DESTINATION: Southern United States

  The world reboots itself with a sickening blur of pixels and light. Scents of rawhide, sweat, and burning cedar smack the senses like a fist. A black horse snorts and stamps, its dark eyes wild with whatever terror just happened here.

  Britt Johnson—or at least, the man playing him—has to swallow the rising bile in his throat. This simulation is too real. That was the selling point, but nothing could’ve prepared him for the pounding ache of his legs, the itchy heat of the Texas sun, or the desperate holler of his own voice echoing over the plains.

  “Mary! Mary!” His voice is a dry rasp, like iron nails dragged over gravel. The simulation’s creators didn’t just build this world; they forced him to feel every broken piece of it.

  Around him, the land sprawls in relentless, sun-baked misery. Waves of golden grass dance mockingly under a sky so blue it looks painted. The Peters Colony stretches wide and empty, a place where a man can disappear without a whisper. And they did. His family. Vanished like shadows at dusk.

  Britt’s legs are shaking, but not from fatigue. It’s the rage. The howling, stomach-churning rage that tightens his hands into fists so hard his nails bite into his palms. The system is registering everything—heart rate, muscle tension, the whole deal. And the sick bastards who built this world want him to feel it. But damn it, it’s working.

  Images flash through his mind, rapid and scorching. Mary’s soft, freckled cheeks. The shrill giggles of his daughters, Mae and Violetta, as they chased each other around their pitiful little cabin. The thunder of hooves as the raiders descended, war cries slicing the air like knives.

  And his boy. Oh God, his boy. The one he couldn’t save. Britt’s knuckles tighten around the rifle in his hand, the wood groaning under the force of his grip. He failed once. He can’t fail again. The VR interface blinks in the corner of his vision.

  OBJECTIVE: Track the Comanche Raiders. HINT: Rage makes you careless. Focus makes you dangerous.

  He scoffs at the clinical encouragement. This isn’t some damned game. But if it’s the only way to find them, then so be it. He crouches low, eyes scanning the ground like a man sifting for gold. They told him the tracking system was enhanced, that he’d have “heightened perception” to make the journey more “immersive.” All he knows is that every trampled blade of grass, every broken branch, is burning itself into his brain like a brand.

  The trail is fresh. Hoof prints carve deep scars into the dirt, desperate and hurried. They’d taken his family as prizes, trophies to be sold or traded or worse. His fingers twitch toward his knife, the rage sharpening into something even deadlier: purpose.

  His horse, Midnight, snorts impatiently. The beast is like him—scarred, stubborn, refusing to lay down even when the whole world seems intent on killing them both.

  “Let’s go,” Britt growls, his voice steady now. “We’ve got devils to find.”

  They ride hard across the plains, the land stretching out like a beast’s back, ridged and uneven. The sun blisters the horizon, sinking low and turning everything to molten gold. Dust chokes the air, but Britt drives them on.

  By the time they reach the shallow creek, the air is cool and thick with the scent of rain that refuses to fall. His eyes narrow. Tracks lead down to the water, then back up the ridge. A spot where the Comanche might camp. He’s not foolish enough to charge in. No, he’s patient. And he’s angry. The kind of angry that turns cold and precise.

  His fingers tremble, not from fear but from a fury so deep it feels like it’s eating him alive. Britt reins Midnight to a halt and slides off the saddle, crouching low to the ground. The simulation’s details are too perfect. Even the chill of the evening feels real, seeping through his clothes and into his bones.

  He moves quietly through the brush, every step deliberate, measured. His pulse is a drumbeat in his ears. Suddenly, voices. Muffled, distant, but there. He inches forward until the camp is in sight. A small fire crackles, casting jagged shadows over a half-circle of men. The Comanche warriors sit around it, some laughing, some speaking low and serious. He scans their faces, searching for anything that tells him his family is near.

  Then he sees them. A glint of silver. His wife’s necklace, strung around the neck of a Comanche who speaks with authority. His heart seizes. The sight punches the breath from his lungs. But there’s something else, too. Another man, older, his voice calm as a still pond. A leader, perhaps. The way the others glance at him suggests a respect built on more than violence.

