“Last minute heat showers,” she said. “One of the many perks of being a Mystic.”
Era gagged on the smoke, interrupting his remark about how Liv's definition of a “perk” was more than a bit skewed.
To Era, the chattering of reporters in the next room were just as terrifying as the incoming hoofbeats of the horse elemental. I just know I'm gonna disappoint them. But what doesn't disappoint the tabloids these days? I could be some kinda level 79 knight in +390 DEF shining armor, with all four limbs intact and sculpted into godlike physical perfection, with a +164 ATK longsword, and they'd still cast suspicion on me for being from Rosencrace.
But knowing who I'm up against, it's only fitting that a “Rosie” is gonna lead the charge. Maybe I should embrace my nationality, wave it like a fla—
“Hold still, Slasher.”
[Liv — Cleansing Fire]
Era jumped as Liv's flames quick-dried his clothes and hair, filling the area with steam.
YularTube — BREAKING NEWS — 1042nd Chosen Three Reveal / Press Conference
Posted 5/17/5211 at 1:00 PM OVST by AriesianEmpire.co.ar
[LIVE — ARCHIVED]
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General Graveberry: Citizens of the Ariesian Empire, I bid you welcome. Since the beginning of the horrors of the Dark Lord Cycle, brought forth into our world by Sarastro the Goblin King over five millennia ago, many heroes have attempted to recreate the heroism of Titus Celsius the paladin, Cyrus Rosencrantz the warlock, and Aressia Valenti the priestess—the original Chosen Three. In doing so—
(kittenstomper69: interview starts at 4:37)
[Viewer — Fast Forward to 4:37]
General Graveberry: —ecal matter. Now, I believe the Tarlynn Post representative has the first—
Tarlynn Post: Mystic Liv! What's your bra size?
Liv: 47 confirmed kills.
Tarlynn Post: So, like, is 'confirmed kills' slang for inches?
Liv: It's slang for dead people. One as a kid when my powers got out of control, 46 as a mercenary. 27 of them were other Mystics, so my absorption level is about 55.
Tarlynn Post: Please answer the question.
Liv: I did. You asked me how many people I've killed. I said 47.
Tarlynn Post: That's not what I was asking.
Liv: Yes, yes it was.
Tarlynn Post: How big are your—
Liv: What's that on your nametag?
Tarlynn Post: My name?
Liv: Really? Because it says your name is “Number 48.”
General Graveberry: Let's keep this civil...
Meanwhile, southeast of the Imperial City...
[Name The Paladin]
[O F E L I A _]
Resting in the tall grass was a ravenous, man-eating taco restaurant. Just a week prior, five unlucky adventurers had made the fatal mistake of stopping for a taco break, and have since been held in captivity by the beast's parasitic employment opportunities.
The only survivor of the recently enslaved cashiers, a raven-haired elvish girl—her name tag read “OFELIA”—caught a glimpse of the TV in the middle of the dining area. Another press conference, she thought. Damn imperials. Who's getting sacked for sexual misconduct this time?
The caption, underneath a Mystic: “Liv Matapang.”
Livvy?
A rapid series of harsh, but welcome realizations came over Ofelia about her childhood friend.
She's still alive. Galgalim be praised!
She's a Mystic. That explains why Colonel Matapang moved her to Celsior without warning.
She's a chosen hero. If she remembers me, perhaps I could join her quest, and restore the good name of Mother Rosen—
Wait a minute. She knows what my father was doing to her people. All the lies about 'kid-chompers.' Would she forgive me?
With a heavy sigh, Ofelia's mind was made up. Only one way to find out.
“Excuse me, Manager!” she called out.
A six-foot-tall, fleshy, tumorous protrusion extended from the tile floor, forming a crude and vaguely humanoid face. “Hello, Ofelia. I am the manager and here, yes!” it screeched. “Do you have any questions? I am a human person. Try our daily special: People's Chorizo Quesadilla with Commu Sauce!”
“We need to find the Chosen Three.”
