Neverstone: A LitRPG Adventure (The Mad Elf Book 1)

by Ned Caratacus

  [Ofelia — Counter Energy]

  “At your service.”

  FWOOSH!

  The barrier exploded into the restaurant, and every point of damage it endured returned to the monster in double, leaving only a two mile trail of the monster's war molecules.

  [14,349 DMG to Taco Chairman]

  [Taco Chairman was slain!]

  [VICTORY!]

  [Gained 40,200 exp and 6,000 G.]

  [lumipedia.co.ari/Pietro_the_Blind]

  PIETRO THE BLIND

  Pietro Basileus Niccolo V (Old High Elvish: Pjætr Vašjl Njqlævjč, 25 August 5170 – 6 September 5206), commonly known as Pietro the Blind due to his complete visual impairment, was the Holy Rosencracian Emperor from 5187 until his suicide during the Fall of Rosencrace. His death marked the end of the Holy Rosencracian Empire; the country has since been annexed into Celsior, falling under the jurisdiction of Governor Alonzo Ferri.

  Pietro V's reign was a period of severe human rights abuses, including torture, public executions, violent suppression of public dissent, and an ethnic cleansing campaign of Rosencracian Mystics. Approximately 10,000 Mystics were killed in his purges...

  Needless to say, Liv was a tad nettled.

  Ofelia tapped Era, who was still kneeling, on the shoulder. “Signor Era, my Empire is in ashes, so I think we can forgo the formalities for the time being.”

  Oh, thank Gods. Era stood up. “Thanks for the save, Your Excellency,” he said. “So, were you just conveniently in the area, and wanted to save us?”

  “I was in the captivity of that mimic. It wiped out my adventuring party, and I was enslaved in its employ. I could have shaken it off at any time with my paladin magic, but, well, having lived as a princess my whole life, I was curious to know what it's like to be a commoner working behind a deep fryer. I don't know what I expected.

  Then I found out about our simply atrocious new Dark Lord and his hatred of my race. I wanted to join your party and help you kill him, so I convinced the mimic to seek you out as a means of transport. Many apologies, as I realize I might have been the reason for your most recent beating.”

  “Eh, it's nothin',” said Era.

  “So, after Gualtieri the Elder bought his booby trapped food, I made a run for it to save you, and the mimic went into a frenzied state to catch me back. Now then, if it pleases you, signor Gualtieri, allow me to make my case as to why I should join your—”

  [Liv — Arcane Overdrive]

  Green fires covered Liv's body as she channeled dark energy into her new staff, preparing one of her deadliest spells to send flying into Ofelia's face. “Better idea,” she said. “How about you join your father in Hell and tell him a 'kid-chomper' sent ya!”

  Era winced. And here I thought I was gonna get some sleep after that last fight...though considering what Pietro did, I can't say I blame Liv.

  Bunny slippers slapped against the grass as Noah came running. “Livvy, no!”

  Ofelia grabbed the hood of his robe. “A truthseer!” she said. “Perfect.”

  “Would you like to hear what happened to the last guy who took him as a hostage?” asked Liv.

  Ignoring her, Ofelia grabbed Noah by the shoulders. “Signor Tamino, I wish to prove my good will toward all Mystics to Signora Matapang here, and to truly demonstrate that I am not like my father. If you have the clearance to do so, I wish to undertake the Ram's Hoof Oath.”

  Liv's spell dissipated.

  A tear fell down Noah's cheek.

  Era, thoroughly tired at this point, said, “Well, you guys have fun out here; I'm gonna check on Dad,” and returned to the bus.

  [Era — Blade Recall]

  So did the Schiavona.

  “Are you sure?” asked Noah, his lip trembling.

  “Signor, I've never been more sure of anything in my life.”

  Noah gulped. “You're not lying, and that terrifies me.”

  “This better not be a trick,” said Liv, lowering her staff.

  “Livvy, I'd think we'd know from her bloodied remains if it were a trick.” Noah's hand quivered as he extended it, to place over Ofelia's head. “Your Majesty, if you are ready, we may proceed.”

  Ofelia took a knee, and closed her eyes.

  “Okay, it's a lot of explanation,” said Mischa, “but look at the silver lining here. Now we have another thing in common.”