  New Objective: Speak to Esahabitu. HINT: Not all enemies are foes. Not all friends are allies.

  Britt’s lips twitch into a bitter smile. “So that’s how it is,” he mutters. “Let’s see if the devils have mercy left in them.” But as he inches closer, a sickening crack rings out from behind him. A branch breaking under careless footfall. He wheels around, weapon ready.

  And finds himself staring down the eyes of another raider, spear aimed squarely at his chest. The spear doesn’t move. Neither does Britt. Both men are locked in the unforgiving stillness of the moment. The raider’s eyes are cold and curious, as if wondering why this man has come so far to the brink of death. Britt can see his own reflection in those eyes—tattered, weary, but relentless.

  “Esahabitu,” Britt forces the name out, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. “I need to speak with him.”

  The spear tip presses just hard enough to draw a bead of blood from his chest. The raider’s lips twist into something between a grin and a snarl. He says something in Comanche that Britt can’t quite catch. The simulation’s translation overlay struggles to keep up, flickering like a faulty light.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  But then, a voice cuts through the darkness, deep and commanding.

  “Let him come.”

  The raider hesitates, his jaw tightening before he slowly lowers the spear. Britt’s pulse thunders in his ears.

  He pushes himself to his feet, every muscle tense. Midnight stays where he’s tied up on the ridge, eyes wide and nervous. The horse knows danger when it smells it. The camp is a fragile peace painted over brutal tension. Comanche warriors glance his way, their expressions ranging from open hostility to wary curiosity. Firelight dances across their faces, painting them in gold and shadow.

  But it’s the man at the center of the gathering who holds all the power. Esahabitu. His gaze is sharp and calm, the kind of calm that comes from years of ruling with both strength and cunning. He gestures for Britt to sit, a man in control of everything around him.

  “I have come for my family,” Britt says, words deliberate, measured. He has nothing left to lose. The desperation makes him reckless and careful all at once.

  Esahabitu’s expression doesn’t change. “Your family is alive. For now.”

  The way he says it feels like an axe hanging over Britt’s neck. But he doesn’t flinch. “I’ll pay whatever it takes. Just name the price.”

  Esahabitu regards him for a long, heavy moment. “You would trade your life for theirs?”

  “If that’s what it costs.”

  A few of the warriors mutter amongst themselves, their tones mocking. To them, Britt’s offer is either foolish or weak. But Esahabitu’s gaze stays on Britt, his eyes narrowing in curiosity.

  “What makes you think your life is worth so much?”

  Britt’s fists clench, but he forces himself to stay calm. “It’s not. But my word is. I came here willing to die. That has to count for something.”

  The chieftain’s lips twitch into a faint smile. “A man willing to walk into his enemy’s fire is either very brave or very stupid. Which are you?”

  “I’m a man who keeps his promises.”

  The air goes still, the fire crackling the only sound between them. Finally, Esahabitu speaks. “The lives of your wife and daughters are valuable. But their fate is not mine to decide alone. You will have to earn their freedom.”

  A thin thread of hope tightens in Britt’s chest. “What do you want me to do?”

  “There is another tribe,” Esahabitu says slowly, his words deliberate. “One that has taken from us. They hold something of great value. Retrieve it, and your family will be returned to you.”

  “What am I looking for?”

  The chief’s expression hardens. “A boy. One of ours. Captured and beaten by the same settlers you call your kin. He was sold to another tribe, far from here. Bring him back alive, and your family will walk free.”

  Britt’s jaw tightens. So, this is his task. To save someone else’s child to save his own. The irony isn’t lost on him. But what choice does he have?

  “Where do I start?” Britt asks, voice low. His voice feels like gravel, every word coated in dust and desperation.

  Esahabitu nods toward the north. “You will travel to the lands of the Pecan Ridge. The boy is held there. Return him to me, unharmed, and your family will be released.”

  “And if I fail?”

  The chief’s gaze turns icy. “Then you will die alone, with your family’s blood on your hands.”

  Britt doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll get him back. And when I do, you keep your word.”