“I do not know. That does not sound productive to me: possibly sucking out your souls and eating them. I am an accredited business franchise and not a monster.”
“The health inspector said we needed to, or we'd be shut down.”
“Health inspector! This is the health inspector. Come on up, health inspector!”
From behind Ofelia came another humanoid wad of flesh, dangling from the ceiling, with a dagger in its head from the recently-devoured nacho cook.
“Health inspector is dead?” shrieked the manager. “Do not let the health inspector see this.”
“His last request was that we find and attack the chosen heroes,” said Ofelia.
“That is reasonable, because I mourn the loss of our health inspector, because I have emotions, because I am human, so now we will consume the souls of the Chosen Three.”
With that, the Taco Chairman's gigantic arthropoidal legs extended from its roof, and it stamped across the prairie to seek out its victims.
Ofelia sighed, returned to her register, and silently practiced her “I don't hate Mystics like my father did” speech to Liv.
Citadel Weekly: This question is for Friar Noah.
Noah: That's me! Hello there, friend.
Citadel Weekly: You're an adherent of the Church of Aries, correct?
Noah: Am I ever!
Citadel Weekly: What are your thoughts on the recent allegations that His Holiness the Patriarch has been involved in illegal human trafficking?
General Graveberry: If we could keep the questions relevant to the quest at hand...
Noah: It's fine, I'll answer. I'm not sure what the Patriarch is up to, and I'm afraid I can't say much for myself, on account of I don't have a driver's license. But if I did, then by Argo's horns, I'd obey all the traffic laws in all the land!
Era: They mean human trafficking.
Noah: Oh! Right. Well, even when driving my human body, I stop at every traffic sign and make sure to look both ways before crossing the—
[The Mystic appears to whisper something to the healer—presumably, what human trafficking means.]
Noah: I need a priest!
[The healer begins sobbing hysterically and runs away.]
On an interprovincial highway, somewhere in Celsior...
[Name The Berserker:]
[B R A N W E N]
At no less than 110 miles an hour, a pickup truck with a pontoon boat as its trailer, shot through the highway. The sound of an annoying pirate themed song from a children's TV show on its speakers caused terrified vacationers to veer for the shoulder in advance, like a significantly less legal ambulance.
Street Pirates of the HMS Video Nasty.
But the crew in the pontoon boat was sparse, compared to more well-known gangs. There were only two brutish, pink haired Ariesian girls in the boat. They sat against the guardrails, going with the general assumption that their driver, Captain Branwen Hammersmith, wasn't about to turn them into a small wooden memorial on the side of the highway.
One, nicknamed Expunged, was watching some irrelevant normie crap on her laptop: a stream of the Chosen Three at their press conference.
“Yo, Redacted,” said Expunged.
“Get bent,” said Redacted.
“You, too. Anyway, don't show the captain the new Chosen Three.”
“More like you not show her. Why not?”
Expunged turned her laptop screen. “The healer, dumbass. Look at 'im. He's just her type.”
Redacted scoffed. “Branwen's not into guys.”
“You know what the vog I mean.”
Seven minutes of loaded silence passed.
A remark from the back of the trailer drained the blood from the two pirates’ faces. “Don't show me what?”
The truck, now without its driver, veered toward its third ditch of the day.
Fulgan Times: Got a question for the leader.
Era: Yo.
Fulgan Times: Mr. Gualtieri, this year's Dark Lord campaign is a particularly racially charged one. With that in mind, what are your thoughts on the GU and their anti-elvish agenda?
Era: Monty's full of crap.
[Approx. 5 seconds of silence]
Era: And four words is all he gets.
Fulgan Times: Fair enough. Do you believe you stand a chance against him, despite your relative inexperience and the disproportionate power gap between you and him?
Era: I'll say this much. I lost my home, my friends, most of my family, and my right leg during the Fall of Rosencrace. That means that I've already had the worst day of my life, and all the GU can hope for is second place. This “power gap” you're talking about just means I'll have more fun figuring out the best solution to—
Truthgasm.co.cel: Did it happen?
