Grant lapped water to his face in his cupped hands, scraping off dried blood, spitting grit and mud into the sink. No matter how hard he scrubbed at the stains, it was starting to feel like they were caked on for good.

  Maybe some things couldn’t be washed off so easily.

  The face of the lizard man flashed behind his closed eyes. He leaned over the basin, breathing heavy, wrestling down the bile. His injured wrist flared as he put his weight on it, clicking back with a jolt. The pain shot up his arm, turned to a spasm in his shoulder, then crept across his collar.

  “Ugh,” Grant groaned, shaking out the cramp and trying to swallow again. It tasted like copper. Heat rushed up his throat in a thick wave, and he retched, then vomited into the basin. A thick string of drool poured out his mouth behind it. The second wave of nausea came up hotter and faster, followed by a second splash. Tears ran down his face, snot flowed from his nose, fat globs dripping over his lips.

  “Fuck,” he moaned, wiping his chin. He pulled his hand away, more blood smudged across its heel. Another man’s blood. He hadn’t been there for half a day, and he’d already killed someone. Never even knew the man’s name. Spit pooled in his mouth as he remembered the look in his eyes, the hoarse screams he bellowed as he clutched his wrist.

  When his head was thundering from the risk of death, it was background noise. Now it felt like a drum at the front. Another man was dead forever because of him.

  He pumped the faucet a few more times, pulling another mouthful of water up, swishing it around and coughing it out.

  There was arguing in the next room. Arguing over him. Muffled voices rising. Grant couldn’t understand most of them, but those with their Languages Skill active all said the same thing, and one man yelled louder than the rest. The Airet at least had the decency to let him get cleaned up before they kicked him out of their town, sending him to his death. Not like he could blame them for that, but he couldn’t really see the point of it either. From the few words he caught of their discussion, their town was going to be a few smoldering buildings in a few days, and that’s if they were lucky.

  Worst case, they’d be new slaves to the Tomb Fiend’s armies.

  He gritted his teeth and turned away from the mess he’d made, back toward the door. He placed his hand on the handle, took a breath, and pushed it open.

  “We should have left at the first reports of sightings!” hissed a man. He looked like he’d been born in a field and spent every minute after in one, his face like a dry leather satchel, his hands covered in thick calluses. “And where are the boats?” he demanded, gesturing in the direction of the harbor.

  The man at the front coughed. Unlike the rest of the townsfolk, who were dressed in their nightclothes, he wore a gray wool jacket over black slacks, a collared white shirt underneath. The mayor, Grant gathered, who looked like he’d still been at work when the attack came, and immediately called the town meeting.

  Wasn’t like there was much to discuss. They were fucked.

  “I understand your frustration,” said the mayor, “but His Majesty—”

  “—Piss on His Majesty,” spat the farmer.

  Agreeing murmurs rippled through the building.

  Erlan chose that moment to stand, clearing his throat. The farmer glared at him, as though he was responsible for the attack.

  “His Majesty’s forces are tied up in the south, against the forces of the Noxious Wyrm,” Erlan said. “She pushes into new territories every day. Bay’kol and the Tomb Fiend have been inactive for years, so you must understand there was little to be done about it.”

  “So we die?” snarled the farmer. “I have a wife and two children. I have farmed these lands for decades, even during the height of the cultists’ aggression.”

  Another man stood. “My ship carries 200, 250 at most. Not even half the town. I could sail south tonight, to Asaac, to request more ships. But it will take at least a week before I return. With the ice blockages in the Aanor Straits, ten to fourteen days is far more likely.”

  Shocked silence followed his words. A woman clutched her sleeping newborn child, holding back a sob. Her husband clasped her shoulder, whispering assurances in her ear. Nevara and Vaeri stared silently, and Grant stood stupidly at the entrance to the cathedral washing room.

  “If it isn’t our savior,” spat the mayor, spreading his hands. Hundreds of faces craned toward Grant. They had already blamed the King, then Erlan, so the Human was the next step, he reckoned. He had half a mind to activate Perfect Invisibility and just leave them be, but he sheepishly walked across the hall, sitting at the end of a pew next to Nevara.

