He stood across from a Bastion soldier, right in the middle of a tavern at the heart of enemy territory, surrounded by people who'd probably kill him on sight if they knew who he was. And yet, that was exactly the point. As insane as it sounded, his reckless plan to take out the Warden Captain depended on him being in this very situation.

The woman extended her hand. "Eleanor," she said, her mouth curving into a half-smile. "And you are…?"

He clasped her hand, meeting her gaze without a flicker. "Bond. James Bond."

That was the disguise: a blond man with an eyepatch.

"All right, James. You know how to play knife-throwing?"

"More or less," he replied.

Eleanor grabbed a blade and motioned toward the wall. "There's your target. Think of it like dice. Closer to the center, more points. Near the edge, fewer. Miss completely, you get nothing."

"Got it. And if I hit dead center every time?" he asked.

"James, that's not going to happen."

The soldiers burst out laughing.

His throat was dry, but he forced himself to look relaxed. "And if… if I do nail every throw dead center… I get a kiss?"

It came out with more confidence than he expected. That alone felt like a win.

'Luke, what the hell's wrong with you? You sure you purified that drink?' Artemis cut in.

Quiet. I'm 007 right now, he shot back in thought.

Eleanor gave him a sly smile. "There's only one problem, James. I'll also hit every throw dead center. So no kiss for you."

The table roared with laughter.

"Now that I've got to see up close," one soldier said, standing. Another joined him.

Luke glanced around. Half the tavern had turned to watch.

"You still have time to back out, James," Eleanor said. "Better that than getting humiliated in front of everyone."

He paused, pretending to think. "Then let's raise the stakes. If I lose, you keep the necklace, and I buy a round for everyone here."

The room erupted in cheers.

"But if I win… I'd like a date with you."

Another explosion of noise.

"So, Eleanor, are you backing out?"

She tossed him a knife without hesitation. "Not a chance. I don't lose."

A coin flipped through the air to decide who'd go first.

"Looks like I'm up," Luke said.

"Just remember," Eleanor added, "the kiss only counts if you hit every single throw dead center. That was your condition."

"Fair enough." He raised the knife. "Oh, right… forgot I can't see out of this eye," he said loudly, earning a few chuckles.

He weighed the blade in his hand. "Seven rounds, right? Then I only need seven bullseyes."

The tavern quieted. Dozens of eyes fixed on him. Some wanted him to fail. Some just wanted a show. Either way, the tension was thick. Luke activated refined perception. The air sharpened around him, every detail falling into place. The spin of the blade, the weight in his grip, even the drag of air molecules. He studied the distance. This wasn't some kid throwing darts at his bedroom door. This was the real thing.

"The idiot's going to miss on the first try," someone muttered.

"He's half-blind. What, you expect him to be a marksman?" Laughter rippled through the crowd.

But Eleanor wasn't laughing. She was watching him with the same focus he was using. And so he matched her seriousness. The knife left his hand spinning, slicing the air as the room leaned forward in unison. Mugs froze halfway to lips, conversations cut off mid-word.

The blade hit dead center. A soldier cursed in disbelief. The laughter this time was mixed with surprise.

Eleanor walked up to the target, pulled the knife free, and returned to her spot beside him. Her face was cool, unreadable. She studied the blade for a moment before glancing back at him. "I'll be taking that necklace, James."

She threw. The knife spun through the air, fast and precise. It landed square in the bullseye. Cheers erupted.

"Looks like this is going to be a tough match…" Luke murmured.

His opponent was taking this far more seriously than he expected, her voice carrying the kind of conviction only a true competitor had.

"I've never lost this game," she said with a faint, confident smile.

He picked up the knife and drew a steady breath, letting the silence stretch as he pretended to study every angle. The tavern grew so quiet that even the scrape of boots on wood seemed loud. Every eye was on him, waiting.

"There's a first time for everything, Eleanor," he murmured.

His arm snapped forward. The knife spun through the air and buried itself dead center.

Cheers erupted, mugs raised high. Some voices sounded genuinely thrilled, others groaned in disappointment. He couldn't tell which group outnumbered the other. Eleanor strolled up to the target, plucked the knife free, and walked back without breaking eye contact. Without even glancing at the wall, she flicked her wrist, the blade slicing across the room and slamming into the bullseye as if drawn there by instinct.

"James, I don't play to lose."