Era: Oh yes, by all means, interrupt me.
Truthgasm.co.cel: Are you saying it happened?
Era: What happened?
Truthgasm.co.cel: Are you saying that the Fall of Rosencrace happened, despite the plethora of empirical evidence that it's a hoax to slander House Koschei?
Era: Yes. Yes, it did. I was there. What kind of question is that?
Jauncliffe Daily: Who paid you to say that?
Era: Okay, look, if it didn't happen, which it did, why would I go to the trouble of sawing my own leg off at the knee?
Truthgasm.co.cel: I dunno, why did you? I'm just asking questions here, there's no need for you to get so hostile.
Graveberry: If we could move on to the next question—
Truthgasm.co.cel: General, if this elf is really going to lead the Chosen Three, he'd better come prepared to back up his assertions with proof. I hate the Dark Lord just as much as the next guy, but how do you expect the good people of Celsior to have any confidence in the defenders of Luminar if they're being led by a potential crisis actor who goes around throwing baseless accusations of “genocide” to advance an extremist, Rosie-supremacist agenda?
Liv: That's it, killin' everybody!
[The Mystic proceeds to flip the table over and prepare some kind of horrible magical attack, and—]
[~ Whoopsies! We seem to be having some equipment trouble. Be back soon! ~]
Elsewhere in the city...
Walled up behind a fortress of brick, barbed wire, and graffiti, Rankin Towing had developed a terrible reputation for their practices. Reports of robbing motorists blind over phony parking violations came in by the score every month. Columnists accused them of being “practically pirates.”
This accusation was false. The truth was that they were literally a cutthroat band of street pirates led by Cassius “Cap'n Crapbeard” Rankin.
Among their crew was a potbellied, one-eyed elf with more than a few gold necklaces. He was their automancer—car mechanic, but wizardry was involved—and he had been in their service for four years to work off his debt from a particularly terrible hand of poker.*
And his name...
[Name Era's Dad:]
[M I S C H A _]
...was Mischa Gualtieri.
*[Public service announcement: Jack of Spades, Four of Clubs, Two of Diamonds, Ten of Hearts, and Rules Description Card does not constitute a “San Cyro Flush.” This hand does not exist, nor should it, nor does the “so bad it's good” rule exist in poker. That's in movies, Mischa. You're thinking of movies. Now you've been enslaved by street pirates because you suck at improvising.]
[Don't be like Mischa. Always know when to fold 'em.]
[This has been brought to you by the Ovinium Card Gaming Association — “Because We're Still Relevant!”]
For now, Mischa was belly up under his latest and greatest nonconsensual project: the Doomwagon. Rankin Towing needed a new flagship for their highway pillaging, something even scarier than the dreaded Suck Truck Supreme of Baron Buttstab.
The result was a tour bus, painted jet black and decorated with barbed wire. Plus, thanks to Mischa's secret stash of stolen House Koschei paratechnology, the Doomwagon had a bunch of other fancy features, which Mischa would reveal only once he busted out of Rankin Towing and had stolen the bus for himself.
But now wasn't the time for that. First, Mischa had to find out where his son was.
A crackling of bones came from the floor.
[All Right, Fine, Name The Undead Monkey:]
[S T E V E _ _]
Mischa turned to the side and saw him—his pet capuchin monkey skeleton, Steve, because that's a thing now.
“What now, Steve?”
In his dry claws, Steve held Mischa's smartphone, displaying a livestream of Era at the press conference.
Tears welled up in Mischa's remaining eye. By the Gods. Little Dork is a chosen hero! That does it. The Doomwagon isn't done, but it's done enough for me to help him.
Crawling out from under the Doomwagon, Mischa pulled out a bag of unopened Cheezy Bacon Chips and dangled it in front of the monkey skeleton. “Okay, Steve, you want some drugs?”
Steve pawed at the bag, but Mischa snatched it away.
