It was that time of year again, the time that had Damian sitting in a bar, bearing witness to the poor souls chosen for the aspirant trials. As morbid as it was, he couldn’t bring himself to stop watching. He believed each of them deserved at least one witness to their final moments. A few others agreed; the usual crowd clustered together to see the TV was in attendance. The only one missing was Damian’s best friend, Lu Bufeng, better known as Big Lu. Damian figured his friend was held up at work and would join as soon as he could.

  Sipping his Tennessee moonshine, a blue holographic box popped up, the same kind he hadn’t seen since the system descended on Earth.

  Damian’s grip tightened on his drink as the world swam. When it stopped spinning, he was in a familiar loft. Hunting trophies adorned the walls, a bearskin rug covered the floor. To his left, a hallway led to closed rooms. To his right, a staircase. Standing at the top, Damian saw a glowing white specter glared up from the bottom.

  Yep, he recognized this trial. Everyone who’d tried it had died so far. It came up so often that Damian had thought he could make a quick buck selling patterns he’d noticed. Morbid? Yes. Morally reprehensible? Maybe. But it might help someone survive, hopefully him.

  Damian sighed and downed the rest of his drink. “Well, I’m screwed.”

  He cursed his luck again as he stared down the stairs. He couldn’t believe the damn system had picked him for its games. The scenario played out in three trials. He’d hoped to sell the patterns, but now he just hoped they held true. He glanced at the staircase and took stock: one Zippo lighter full of fuel, two unopened cans of WD-40, one large Ka-Bar knife he’d used to whittle the cross he carried to a sharp point.

  The poltergeist shows up the second my foot hits the bottom step. It prioritizes the house over contestants, so use the WD-40 and Zippo as a makeshift flamethrower and burn the place down. While it panics trying to put out the fire, dash for the door. The werewolf waits on the other side, kick the door open, cover the oversized mutt with fire, then stab until it stops breathing. Finally, after exactly twenty paces, the vampire appears on the left, a foot away. Stake it with the cross, decapitate with the knife, and burn the remains.

  Damian took a deep breath and started down.

  The poltergeist wailed when he reached the bottom. He spun right, sprayed the wall next to him, aiming at the painting of the poltergeist alive or its mother; either way, the oil paint went up spectacularly. He dashed past the panicking specter toward the front door. A large silhouette loomed through the cloudy side windows. In the last few feet, he spun and donkey-kicked the door with everything he had. A satisfying whimper came from the other side as he scrambled up, brandished the flamethrower, and let loose.

  The werewolf howled in surprise and pain as its fur caught fire. Unbalanced from the door to the face, it fell back and flailed while Damian emptied the can, burning as much as possible. He dropped the empty can, drew his knife, and plunged it into the neck with frantic ferocity, taking swipes and burns from the struggling beast as he watched the light leave its eyes.

  He panted heavily for a few seconds, then dragged himself forward, prepping for the next step by keeping the cross in his pocket, not daring to pull it early in case it changed the vampire’s timing. He counted steps under his breath, eyes scanning.

  Mid-twentieth step, he swung his arm out fast, cross point straight. A sickening crunch and solid thump, his hand stopped. The vampire’s face froze inches from his neck. He stepped back and shoved it over. The cross was buried up to Jesus’ feet. For the first time in a long while, Damian said a prayer, thankful it worked. He studied the vampire before cutting off its head, which took time and effort with just a knife. It reminded him of Nosferatu: pinched face, corpse-pale, elongated fangs, long almost-elfin ears, yellow eyes, bat-like nose. Bald, wrinkled, dirty.

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  If lore was right, Nosferatu were plague-spreaders and stronger than this one showed, so he hoped it wasn’t. It took ten minutes to hack through the spine. He left the head on the chest and dragged the smoldering werewolf over. The big bastard was heavy, he nearly threw out his back, but stubbornness won. Stereotypical werewolf: digitigrade legs torso-sized, matching arms with long claws, snarling wolf face, fangs finger-length in a massive muzzle. Beautiful black pelt, would’ve been, if not burnt and reeking of death.

  “Whose degree is useless now, Lu,” Damian chuckled.

  He was pleased the gamble worked. No silver, so fire was next best. The system ran on associations and symbolism, not literal rules. Fire meant purification; werewolves were cursed. Plus severing the jugular helped. He cut out the canines and longest claws, potential tools or trophies.

  Damian stretched his back and turned to the vampire. He pulled the last WD-40 can, flicked the Zippo. Whoosh, the creature caught, but the flame wasn’t normal orange-yellow. Starting at the cross and spreading fast, it turned vibrant silvery-white.

  “Strange,” was all he said.

  Adrenaline faded; wounds hit. Jumping on a burning werewolf wasn’t smart, he was lucky: one claw slash, mostly burns and bruises. Hissing, he drew the pilfered knife, held it in the flames until cherry-red. Gritting teeth, he hesitated, then pressed it to the bleeding wound.

  The burning flesh smell nearly gagged him, but he refused to quit. He worked in two-second bursts for about a minute, never fully adapting to the pain. Done, he fell on his ass in the snow, panting and groaning, interrupted by a sharp ping. A system box floated above.

  Damian brought the knife up. It was now a sleek, black-handled USMC Mark 2 Combat Knife, ergonomic grip from dense, polished obsidian-like material, cool and smooth unlike the old wood. Blade dark metal with iridescent shimmer; faint crimson line pulsed along the edge like contained liquid light, deepening at the point. Faint internal warmth; smoky crimson aura danced occasionally like distant embers.

  He requested the info page.

  “Holy shit!” Damian whispered. That... that was amazing! Confidence surged, he felt ready for whatever came next.

  “Alright,” he grunted, pushing to his feet and steadying himself. “Let’s get this over with.”

  He staggered the first steps toward the forest path, then caught himself and walked steadier. The forest reminded him of Ontario’s light taiga: open canopy of pines, sparse vegetation, dry soil despite snow.

  Out of the corner of his eye, something carved into a pine. He wandered over. Symbols resembled those of tribes native to the Americas pre-European contact.

  “These are definitely Ancestral Puebloan in origin,” Damian muttered. They invoked an eagle spirit to warn of incoming danger. If he translated right, which he better, or he’d have words with his anthropology professor, the next beast was a wendigo.