This time the roar belonged to her side. And as he scanned the faces around him, Luke realized one thing: the crowd's loyalty shifted faster than the throw of a knife.

***

The match had stretched into the fifth round, neither of them missing the bullseye a single time.

"You're awfully focused," Luke remarked. "Can't tell if it's because you don't want the kiss, or because you're dying for the necklace."

"It's because I don't like losing." The answer came sharp and immediate.

That was when it clicked. She wasn't just skilled. She lived for competition.

"But what if it ends in a tie?" he asked.

"Then neither of us wins, and we walk away the same as we came in."

He turned the knife over in his hand, testing the balance. For some reason, the pressure was heavier now, the air thicker. The crowd pressing in, the weight of their bets, the sharp edge of expectation. It was all coiling around him.

He exhaled slowly, set his focus on the target, and pictured himself as the blade, cutting through the air along a perfect line. Then he threw. The knife snapped forward, fast and clean, embedding itself in the center.

"Damn," someone groaned, disappointed he hadn't cracked.

Eleanor plucked the blade free and stepped to her mark. Her grip was firm, her arm taut, movements practiced. She drew in a breath and, without breaking eye contact with him, let it fly. The knife spun once, twice, and sank dead center. Gasps and shouts rippled through the tavern. It felt like twice as many people were watching now than the place could possibly hold.

"Final round!" someone called, and a low buzz spread across the room.

The next knife was offered to Luke. He handed it straight to her. "Ladies first."

"You sure? Because once I nail this, the pressure's going to crush you." Her smile was playful, but her eyes promised no mercy.

"I'm sure."

For the first time, he saw the tension in her shoulders as she took the knife.

"She's about to throw. Quiet!" a soldier barked.

Eleanor raised the blade to her eyes, inhaled, and narrowed her focus. This time, she hesitated. Adjusting her grip, shifting her stance, biting down on her lip. Calculating. Then, finally, she released.

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The knife cut the air and drove straight into the bullseye.

She turned to him, smiling. "Good luck, James."

The blade was pressed into his hand.

"Eleanor! Eleanor! Eleanor!" the chant thundered, fists pounding on tables in rhythm until the wood shook.

"Pretty clear the crowd's not on my side," he muttered.

"Silence!" Eleanor's voice snapped, and the room obeyed. She smirked. "Silence makes the tension worse."

Her gaze slid back to him. "Your turn, James."

Luke stepped forward, the knife slick in his grip. His heart hammered, each beat like a drum echoing in his chest. Something so ordinary, a simple blade, felt suddenly monumental, impossibly heavy. His palm was slick with sweat as he raised it to eye level.

God… this is brutal.

Luke felt every eye on him. The tavern, the noise, the walls, everything faded until it was only him and the target. He locked onto the bullseye, imagining it as the jugular of an enemy. Instinctively, his body tried to draw on Force Infusion, and he had to consciously shut it down. A deep breath steadied him.

Fingers tightened around the hilt. In a single exhale, he threw. The knife spun through the air at blistering speed. All eyes followed its arc until it struck the board, just below the center.

A roar erupted. "Yeeeaaah!" The tavern exploded in cheers.

"Eleanor! Eleanor!" voices chanted, pounding the name into the walls.

"Guess the next round of drinks is on me," he muttered, and the crowd howled even louder.

"ELEANOR! ELEANOR!"

Mugs slammed together, froth spilling as the tavern celebrated. Luke slipped through the noise, pulled the knife free, and turned, only to find her standing there.

"Why?" Her voice cut through the chaos. It was Eleanor. "Why lose? I know you could've tied."

"You don't like the necklace?" His reply was half-teasing.

"That's not it. You threw that on purpose. I know you did."

He only shrugged.

"Why?" she pressed again, unrelenting.

Luke placed the knife back in her hand. His eyes flicked to the necklace she held. He reached for it, and his voice dropped low. "Because the truth is, madam… from the moment I first saw you in this tavern, I knew the only neck that necklace belonged on was yours."

Her eyes widened. A flush spread across her cheeks.

'Scoundrel. Damn scoundrel!' Artemis's voice hissed in his head.

"May I have the honor of placing it on you?"

For a moment she said nothing, then lifted her shoulders with practiced nonchalance. "Of course. Why not? I did win, after all." She feigned indifference, but Luke didn't miss the tension in her posture.

He stepped behind her, brushing her hair aside, and fastened the necklace around her throat.

"S-so… that's the only reason you agreed to knife throwing?" she asked as the clasp clicked into place.

