle from the large breakfast and doing his business out in the woods, John felt pretty damn good. He felt better than good, actually. Even though he was dirty and probably stinky as hell. Even though his tunic was ripped open and stained with dried blood. John still felt amazing.

Out of habit, he found a flat surface near the creek and started skipping around as if he was using a jump rope. Then he did some light shadowboxing to feel out his body.

His body felt better than ever before. His techniques were sloppy, however. That nearly aggravated him, but he quickly came to terms with it. He recalled doing a lot of sloppy things in the battle two days ago.

Boxing was a sport that boiled down to one man fighting another with their fists. That was mostly everything John knew when it came to fighting.

But now, he had to question if boxing alone was enough in a world like Urmatia. As he threw out punches and pretended to face off against an unforeseen enemy, he could already feel himself changing. He was not moving according to the guidelines governing the artistry and science of well-practiced boxing.

It wasn’t a human shadow striking back. It was a monster reaching forth. It made John wonder if he’d have to constantly adjust against other monsters. Suppose this was similar to a fantasy game. In that case, he’d eventually remix his style to fight against anything Urmatia threw at him.

But would I want to keep fighting? John asked. If we can get to safety, can’t we just chill and avoid all these scary monsters?

John paused, his arms hanging loosely by his side.

What would he become in this world without his parents, without his former society, without boxing? What would he gravitate toward? He couldn’t really see himself becoming a hero just because Dolala and the system wanted him to be.

He had no idea what the job required, and they weren’t very forthcoming with all the information he needed. Being a hero for another world still sounded ridiculous to him.

But I can’t be the one to talk, can I? I went out of my way to save Xanhilt, risking my life. I did a lot of ridiculous shit two days ago.

John was afraid for a stranger about to suffer a horrible death. Was it fear for someone else’s sake that drove John to do what he did? What if he’d died?

But what if Xanhilt died?

John glanced over at the saurian as he took on the responsibility to break down camp. The little scaly guy didn’t mind doing it on his own. Apparently, survivalism was something his mother had taught him. John found that incredibly handy. He knew diddly-squat about camping in the woods, but Xanhilt solved that problem.

The saurian caught him looking. “Something wrong, John?”

“I’m pretty lucky to have you, man.”

“Really?”

John waved his hand around the broken-down campsite. “You pulled this all off on your own while watching over me for thirty-eight hours.”

“We’re in safe harbor,” Xanhilt said, lowering his head. “It is nothing.”

John grinned. He went over and gave Xanhilt a pat on the back.

The saurian fidgeted and gave John frightened looks. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, man. That’s just a human way of saying nice job.”

“Ah. Oh. How interesting. It will take me time to adjust to your human ways.”

“I don’t know if I can adjust to your saurian ways, but I’ll try,” John said. A small part of him found it hard to believe he was making friends with an alien race. If only Reggie was here. He’d nerd out hard.

“John,” Xanhilt called, pointing toward the loot. “What will you do with that?”

John knew what the saurian was talking about without having to look. With a sigh, he glanced at the [Deadman’s Cestus Gloves, Good]. Every time he looked at them, he sensed this strange pull toward the items. The sensation was unlike the initial compass talent. No, it was something more profound.

“Do you feel something toward it?” John asked.

“No,” Xanhilt said.

“I do.”

Xanhilt hummed. “I’ve used identify on them, and it worked. They seemed to be gear imbrued with what this world deems as magic enchantment. They’ll add +5 to strength and resilience and increase the user’s defense against bladed weapons on the arms.”

John used identify on them and found an extra detail that Xanhilt missed.

Weapon Art match found. Wear to unlock Weapon Art and Weapon Art Skills.

“Xanhilt, I think I’m meant to wear them,” John said. “It’s telling me it’s a match for my weapon art.”

Xanhilt hummed. “I had a hunch there was some special meaning to them that’ll pertain to you. We hadn’t learned much about the Weapon Art portions of our interface, but it seems the system prefers for us to experience it first hand.”

“It’ll probably make my fist-fighting stronger.”

“Which is good news, yes?”

“Yeah, I guess it is,” John said, not feeling so great about the news. Xanhilt quirked his head, a gesture that made John speak further. “I’m not sure if I want to play along with this game. Dolala makes it sound fun, but it’s life and death out here.”

“I agree.”

John sighed. “I’m also afraid I might start to like it and go crazy.” Nothing in his past life had ever given him an adrenaline ride like the battle at the tower. Would I start seeking out more fights like that just for the thrills?

“You don’t have to wear them if they make you feel uncomfortable,” Xanhilt said. “But it’s good that we have them in case we need them.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” John said. “Thanks for understanding.”

“I’ve always wanted to be understood, so it seems especially important for me to understand others.”

Man, if nothing else good happens, at least I can say to myself I saved an awesome person. John chuckled to himself.

He was going to speak further when a girl’s screaming rang out.

John jumped to his feet and faced the sound of someone in danger. It wasn’t too far. It was probably outside of the barrier’s range. John was about to shout when the cries stopped.

Silence pervaded. Then raspy laughter. It came from more than one monster. They sounded like a bunch of clowns that had smoked way too many cigarettes.

A round object flew over the treetops and through the barrier.

It splashed in the creek.

Xanhilt ran over and grabbed it. Before he raised it, John turned away, shivers running up his spine.

“John, I believe this is the head of another human,” the saurian said.

John shuddered, his back facing what he could imagine was a grisly display. “I thought this was supposed to be a safe harbor.”

“It is,” Xanhilt said. “For us who are inside. But I think this makes things worse around our area. The monsters wait for us on the outside. And they seem to have weapons of some sort.”

“Weapons?” John turned slightly. He nearly buckled when he saw the head in Xanhilt’s hands. Somehow, John found the strength to observe closer.

The neck had a ragged edge where it had been hacked through. It had been the work of someone with a butcher’s blade, John figured.

“This is messed up,” John said as the monsters kept laughing somewhere out there.

On shaky legs, he reached for the cestus gloves.