  Era drew in a breath through his nose, his lips pursed, internally screaming at 230 decibels. “I don't think you understand, Dad,” he said. “You don't have a right arm anymore.”

  “That's one helluva generalization, Little Dork,” said Mischa, adding another layer of duct tape to the charred stump on his shoulder. “And I've got enough stolen Koschei Thaumatronics crap in the closet to make a robot arm.”

  “I just want to know why you thought this was even slightly a good idea.”

  “Okay, okay. Look, I tried patching it up, but the healing spells would've taken too long. So, I did what Lutero Gualtieri would've done. Option one: try to walk it off, let my acid-soaked arm rot, come down with gangrene, and die a slow, painful death. Option two: go to the doctor, spend thousands of G and months of bedridden pain for reconstructive surgery. Or, the Third Path: take a bunch of magical painkillers, shove the wounded arm in the Doomwagon's crystal furnace, and BAM! Self-cauterizing amputation in less than two minutes.”

  Era blinked. Yep, I'm having a stroke. I'm not even too sure what a stroke is, but I'm having one.

  He felt a small hand tug on his left pant leg. Steve stared up at him, and tapped his own head, as if to say he had an idea to defuse the situation. Granted, Steve had less “ideas” than a tapeworm, but Era was very suggestible and came up with a plan that he thought was Steve's.

  “Okay, Dad,” said Era. “Let's get you in this closet and start making your robot arm.”

  “See? Knew you'd agree with me in the end, Little Dork.” Mischa pressed a button on the side of the door-like slab of metal from earlier, which opened to a closet-sized pocket dimension of shelves, electronics, and wires. “I don't think I've shown you my new collection, by the way. Wanna check this stuff out with me?”

  “Maybe later,” said Era.

  “Come on, it'll be fun!”

  “Nah, I'm too tired.”

  “Suit yourself, Little Dork.”

  Mischa entered, and no sooner had he closed the door from the other side than Era jumped behind the couch and, with Steve's help, propped it up against the door.

  A muffled voice came from behind the door. “'Ey! What the hell?”

  “You're grounded until we get you to a hospital,” said Era.

  What followed from behind the door was a raging, cursing tirade so unbelievably foul to hear and murderously indignant to the subversion of the typical father-son hierarchy. Because Mischa's incoherent temper tantrums were about as distinct and unique from one another as country songs that involve beer, we can safely assume how it sounded, and instead, turn to the following conversation on the couch in front of the door.

  “So,” said Era, “should we take in the Princess or not?”

  The monkey shrugged. He hadn't yet met Ofelia.

  “I mean, on the one hand, she saved our lives, and her shield technique is pretty useful. On the other, she also brought the mimic with her, and put us in danger in the first place. Plus, wasn't her dad a tyrant?”

  Steve nodded.

  “Frankly,” said Era, “now that I think about it, I'm not even sure she's a princess to begin with. I think she just stole the royal shield, which wouldn't be easy, so that's a bankable skill in and of itself. But having lived in Imperial Rosencrace, I've never heard of any Princess Ofelia. The Emperor had four daughters and three sons: Svetlana, Maria, Natalia, Sonietta, Luigi, Sergio, and 'Little Carlo,' the youngest.”

  “Please do not say that name,” said Ofelia.

  Era and Steve jumped since Ofelia had boarded the bus in silence.

  Another bankable skill, thought Era. She can sneak in armor.


  Liv and Noah came in behind her.

  “I mean, I said seven names,” said Era, “so gladly, but which one?”

  “I was…” Ofelia closed her eyes, and took a deep breath, preparing herself. “I was always Ofelia. But they called me Carlo, before I transitioned.”

  A collective feeling of “oh…yeah, that makes sense” settled across the bus.

  Except with Liv, who could no longer hide her grin. “Holy crap,” she said. “So sorry, I had no idea you were—”

  “It's good to see you again, too, Livvy.”

  A collective feeling of “they know each other?” settled across the bus as Liv hugged the princess.

  “Yo, Slasher! Can we keep her?”

  Era, already starting to dread being responsible for these big decisions, kneaded his brow. “Well, you are pretty strong. But thanks to your Taco Chairman friend, my dad's now missing his right arm.”

