Splinter - Point Zero

Part 2

No neon signs. No asphalt. One hundred percent something like the eighteenth century, damn it. The era of wigs, rapiers, duels, "a thousand devils," and the absence of antibiotics paired with total unsanitary conditions. And I was at the very bottom of this food chain.

"Hey, Splinter! Why did you crawl out? I told you to die before lunch!"

The rough, nasal shout made me flinch and turn around.

My path of retreat was blocked by three guys. Local thugs, apparently, are the same everywhere, regardless of the era. They looked about sixteen or seventeen, but they were a head taller than me and twice as wide. Dressed in dirty, torn jackets, wearing shapeless caps on their heads. The one standing in the center—evidently the leader—was missing half of his front teeth and was casually tossing a short, heavy club in his hand.

"Look, Rusty, he's a tough one," one of his lackeys guffawed, spitting at his own feet. "I thought you smashed his head in yesterday."

So, they were the ones who beat me up like this. The puzzle was coming together. Splinter (that is, me) had crossed their path or just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"We'll finish the job now," Rusty grinned, taking a step toward me. "Take off your shoes, bastard. And the jacket. They'll do fine for rags. We already took whatever was in your pockets yesterday."

I took a step back, my back hitting the cold brick wall. My body instinctively curled up, expecting a blow. The past owner's memory (or just the reflexes of this beaten organism) screamed that I needed to fall to my knees, cover my head, and beg for mercy.

But the mind of an adult man, even though stripped of most of its memories, rebelled.

Eva, I called out mentally. Any ideas? If we give up the shoes now, we'll die of a cold by evening.

«Scanning opponents...» A translucent grid instantly appeared before my eyes, overlaying the figures of the trio.

«Target 1 (Rusty). Physical strength: average. Intelligence: rock bottom. Weapon: oak club. Vulnerabilities: shifted center of gravity due to an old right knee injury (leans on his left leg). Open to a throat strike.»

«Targets 2 and 3. Cowardly. Act only with the leader's support. Morale will drop to zero upon neutralization of Target 1.»

«Recommendation: use the element of surprise. Your 'victim' status is your main weapon. Let him get closer.»

Rusty, seeing that I was in no hurry to strip, swung his club threateningly and stepped toward me.

"Are you deaf, scum? I said, take off the gear!"

He got right up in my face. He reeked of cheap booze, sour sweat, and unbrushed teeth. He reached with his free hand for the collar of my jacket, expecting me to start whining and pulling away.

«Now! Strike point highlighted!»

On Rusty's neck, right above the dirty collar of his shirt, a bright red pulsating marker lit up.

I didn't overthink it. The body was weak, yes, but at that moment, so much adrenaline flooded my blood that for a second I forgot about the pain and exhaustion. Instead of shrinking back, I abruptly stepped toward him.

My right hand, folded into a stiff ridge, shot upwards. I put all my meager mass—all those pathetic kilograms of bone and skin—into that thrust.

The strike landed exactly on the red marker, right in the Adam's apple.

There was a wet crunch. Rusty's eyes bulged, his face instantly turning purple. He dropped the club, clutched his throat with both hands, and with a gurgling wheeze collapsed to his knees, frantically gasping for air.

I didn't wait for him to recover. As soon as the club hit the ground, I kicked it away, and then, turning my whole body, I struck Rusty right in the face with my dirty shoe with all my might.

His head snapped back, blood sprayed from his broken nose, and the leader tipped over onto his back, his legs twitching on the dirty cobblestones.

I breathed heavily, feeling black spots dancing before my eyes. The hand I had struck with went numb with pain—I almost dislocated my fingers from lack of practice.

Slowly looking up, I stared at the two remaining thugs.

They stood with their mouths hanging open, staring back and forth between the wheezing Rusty and me. Primal terror splashed in their eyes. The same downtrodden Splinter they were used to kicking for fun had just knocked out their leader in two seconds with a strike worthy of a professional assassin.

I tried to put on the most sinister smirk possible, though I suspect with my dirt- and blood-smeared face it looked more like a psychopath's grimace.

"Well?" I rasped, taking a step toward them. "Who else needs shoes? Come on, who's next? We'll find your size."

The lackeys exchanged glances. There is no solidarity in street gangs—this rule applies in any world. One of them backed away, tripped over a stone, turned around, and bolted. The second gulped, squeaked something inarticulate, and rushed after his buddy without even a glance at his fallen leader.

I was left alone with the groaning Rusty.

My legs betrayed me and began to tremble. The adrenaline started to fade, bringing back the headache and a wild weakness. I leaned against the wall and slid down it, panting.

«Congratulations, User. You did not die in the first ten minutes. Achievement unlocked: "Pushback at the Bottom".»

Experience gained. Skill [Hand-to-Hand Combat] unlocked. Current level: 1. 1 Attribute point gained.

"Eva..." I exhaled. "Shove those points... you know where? Right now, I just need a piece of bread..."

«I recommend checking the fallen opponent's pockets. In slum conditions, looting is not a crime, but a means of survival. And I advise doing it quickly, before he wakes up or the local guards come running.»

She was right. I forced myself to stand up. Walked over to Rusty, who was still blowing bloody bubbles and holding his throat. Without any twinges of conscience, I searched his pockets.

The haul was so-so: a half-eaten apple, a piece of dirty rope, and three dull copper coins. But to me right now, this was treasure. I immediately sank my teeth into the apple, not even wiping it on my pants. The taste seemed divine, even though the fruit was sour and bruised.

"Excellent," I muttered, hiding the coins inside my cheek (the safest place in the slums, as a thought surfacing from somewhere in my subconscious suggested). "We have seed capital."

«Capital is a strong word. With that money, you can buy half a stale loaf of bread or get punched in the face once in a cheap tavern. I suggest moving. You need a safe place, water, and proper food.»

I nodded, agreeing with the System. Leaving Rusty lying in the mud, I walked out of the alley, blending into the noisy crowd of the Lower City.

Survival had begun. I didn't know who had kidn*pped me, why I had ended up in this body, or what kind of world this was. But I knew one thing: that Denis, whoever he used to be, wouldn't give up just like that. And this Splinter, whose body I now inhabited, would no longer be a whipping boy.

«Good attitude, User. Just make sure you don't trip over your own shoelaces right now. With your Agility, that could prove fatal.»

I merely smirked and limped along the dirty cobblestones towards my new life