  I understand that I’m a blood-stained, mud-stained, murderous Human, but the least you could do is stop staring.

  “The Cursed from your world,” hissed the mayor, jabbing a finger at Grant, “pound their bodies against our town gates as we speak.”

  “He is not their ally,” said Erlan. “He saved our lives.”

  “Saved your lives?” screeched the mayor. “From what I can gather, he led them right to Estreia! Thanks to him, we face imminent destruction! In a day, they will realize they cannot break down our gates. In two, they will begin attempting to scale the walls with their bare hands. In three, they will be creating schemes among themselves and assembling ladders, and on the fourth, they could be constructing a trebuchet. Every moment of indecision from us is a gift to them.”

  There was another rumble through the crowd.

  “He killed one, did he not?” asked the farmer. He tapped his weathered chin. “Perhaps he could extend the same courtesy to the others. I know their kind think only of Points, so this might be a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  An Airet woman stood and pointed at Grant, saying something he couldn’t understand. Angry mutterings spread across the hall, some taking the opportunity to stand and shout.

  Grant gave a growl. There were forty-eight of them. Even with brains like mud, they’d rip him apart. He could try to take them out one by one with Perfect Invisibility, but one bad step, and he was dead. He opened his mouth to protest, but Nevara took hold of his arm and squeezed.

  “Trust Erlan,” she whispered, leaning in close. “Airet are wary of outsiders. There is nothing you can say to help your case.”

  He crossed his arms over his stomach and scowled at his feet. Maybe the mayor was right. He could have led them back into the forest and disappeared. Newly Cursed lost much of their rational thought, but with enough time, they gained most of it back. The elk had, after all, understood the causal relationship between head-butting the tree and toppling it to get to Grant. It was likely no less intelligent than a typical elk, from what he could tell. The prisoners crashing against the gate in waves were likely less capable of complex thinking than the beast was, but in time, they’d have Store-empowered thinking, feeling, and speaking men and women on their doorstep.

  If he took them as far east as he could, that may have bought the town a week of time, at least.

  “You’re wrong,” said Erlan. Grant looked up at the Airet general’s face, at the severe look he had directed toward him so many times. “This Human is not like the others. He has only killed another to defend himself, and you will not force him into violence. Perhaps you, farmer, are accusing him of what you yourself are guilty? Suggesting indiscriminate murder, forcing him to bloody his hands, risk his life against the forces of the Commander who attacks our world?”

  “Now you—”

  “And you, Mayor Bardum,” he continued, cutting off the farmer. The mayor glowered. “Your argument makes no sense. Grant Leeman did exactly what he should have. Even if he had led the Cursed away, he could only take them so far east. They would have returned and been at your gates in a week anyway, with their Store-bought Spells and Skills.”

  “So what do we do?” screamed an elderly woman. “Sacrifice half our town? I may be old, but I’ll say now that I deserve a spot on the ship!”

  Hundreds of townsfolk began shouting over each other. Those Grant could understand were staking claim to the first ship out of town as the mayor tried to regain some semblance of order, slamming his gavel on the table. “Can they not fight them off?” Grant whispered to Nevara. It wasn’t something that he wanted to suggest, but perhaps leading them back and killing them was the only option they had.

  She leaned close, her hair brushing against his arm. “The Cursed will soon discover the Spells, Items, Classes, and Skills they possess. Estreia only has a small guard force to deter petty crime.” She paused as she gestured at herself. “We were sent from another city to deal with a single elk. The Cursed are dangerous, and intelligent Cursed creatures far more so. If it were three… yes. But forty-eight?”

  Grant ran his tongue over his teeth. The ship could get the women and children out of town, but what of their fathers? What of the young men who would have to stay and fight? The only direction they could go on foot was toward the cliffs, and Grant didn’t know how tenuous their relationship with the cultists of Bay’kol was. Would they be allowed passage?

  Sure would be nice to have Aquatic Legionnaire, wouldn’t it! the voice chided. With it, you could have swum to another port in hours and had them send more ships. Grant retorted that with that Class, he would have been killed five times over since arriving on this world, and it begrudgingly admitted that he was correct.