  Ofelia clapped a hand to her mouth, tears welling in her eyes. The ranting from behind the metal door became notably rantier.

  “Well, that, and he's a dumbass, but still.”

  “My deepest apologies, Signor Gualtieri.”

  “Signor Gualtieri is my—” Actually, nah, Signor sounds nice. “I'm afraid sorry isn't gonna cut it, Your Majesty.”

  “I understand. I have brought further dishonor upon House Niccolo, and will now take my leave of—”

  “No! Guilt has no tactical purpose against the GU, so I'm not gonna tolerate any guilt on this team.” Ha, ha, ha. Gods, I'm a hypocrite. “Instead, I'm letting you join us, to work off a dad's right arm worth of debt. Are we square?”

  “Many thanks!” Ofelia saluted.

  “Cool. Welcome aboard, Ofelia.”

  [Ofelia joined the party!]

  [Paladin / Level 26 / HP: 2,309 / MP: 390]

  Tarlynn wanted to have a reputation as a scenic northern coastal town with inexpensive sea monster watching cruises in the East Pohjolan sea—which, to their credit, were a common occasion. Their official city motto was “A Quiet Place to Catch the Sea Breeze.”

  Sadly, their more well-known city motto was “It's Cold as Balls and Everyone's a Werewolf.”

  To make matters worse, May 28th was the night of a blood moon, which could turn even an epsilon class lycanthrope into a canine siege engine the size of an eighteen wheeler. The residents were already boarding their windows and sprinkling their lawns with wolfsbane, in hopes that the extent of the damage would be the scent of wet dog throughout the town the next morning, and a crowd of naked, apologetic humans with a few bits of fur still clinging to them.

  Sadly, Tarlynn was the heroes' best bet for a hospital.

  After Mischa's painkiller-induced trance wore off, he woke up in a panic, demanding to know if the Koscheis stole his right arm while he was sleeping. The effects of his disrupted blood flow became apparent as he slipped in and out of consciousness, and Noah's constant healing was the only thing keeping him alive until they reached Tarlynn.

  The rooms of the Whalers' Rest Hospital were clogged with werewolf attacks. Ofelia had managed to bump Mischa to first class triage by asking if the hospital accepted a bag of emeralds and diamonds from the Rosencracian crown jewels as payment.

  Since Mischa was uninsured, they would still be 50,000 G in debt. But after a week, he would have three quarters of a full recovery, a rudimentary prosthetic arm, and an even worse attitude.

  Ofelia and Noah remained at the hospital to guard it, just in case the GU caught wind of the fencer's father being in one of their favorite types of places to blow up.

  And so would Era and Liv, but first...

  The ashes of Mischa's arm slowly dissolved in the engine's crystal furnace. Steve slept at the wheel.

  Era came aboard, slipping off his headphones in the middle of Łöbøtömÿ Ŵård's “Devour Each and Every Baby Animal.” In his left hand, he held a bag of CBC's and beef jerky from the nearest corner store.

  Liv, in her lower bunk, coughed and hacked up all manner of horrifying bodily fluids from her throat. Streams of glimmering magical fairy water stained her mask from her eye fires, which, I assure you, would be a lot more disgusting if you were a Mystic.

  She caught a glimpse of Era, and the contents of his bag. “Oh, thank Gods,” she groaned. “You're a lifesaver, Slasher.”

  “You've got vog awful luck to get sick at a time like this,” said Era. “You sure this jerky will help?”

  “Any meat helps.” Snatching the bag and tearing out the nearest available strip of beef resembling carcass paper with her teeth, she managed to say, mid-chew, “Luck actually has nothing to do with it. It's just bad timing.”

  “Huh?”

  “Look, can you keep a secret?”

  “Wouldn't be a Gualtieri if I couldn't.”

  “Stop me if you know this already,” she said, “But not everyone who has lycanthropy can be a werewolf. There are 24 categories of intensity. Alpha's the strongest, and that's like a giant, city destroying wolf god. But anything below Sigma, and the full moon messes with your human form only a little, and you're not a werewolf at all. At the bottom three ranks, you don't even grow fur.”

  “So, do you have lycanthropy?”