“Execute Emergency Plan 27. You set up the explosives; I'll get the bus ready. Then, drugs.”
Steve nodded and hobbled over to the secret drawer of Mischa's tool cabinet.
The sad truth about skeletons is that they can't eat anything, so whenever something tastes good, it's technically drugs.
[~ ...and we're back to the stream! Thanks so much for your patience. ~]
[The Healer, having finished crying, hugs the Mystic tightly, which appears to calm the Mystic down from her earlier outburst. Screaming from the Truthgasm.co.cel reporter can still be heard as paramedics tend to his wounds.]
General Graveberry: In the interest of time, let's try to wrap things up. One more question: you there, San Cyro Report.
San Cyro Report: Thank you, General. This is for the fencer: what would—
Era: The answer is bees.
San Cyro Report: If you could let me ask the question, first.
Era: And I get that, I really do. But this room is too loud, this conference is too long, and I'm too damn tired. Whatever you're asking: bees. Nothin' but bees.
San Cyro Report: I was about to ask you how one becomes a psychokinetic fencer.
Era: Oh, for real? Would you believe me if I said “bees” was literally the answer to that?
San Cyro Report: Care to elaborate?
Era: Well! The venom of the Rosencracian daggerfly is the catalyst for—
Intercom: Wolf mourns not the rabbit, baby! This message is for Crown Princess Pamina...
Era: Hey, I'm not done.
[Stream ended due to emergency]
Back in the mall portion of the palace, in the center of a long hallway, a candied nuts stand had been torn apart and re-worked into a pen for ten terrified shoppers, five of them children. At the opening of the pen stood Faulk, a seven-foot-tall GU Centurion with an eight foot long oaken club. A black balaclava obscured his unwashed face. The shops from which he snatched them were littered with broken glass and smashed furniture.
Nearby, at an emergency intercom kiosk, stood Vance, another GU centurion, greasy-haired and short. A wavy-bladed, two-handed sword rested against his shoulder as he covered the microphone with his fermented spittle: “Wolf mourns not the rabbit, baby!”
“This is a message for Crown Princess Pamina, who, might I add, is a seven out of ten at best. Maybe put a little more meat on those hips and we'll talk. Anyway, in the name of the GU, I bear tidings of our glorious Lord Monty!
Speaking of Lord Monty: when he took the Jade Crown, he wanted a challenge. He wanted to be the one to fight and kill Prince Raphael, and maybe two hardboiled mercenaries for good measure. And who does he g
et for his Chosen Three? The unpopular kids table at the nearest available reform school cafeteria. Their leader—that is, who you believe to be Lord Monty's equal—is a Rosie cripple.
This lineup is a direct insult to the hero that destroyed Dark Lord Orestes. Therefore, I have here in the King Harold Arcade...ten civilians. Every five minutes that I don't hear that you've un-chosen the Chosen Three, that number goes down by one. Ball's in your court, bitches!”
[General Graveberry — Teleport Group]
In a flash of gold light, there stood the Templar, with three flustered and ill prepared
Chosen Heroes behind him, and the nervous centurion in front of him. Vance raised his sword.
[General Graveberry — Lethal Backhand]
[1,203 DMG to Centurion Vance]
Era winced as he saw the slap. The left side of Vance's face became a blur of white pixels as he fell to the ground.
Part of me wants to laugh at him, part of me can feel it in my own face by proxy. Those gloves weigh fifty pounds each, at least.
“That's for referring to Her Blessed Imperial Candescence as any number other than 'the Fourth,'” said Graveberry. “Now, I do hope you've made your peace with your Gods, you honorless filth. Go forth, Chosen Three. For the Light!”
But I'm not—
[General Graveberry — Teleport Self]
—ready.
And yet, Vance sprang back on his feet. The fight had already begun.
[BOSS BATTLE!]
[Centurion Vance ~will have to do on such short notice~]
[Bestiary: Centurion Vance]
Neverstone: A LitRPG Adventure (The Mad Elf Book 1) Page 10