"Well… I did mention I wanted a date, didn't I? And I'd say this made for a pretty great first one. In the end, being with you was the best part of the night."

'Rogue! Damn rogue!' Artemis spat again.

Eleanor let out a soft laugh. "Seems your words are as sharp as your aim, James."

He turned to face her and froze. A man had just entered the tavern. Someone he had never expected to see tonight. Jonathan.

"So, James…" Eleanor began.

Luke's hand moved, tilting her chin gently.

"W-what are you doing?" she stammered.

He shifted her ever so slightly, angling her body just enough to shield him from Jonathan's line of sight. Leaning close, his voice brushed her ear. "The truth, madam, is that you've enchanted me. But… I can't stay."

He stepped back, positioning himself so Jonathan wouldn't catch his face.

"But I loved our match. And I'd like to continue it someday… from where we left off."

"In knife throwing, right?" she teased.

"Exactly that."

Her lips curved. "I work in Bastion, but I'm always here around this hour. If you pass through again… we'll continue."

"I'd like that," he said softly.

Then he cleared his throat. "Now I'd better pay the tab… before they demand another round."

***

Luke slipped out of the tavern, heart racing harder than usual. Now he was crouched in an alley, dragging in deep breaths. He pressed a hand to his chest and felt it pounding.

"Man… that was intense," he muttered.

"'Madam, that necklace would look so beautiful on your neck,'" Artemis mocked in his tone, dripping with exaggerated charm. "You damn scoundrel."

"Don't laugh at me. That wasn't easy. I was sweating bullets. More nervous about that than fighting a monster. Felt like I was up against another Beast Lord…"

"And what possessed you to pull that stunt? Not that I disapprove of your Don Juan routine, but still, I'm surprised," she said.

Luke pushed himself away from the wall. "I had to use Predator's Mark on Eleanor."

He caught sight of her silhouette moving through the crowd.

"Wait… all of that just to mark her? Why not just do it directly?"

"The same way I realized that ninja woman marked me. Think about it. If a soldier of Bartholomew suddenly realized he'd been tagged in a tavern, or if I followed him down the street and marked him, don't you think that would raise suspicion? Anyone with a bit of mana knowledge would start asking questions."

"So you flirted with Eleanor while marking her?"

"If she'd figured it out, I could brush it off. Tell her it was just an excuse to see her again or something. But it worked. She didn't notice. She doesn't have the depth in mana sense to catch it."

"And why go through all that trouble?"

Luke sat on a wooden crate, pulled a folded sheet of paper and a pen from his necklace.

"Isn't it obvious?"

His eyes tracked Eleanor's figure as she disappeared into Bastion.

"I'm going to map the damn place."

If he could get his hands on the layout of that fortress, then he'd have the map to the second one as well.

***

Allison had been away from the Haven, away from the Safe Zone, for months now. Weeks had passed since she or her group had last heard from anyone back there. Their expedition into the Wall Dungeons had consumed all their time and focus. The place was vast, crawling with danger and teeming with the undead. She remembered how, in the past, she and Luke had used part of that same dungeon to sneak into the city, climbing a vertical shaft that spat them out through a forgotten well.

Staying inside the dungeons had been grueling but rewarding. Seventy people had come on this expedition. Together, they weren't just leveling up their classes, but their professions as well. The environment had been perfect for it. There were caverns rich with ore, an ideal opportunity for miners. Those who didn't yet have professions often awakened them naturally in such conditions. The miners gathered resources, the smiths processed them into weapons, and for the first time many here wielded more than the flimsy starter gear handed out by the System. Thanks to the talent of a handful of smiths, they finally had real equipment.

It had been true teamwork. Deeper in, they'd even discovered an underground forest, where carpenters and builders had the chance to shine. Dangerous, yes, but the perfect environment. After all, awakening a profession was already rare enough, leveling it up was even harder.

Classes were simple. Kill with the weapon tied to your class, gain experience, grow stronger. Professions were another matter entirely. How was a level-one blacksmith supposed to advance without an anvil, without a forge, without ore, without even basic tools? The same went for countless other professions. Without guides or manuals, people had no idea how to progress, and without tools, progression was impossible. Bartholomew certainly wasn't about to share those secrets with outsiders. Teaching others brought him no benefit. Worse, the higher one's profession level climbed, the harder it became to gain experience, the more complex the work required.