  Esahabitu nods. “My word is as solid as the earth beneath your feet. Now go. Time is not on your side.”

  Britt rises, his muscles tense as iron. The eyes of the warriors follow him, some mocking, others merely curious. None friendly.

  But there’s something more. A feeling like an itch just beneath his skin. The simulation’s feedback pulses, urging him to do more than simply follow orders. He feels it in his bones. He stops before he leaves the camp. His gaze returns to Esahabitu.

  “Where was the boy taken?”

  Esahabitu’s brow furrows. “North, across the plains. But their trail passed near the sacred canyon. My men followed as far as they could before turning back. It is a cursed place.” A curse, huh? Britt has no use for superstition. But fear is a language he understands. The sacred canyon. That’s where he’ll start.

  The night is heavy and cool, the air tainted with the bitter smoke of burning wood. Midnight’s hooves crunch softly over dried grass as Britt guides the horse toward the canyon. It isn’t far, maybe a half-hour’s ride. The moon hangs low, a sickle of silver carving through the darkness.

  Britt’s eyes stay sharp, his senses stretching out like a net cast over the landscape. His grip on Midnight’s reins is loose, his other hand resting lightly on his rifle. Everything about this feels wrong, and it’s not just the fact that he’s going into enemy territory. It’s the sense that something is calling him. Beckoning him toward the canyon’s shadowed entrance.

  The canyon looms ahead, jagged walls rising like the ribs of some dead, ancient beast. The air is colder here, heavy with the scent of damp stone and something else—something old and powerful.

  “Alright, Midnight. Let’s see what the devil has waiting for us.”

  He dismounts, letting Midnight graze on the meager grass while he moves forward on foot. His boots press into the dirt, each step as quiet as the night itself. Britt’s eyes scan the ground, picking up faint impressions of footprints. They’re shallow, almost erased by the elements. He bends low, tracing the marks with his fingers.

  Then, something catches his eye. A glint of silver, half-buried in the dirt. He brushes away the dust, revealing a shard of metal no larger than his palm. Its surface is etched with markings that swirl like smoke trapped in glass.

  Britt’s heart hammers in his chest. The simulation has trained him to trust his instincts, and right now those instincts are shouting at him to take this thing. Whatever it is. He glances over his shoulder. Midnight’s ears twitch nervously, but there’s nothing else. No sound but the wind. With a flick of his wrist, Britt brings the shard up to eye level. His HUD flashes:

  FRAGMENT DISCOVERED: ANCIENT MEMORY SHARD SCAN FOR OBJECTIVE INTEGRATION?

  “What the hell...?” he mutters. His thumb presses against the interface, triggering the scan.

  The world around him pulses as the simulation processes the fragment. Then, a new line of text overlays his vision.

  NEW OBJECTIVE COMPONENT ACQUIRED: Fragment 1/5 – Memory of the Forgotten Path

  OBJECTIVE UPDATED: Find all fragments to unlock the full path. Fragments may reveal vital clues or abilities necessary for your mission.

  A memory shard. Whatever that means, Britt feels the weight of it in his hand like a key to something far bigger. His eyes narrow. Maybe this piece of metal isn’t just a clue—it’s a step forward.

  And if it leads him to his family, then damn all the curses and ancient warnings. The simulation offers an option:

  STORE ITEM IN INVENTORY?

  Britt’s fingers twitch. This whole simulation thing keeps getting weirder. But if they programmed this shard as part of the mission, then someone somewhere thought it was important. And if it keeps the warriors from seeing what he’s found, all the better.

  He selects “Yes,” and the shard vanishes from his palm, sucked away like smoke. His HUD updates, displaying a tiny icon of the shard in the corner of his vision.

  A sound echoes from the canyon. A low, mournful moan like wind dragging its nails over stone.

  “Time to go,” Britt says, his voice rough with nerves. Midnight snorts in agreement.

  Britt swings up into the saddle, his eyes darting over the landscape as he urges the horse forward. The interface updates, a dimly glowing arrow pointing northeast. Toward Pecan Ridge.