  She nodded. “Omega class lycanthropy, the weakest kind. The full moon just gives me a bad fever and cravings for meat. But this is a blood moon, and on top of that, it also has to coincide with my voggin' period—sorry if that was TMI—so I feel like absolute crap.”

  “Sounds like a deadly combo,” said Era. “Should I give you some space until you feel better?”

  “Oh, no, not at —” Liv blushed a little. “Truth be told, I'd actually prefer it if you stuck around, but...wouldn't your dad want you to check up on him?”

  As if on cue, a disaster siren sounded throughout Tarlynn, signaling the 8 o’clock blood moon curfew. “Looks like seeing my dad tonight is out of the question anyway.”

  “Oh no, you're stuck!” Liv chuckled.

  Era called out to the driver. “Yo, Steve, we got a sick passenger. Take us outta werewolf country for now.”

  Steve gave a sleepy thumbs up and floored the gas.

  Era sat down next to Liv on the bed. Liv booted up her laptop. “Hey, Slasher, you ever watch Phil Clippenclop: Horse Lawyer?”

  “I haven't. Is it good?”

  “No, it's complete garbage and it makes me violently angry. Wanna watch it?”

  [Five hours later...]

  Laura: Your honor, I request we declare a mistrial.

  Judge: On what grounds?

  Laura: Not only is my client obviously mentally unfit to stand trial—

  Defendant: If I roll my eyes hard enough, I can see my own brain!

  Laura: Thank you—the prosecuting attorney is a HORSE.

  Phil: Remove the S and add a W, and we'd have something in common.

  Laura: And I'm pregnant with his baby.

  Phil: OBJECTION!

  [Liv — Pause]

  Liv slammed the pause button on her laptop, fell back on the bed, and screamed the most hateful swears she could think of into her pillow. But then, she laughed.

  Era found himself laughing as well. “You said this was good at one point?” he said.

  “Totally.”

  “How?”

  “It started off as a moving allegory about overcoming discrimination in the workplace. But now that the new showrunner came along, it became about a sexist horse being 'right all along' in the last five minutes. My dad loved it back when it was good—it's all they watched in the Grand Palace barracks.”

  A silence came over them both as Era realized something important. There was only one castle on Luminar that called itself the Grand Palace—Pietro the Blind's castle, in San Cyro.

  “Hey, Liv?”

  “'Sup?”

  “You wouldn't happen to be from Rosencrace, would you?”

  Liv smirked. “Wanna hear a story?”

  Chapter 12

  The Mystic's Tale

 
; “My dad was a Phiscaean on Emperor Pietro's royal guard, my mom was a Celsioran in the Grand Palace's maid staff, and I was born and raised in the guard barracks. I had a small circle of friends in the same situation. We called ourselves “the Sons of Guns.” It sounds a lot more badass than it actually was. We mostly just sat around and ate ice cream while making fart jokes. Ofelia—back before she came out as trans, of course—was one of us Sons of Guns, so she and I go way back.

  This probably isn't news to you, having lived under his regime, but... around the time of my seventh birthday, Pietro's opinion of Mystics was starting to really go downhill. He started giving these long winded, angry speeches about how we supposedly have to eat babies alive in order to enhance our powers; that's why I got so ticked off when that soybean farmer dude called me a “kid-chomper.” It's a lie that's followed my people for centuries, giving others an excuse to kill us without all the emotional baggage that comes with murder.

  Truth be told, we do kill people to enhance our powers. We kill other Mystics in combat, then absorb their connection to the Cosmic Torch. The whole “kid-chomper” schtick is a corruption of that.

  Becoming a Mystic is not something you can choose. There's no ritual, no permission, and next to no warning. The Mystic Spirit doesn't work in any logical way, nor can you really predict the kind of people it chooses as vessels.

  As for me, I was terrified of Mystics, and never thought for a second that I would become one of them. I took in all the lies that our teachers were telling us about our kind, “kid-chompers” and all.

  At any rate, a few days before my ninth birthday, things were getting tense. The Emperor's secret police started to load Mystics into trucks like cattle, with these heavy iron clamps over their eyes and mouths so they couldn't use magic. I'm disgusted with myself to say this, but after all I had been taught, I thought they deserved it for what they did to kids.