  But it reminded him he may not be considering all possibilities. He had 21,605 Points. Was there a Skill, Spell, or Item that could get rid of the Cursed? Or one that could fortify the town until reinforcements arrived? He didn’t expect to find a giant magical ship, but as everyone in the building made their concerns heard, Grant searched the Store. If he wanted to run away alone, it would be easy; he could simply walk by the unsuspecting Cursed. He could probably use it to make his way past the cliffs. But despite their words, these were people, and he refused to leave them to die to Evenonians.

  Grant mentally commanded the Store to show him 20,000-Point Spells. Many stood out as decent, and a few were exceptionally strong in limited circumstances. He found a Spell called Root, which spread vines over an area like Vaeri’s, but it left the enemy with a 20-second run speed penalty. Another would coat any bladed item in poison that dealt damage over time and reduced all Healing the target received.

  He took note of both as potential future choices, but neither would solve the problem banging on the town gates.

  Wait.

  Grant searched for Healing Spells, and he couldn’t find what he wanted. He searched for Cleanse Spells, and again, nothing useful appeared. Finally, when he searched for Cure, he found what he was looking for.

  [Cure (100,000 Points)]

  [Rarity: Rare]

  [Affiliation: Soul, Curse, Poison, Disease]

  [Prerequisites: 14 Base Intelligence, 12 Base Wisdom]

  [Cost: 10 Mana]

  [Cast Time: 2 Seconds]

  [Remove any Curse, Poison, or Disease up to the Rare rank from the target.]

  He was nowhere near having 100,000 Points, and he had no idea what rank the Tomb Fiend’s Curse was. There was a Greater version of the Spell that would remove a Curse, Poison, or Disease up to the Epic rank, but it cost an unfathomable 200,000 Points. Apparently, Curses were supposed to be difficult to remove.

  “What do you think?”

  Grant jumped at the voice and closed his Store page. Hundreds of pairs of eyes were on him, those in front twisting their bodies to see his face.

  “What do you think?” asked the mayor again with a scowl, staring at him as if he actually intended to consider whatever answer Grant could produce.

  “It is an impossible question for a visitor, and you know it,” Erlan said as he rose from his seat again, holding out his hands with his palms up. “Grant has seen neither the shelters nor the port exit. He is not an expert on evacuation or military procedures.” He paused, staring incredulously, and vented a long sigh, allowing his shoulders to go slack. “Please get to the point. For someone so eager to emphasize the urgency of our situation, you sure seem equally eager to waste a tremendous amount of time on useless questions.”

  Grant stared down at his boots to hide a grin. Erlan’s pointed words were a lot more entertaining when they weren’t directed at him.

  Mayor Bardum cleared his throat, breathing slowly as he tried to regain color in his reddening face.

  “You will find my question makes perfect sense when given adequate consideration,” he replied, eyes squinted into beady brown slits. “If you consider that the enemies at our gates are his countrymen—”

  The crowd gave a collective groan. It seemed even their patience was wearing thin.

  “—it follows that he would know how they think, does it not?”

  Grant massaged the bridge of his nose. He was thoroughly impressed with the mayor’s uncanny ability to constantly remind everyone of the most obvious fact in the room, even with their destruction literally pounding on their doors.

  “If I may,” Grant said, standing up straight. Nevara tugged at his sleeve, urging him to stop, but he brushed her hand away. “I am unaware of your customs, but where I’m from, matters of great importance call for great bluntness.”

  The mayor sneered. “By all means, be blunt.”

  Grant sighed with resigned acceptance. “You want me out of your town, and you want the Cursed gone too.”

  The mayor gave no sign of agreeing or disagreeing.

  “And I don’t blame you!” he said, not bothering to veil his lie. “Your duty is to your people, and in your position, I would feel the same way. However, what if I told you that you could have both the Cursed and me gone forever?”

  There was a long silence before the mayor spoke again. “I’m listening.”

  Grant gave him a toothy grin. They were finally getting somewhere. “I suppose that depends. How do you feel about the Cult of Bay’kol?”