Street criers nailed fresh posters onto the swollen wood of posts and walls: “Debt Auction, Public Punishment, Square at Sunrise.”The words were written with all the pomp of civic duty, but the ink smelled faintly of dried blood. Citizens clustered already, drawn like flies to a carcass. Punishment days were free entertainment, less theater, more bloodsport, sanctioned by law.Through this restless murmur of anticipation, a man was dragged. Max. His wrists were bound in iron manacles, the chain biting deeper into skin rubbed raw. His bare feet left faint smears of blood along the cobblestones as the two debt collectors hauled him forward like a butcher drags a hog to slaughter.He was young, barely into his twenties, but the hard labor of a bondsman and years of servitude had left his body toughened, scarred, carved by a life never his own. His black hair, matted from sweat and filth, stuck against his forehead. The night before, they had beaten him, not to break him but to soften

The moon had abandoned the sky. Clouds smothered its silver light, leaving only the ragged glow of campfires scattered along the ravine. Flames hissed and spat, sending jagged shadows crawling across the captives’ faces.Max sat with his back against the wagon wheel, chains heavy on his wrists. Every lash on his back still burned, but the pain was fading into something worse, memory. Each scar was a reminder, each breath a debt unpaid. A whisper cut the darkness. “Tonight.”He turned. Jessa crouched beside him, eyes glinting in the firelight. She leaned close, her voice soft enough to blend with the crackle of flames. “If we wait for daylight, we’re dead weight. Tonight’s the only chance.”Max’s jaw tightened. His heart hammered, equal parts hope and dread. He had endured humiliation, lashes, chains, but this escape was another battlefield. One misstep, and they would all die.He said nothing at first. The silence stretched. Jessa’s lips curled in a crooked smile, though her eyes bet

The storm had broken before dawn, leaving the streets slick with rain. Water trickled in rivulets down Duskport’s crooked alleys, carrying refuse toward the harbor. The city still slept, save for the few who thrived in the hours when the watch grew lax. Max stirred where he had collapsed the night before. His wounds still ached, but something inside had shifted. Fever had receded, his breaths no longer rattled, his limbs no longer felt like stone.He sat up slowly, palms pressed to the wet cobblestones. His reflection stared back at him from a shallow puddle: hollow eyes, blood-streaked skin, yet burning now with a glimmer of purpose.Above that reflection hovered faint glyphs of light, faint as mist yet undeniable. First Glory Mission: Avenge the fallen slave.Reward: +1 Glory. Minor Strength Buff.Max’s chest tightened. Fenn’s face rose in his mind, eyes wide with shock, a boy’s body crumpling in the dirt. The memory stabbed sharper than the whip.The System’s demand was not crue

The Hollow Tankard was a tavern that lived up to its name: hollow, decayed, and reeking of cheap ale. It squatted near Duskport’s southern wall, tucked between warehouses where smugglers offloaded goods too valuable, or too cursed, for daylight trade.Max lingered in the shadows across the street, his chain coiled loosely at his side, rain dripping from the eaves above. He had followed the boy Tomm’s directions here, but doubt gnawed at him. Silas Granger. A man whispered of in back alleys, cursed by slavers, admired by outlaws. Friend or foe, Max could not yet tell.The tavern’s entrance was guarded by two burly men, their faces hard, eyes alert despite the hour. They leaned against the doorframe with the ease of men who knew their fists were as good as weapons.Max’s heart thudded. He was still raw, still learning the System’s strange gifts. To face Silas was to walk into the lion’s den uninvited. But hesitation had cost him once before. Never again.He straightened, pulled his

Night settled heavy over the frontier ridge. The canyon behind them stank of blood and ash; the memory of clashing steel lingered in Max’s bones.He sat by a meager fire, its smoke curling into the dark. His chain rested across his knees, the iron links glinting faintly in the firelight. He cleaned it slowly, each swipe of cloth a ritual.Silas dozed nearby, back against a stone, crossbow cradled loosely in his lap. Even in sleep, his posture radiated readiness. A wolf never truly closed its eyes.Max stared at his scarred hands. They no longer felt entirely his own. Every twitch, every instinct carried the System’s subtle hum, a current of power that had guided him in the canyon, making his strikes surer, his reflexes sharper.But what gnawed at him wasn’t the System’s gift. It was the body of the man he had killed, sprawled lifeless in mud. Silas’s words echoed: “Glory doesn’t erase it. It stacks it higher.”Max clenched his fists. If the weight must grow, then let it crush Veylan b