But for Allison's group, that problem wasn't quite as insurmountable anymore. Months ago, Mason had joined their faction, bringing with him knowledge others could only dream of. Because of him, most of them managed to awaken professions, at least to grasp the basics, to gain a few levels until they could stand on their own. Being a noble, he'd grown up with access to that kind of information.

And though she would never say it aloud, Allison sometimes felt ashamed of herself. Her family situation before the Tutorial had been… complicated. She hadn't grown up with that kind of knowledge. Still, she'd managed to adapt, to awaken her own profession, and keep moving forward. While they remained in the dungeons, gathering materials and strengthening themselves, someone from the group always made the long day's trip back to Haven to give updates. But everything had changed once they entered the Orc Forest.

Now, Allison sat inside a tent, wiping her face with a damp cloth. When she pulled it back, the fabric was stained deep red. Orc blood, not hers. She stood and wandered through the makeshift camp. The faces she passed were grim, weary, many of them bandaged and bloodied. The mood was heavy, and for good reason. Everywhere she looked between the trees, another orc corpse lay rotting.

They had been in the Orc Forest for weeks, cut off completely from news of the Haven, cut off from everyone else. Their camp was pressed close to the mountains, deep in the Orc Lord's territory. They had already encountered him, and lost. The element of surprise was gone. Their ambush had failed. Ahead, blackened trees still bore the scars of that battle.

They had struck at night, counting on speed and silence. On the way in, they hadn't met a single orc. Whatever had happened when Luke killed the orc general, it had worked. That absence of guards had allowed them to push straight into the Orc Lord's stronghold.

A massive village. And, by sheer chance, or perhaps sheer misfortune, they had attacked at the very moment the Orc Lord was walking its streets, away from his throne. The Orc Lord was level 70. Far too powerful to take head-on. That's why they had planned the ambush in the first place. But it hadn't gone as expected. Instead of catching him off guard, they'd been the ones caught.

The monster had been waiting for them. He'd made himself bait, standing exposed while dozens of orcs hid underground. The moment the group stormed in, the tunnels cracked open and the horde poured out. The Orc Lord killed one of them on the spot. Brutally. Publicly. And before the corpse had even hit the ground, he spoke. Not to them, but about them. They weren't who he was waiting for. He wanted the human who had killed his general.

They had managed to wound him, barely, but in the end they had no choice but to flee. The orc army gave chase, and since then, every day had been war. Their camp was under constant attack. They couldn't advance, couldn't retreat, and every fight bled them thinner, HP chipped away little by little. Some gained levels and managed to recover, but the intent of the orcs was clear: execution by attrition, punishment for trespassing on their lord's land.

And yet, no one in the camp wanted to leave. They were all too resolved. They wanted to face that monster.

When Allison stepped into the command tent, the camp outside was already alive with noise and routine. Guards rotated on strict schedules. Protocols existed for every type of assault. This wasn't the same ragtag band that had once huddled inside the Haven. The clang of steel rang constantly now, smiths hammering, sharpening, forging. They worked until their hands bled, fashioning weapons out of everything they could salvage, even turning orc teeth into vicious arrowheads.

They weren't just surviving. They were preparing. Turning the Orc Lord's own resources against him. Making sure he would regret not taking them seriously as enemies.

Allison sat down, weary but steady.

"How are you holding up?" Eugene asked.

"I'm fine. Finally managed to get the blood off my face," she replied.

The others were already gathered: Mason, Eugene, Miriam, Gilbert, Quinn, and Malik. Aside from Mason, all had once been ordinary Haven members. Now, they were something else entirely.

In training stamina control, Eugene and Miriam had risen above the rest. Both had not only learned to reinforce their bodies but awakened new skills, channeling stamina directly into their weapons. Eugene's spear crackled with it. Miriam's axe practically roared.

Allison had grown too. Her mastery over stamina had unlocked the skill Force Infusion. Out of seventy people, only four had achieved that level of control: herself, Mason, and those two.

"That damned Orc Lord is still sitting on his throne like none of this matters," Gilbert muttered.

They had a map of the village. Crude, incomplete, sketched from hurried observations before their failed ambush. Getting close enough to refine it now was almost impossible. Allison opened her System interface, her gaze lingering on one entry in particular. A plan had been forming in her mind ever since their escape. The ambush had failed because they had only focused on survival. This time would be different.

On the system screen, she stared at her bloodline skill. It was the key to her plan.

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