The ringing in my ears finally began to subside, replaced by a heavy, suffocating silence that felt far more oppressive than the sounds of battle. I stood amidst the carnage for a long moment, my chest heaving as I watched the last traces of life depart from the bandits I had just cut down. With a mechanical, almost detached motion, I reached down and gripped the blood-slicked tunic of the man lying at my feet. I wiped the length of my steel sword across the coarse fabric, removing the dark, viscous stains until the metal gleamed once more in the dim light. I sheathed the blade with a sharp clack, the sound echoing off the mountainside.

  The physical and mental toll of the encounter was catching up to me. My body was riddled with shallow nicks and one deep gash at my waist, but it was my mind that felt the most frayed. The usage of the Sword Dance skill had left my brain throbbing with a rhythmic, pulsing heat. It was a familiar sensation—the telltale sign that my mana reserves had dipped dangerously low, likely well below the halfway mark.

  I moved with deliberate slowness, reaching into my inventory to retrieve a low-level MP potion and a low-level HP potion. I downed the MP draught first, the cool, clinical liquid sliding down my throat and acting like cold water on a burning coal. The throbbing behind my eyes ebbed significantly, providing the clarity I needed to focus on the immediate tasks. I followed it with the HP potion and two quick casts of Healing Touch. The golden light flickered over my wounds, sealing the smaller cuts instantly. Ironically, the mana expenditure from the healing triggered a fresh, minor throb in my temples, but I pushed it to the back of my mind.

  I turned and rushed toward Namo’s side. He was the only one left in this graveyard who might still have a spark of life, but as I knelt beside him, a cold knot of frustration tightened in my chest. He was in the throes of a violent spasm, his body jerking against the dirt while thick, white foam bubbled from the corners of his mouth.

  I fumbled for another healing potion, my hands trembling slightly as I pulled the cork. I glanced at the Player Window to check his vitals before I was about to force the liquid down his throat.

  ***

  Namo

  HP: 1/101

  ***

  The number made no sense. It defied the logic of the system I had come to rely on. Only minutes ago, his HP had been at seven. I had seen him drink a potion that should have restored ten points immediately while providing a steady recovery buff. By all rights, he should have been stabilizing, his health ticking upward into the safe zone. Yet, as I watched, the counter flickered. Before the rim of the bottle could even touch his lips, the final point vanished.

  ***

  Namo

  HP: 0/101

  ***

  The spasms stopped instantly. His head lolled back, his eyes fixing on the vast, indifferent sky with a hollow, blank stare. My hand, still holding the open potion bottle, froze in mid-air. I felt the blood drain from my face, leaving me cold despite the afternoon sun. My mind, usually so sharp and analytical, simply stalled.

  “What just happened? How did this happen? Why did his HP run out?”

  Those three questions looped through my thoughts like a broken record. I don't know how long I stayed in that frozen posture, kneeling in the mud beside a dead catkin. I felt like absolute shit. The logic of the "gamer" in me was screaming that I had failed a mission—that if I had been just a few seconds faster, if I had prioritized him over those last two bandits, he would still be breathing. But beneath that was the heavy, visceral weight of human loss.

  When I finally sobered up and looked at the bodies of my allies—Kaelen, Selvia, and the rest—the grief was compounded by a sharp, jagged anger. But the feeling I had for Namo was different. It wasn't just sadness; it was a profound sense of failure. Was it because I had known him longer than the others? No, that wasn't it. Perhaps it was because he had died right in front of me, at the exact moment I thought I was saving him. Or maybe it was the crushing weight of the responsibility I had taken on when I bought him. He was my slave, my subordinate, and he had been under my protection. I had failed to uphold the most basic part of that contract. It was an awful, hollow sensation.

  After a few minutes of motionless silence, I forced myself to move. I recovered the potion and returned it to my inventory. I couldn't afford to sink into a depression, not while I was alone on a dangerous mountain pass. I had to think. I had to survive.

  I began a clinical examination of Namo’s body, looking for a hidden, lethal injury that might have bypassed the potion’s healing. There was nothing—no severed arteries, no punctured organs. Remembering the foam at his mouth and the way his health had trickled down despite the healing, I opened my own status window.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  ***

  Reserves:

  HP: 69/148

  MP: 18/52

  SP: 20/58

  ***

  As I stared at the numbers, the HP counter ticked down to 68.

  The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. Poison. The bastards hadn't just relied on numbers and steel; they had coated their weapons in toxins. It explained everything. It explained why Namo’s recovery buff couldn't keep up with the damage, and why he had spasmed in those final moments. They had planned this ambush with meticulous, murderous intent. If they had succeeded in wiping us out, they would have walked away with the riches of two full caravans—coins, equipment, and goods that would have made them wealthy for a lifetime.

  This was the biggest lesson the world had taught me so far: this was not a fairy tale. I had been coasting on my exclusive "Player" advantages, enjoying a relaxed, almost gamified existence. But those advantages were not omnipotent. High stats didn't matter if you were blind to the basic ruthlessness of your enemies.

  I reached into my bag, pulled out one of the low-level antidotes I had bought from Thalanor, and gulped it down. I sat still, waiting and watching. After two minutes, my HP stopped its slow, downward crawl. The toxin was neutralized.

  Kaelen had mentioned that the other caravan might have signaled for support from Velshara, but as I scanned the horizon, I saw nothing but empty road and jagged rock. If no one arrived, I would have to figure out how to handle the aftermath myself.

  Then, my eyes drifted to the bodies.

  It felt wrong—a deep, moral itch at the back of my mind—but leaving the loot behind felt like an even greater sin against survival. I needed the coins. However, the laws of this world were strict. I remembered being told that taking the belongings of a free person without permission would automatically force a job change to Thief. For most people, that was a death sentence for their social standing and their career, as cities carefully screened the jobs of anyone entering their gates.

  But I was different. Even if the system branded me a thief, I could simply use my unique abilities to swap back to Swordsman.

  I walked over to the merchant who had hired me. He lay in the dirt, his face a mask of shock and resentment. Spilled around him, as if they had poured out of his very soul, was a fortune in coin. It was 1 platinum, 40 gold and 48 silver coins total.

  I gathered them up, my heart hammering against my ribs. I immediately checked my job status. To my surprise and immense relief, nothing had changed. I was still a Swordsman. It seemed that in the eyes of this world’s laws, the items of the dead were considered ownerless. Or perhaps, the fact that the coins had spilled from his Coin Purse skill—a spatial storage similar to my inventory that apparently unravels upon death—meant they were fair game.

  I moved to the merchant of the second caravan. Around his cooling corpse lay another 30 gold and 50 silver coins. I took those as well. My adrenaline was beginning to fade, and the dull ache of my injuries was returning with a vengeance. I found and consumed a low-level HP potion and a mid-level HP potion I had found near one of the guards' bodies. The liquid worked quickly, pushing my health back up to 128 and dulling the physical pain.

  There was so much more I could have taken—armor, weapons, enchanted trinkets—but the thought of undressing the dead made my stomach turn. Besides, a lone survivor arriving in a city draped in the gear of twelve dead guards would be an invitation for an execution.

  While I was collecting the last of the coins near the second merchant, I noticed a strange object clutched in his stiffening fingers: a small, black cube. A soft light pulsed on each of its faces, glowing and fading in a steady, rhythmic cycle.

  A signaling device, I realized.

  As I reached out to touch it, a new sound began to vibrate through the air. It wasn't the wind. It was the rhythmic, heavy drumming of hooves against the earth. I scrambled to the edge of the mountainside road and looked down the cliff. Below, I saw two dozen mounted soldiers, presumed to be in the uniform of Velshara, rushing toward the mountain pass. They would be here in less than ten minutes.

  Panic flared in my chest. I was the sole survivor of a bloodbath, standing over a pile of looted gold. I had to act fast. I couldn't be found with all this wealth. Even though I already put them inside my skill, the absence of coins from merchants would be suspicious.

  I reached into my pouch and began frantically putting the coins back. I left 10 gold and 48 silver scattered around my merchant, and 5 gold and 50 silver around the other. I tried to make it look as natural as possible, as if they had simply spilled during the struggle. I kept the platinum coin and the bulk of the gold in my invisible inventory. Even if they suspected me of looting, my job was still listed as Swordsman. They had no way of knowing I have a spatial storage.

  I checked my own waist pouch. I put 2 gold, 10 copper, and 53 silver inside—a believable amount for a successful dungeon raider to be carrying. The rest remained hidden in the system.

  I looked one last time at the battlefield, then walked back to Namo. I sat down in the dirt beside his cold body, my back against a wagon wheel, and waited for the sound of the horses to reach the top of the pass. I reached out a trembling hand and gently closed his eyes, a final, hollow gesture for the companion I had lost.

  "I'm sorry, Namo," I whispered into the silence. Then, I braced myself for the arrival of the soldiers.

  [Edited]