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

by Ned Caratacus

  Later on, toward high school, I started feeling more than a little in love with him, and that's about the time he fell for Pammy. Worst timing ever, right? I didn't mind that much; I was glad to see him happy. I'd be lying if I said I didn't still have some lingering feelings for him, though.

  “NEVER TELL HIM I SAID THAT!”

  “Uh, okay,” said Era.

  “Thanks, Slasher.

  Speaking of which, the mask I have today is the same one Mr. Sam gave me, when he taught me Mystic cultural customs, which I didn't even know were a thing, at the time. You can't be born a Mystic, I thought, so why would they have traditions?

  Turns out there used to be Mystic cults all over the world, building huge temples to worship the Kuhallen like a god. But the fact that the Mystic Spirit unpredictably hand picks its hosts meant that no individual cult survived much longer than a single generation, not unless they could go out and find other Mystics.

  But between all the different cults and sub-cults and their different rules and beliefs, a few traditions stuck out as a common thread between them, and the most important is the mask.

  Mystics started wearing them in ancient times because...well, having magical fire shoot out your eyes as a kid comes with permanent burn marks on your face. We call them “exit scars.” And if you had a facial disfigurement in a time before medical science was invented, people tended to think you had leprosy or something and cast you out of society. You'd think it would be the flaming eyes that tripped them up, right? Apparently, that was more acceptable, as it can be aesthetically pleasing in the right context.

  Remember back at the mall, when Vance was all, “Gimme your mask, and I'll let the healer live,” and I flipped out and torched him? A Mystic never takes off their mask until they find their true love. Then they give 'em the mask as proof of their devotion. If someone takes it, you've just been enslaved. Sad trombone.

  That's how the Rosencracian and Phiscaean cults saw it, anyhow. Celsioran Mystics wore different masks for different occasions. Sadji-Taan Mystics liked to permanently stitch the masks to their facial skin with needles and thread, because of course. I like to stick with the ‘mask equals love’ thing, more or less.”

  “Have you ever given it to anyone?” said Era.

  “Nah. I've thought about doing it many times, for different guys. Girls, too. But Mr. Sam always told me to wait on doing it until I'm 110% sure about it. Everything else was fine—dating, kissing, even losing my virginity to the bassist of Slaughtrocide in the back of a taxi. All those were fair game. But the mask was tantamount to marriage—too big of a decision to make on impulse.”

  Era’s eyes widened. “Whoa, hold up, you did Sven War-Nostril?”

  “Who hasn't? He'll go for any groupie with a pulse. Huge disappointment, though. Dude was like a wet sack of potatoes covered in hair, and he made me pay his cab fare afterward. Cheapass.

  “I want to say I'm surprised,” said Era, “but he does play bass.”

  Liv continued, “Right after my 18th birthday, Mr. Sam left. Said he had to help another scared little girl become a beautiful young woman. He left only a note promising to return someday.

  Hell if I know where he is now. But Slasher, I can guarantee you this much: when this adventure of ours is over, I'll find him, you'll find your sister, and we'll all go out for beers.

  Because we'll both be old enough for that then, presumably. Or not. Anarchy!

  “Damn,” said Era. “Going through all that…you're even tougher than I thought.”

  “I mean, misery isn't a competitive sport. But from how quick I am to flip out and start making death threats lately, you'd think I had an even worse childhood. How do you do it, Slasher?” Liv froze, immediately regretting what she said.

  “Do what?” asked Era.

  She glanced at the knee of his right leg, trying to tread carefully. “I mean, how do you keep it together, after all you've been through?”

  Era looked off to the side, trying to wade through an elaborate series of unrelated thoughts to find a coherent answer. “Huh. I wasn't aware I was keeping it together in the first place. Do I give off the impression that I'm a calm person?”

  “A good 90 percent of the time, yeah.”

  “That's news to me. I'm internally screaming my head off a good 90 percent of the time.”

  Liv couldn't help but laugh. “I feel you, I feel that. But like you, there's a few rules I live my life by. Granted, I usually ignore the crap out of 'em, but one is very important.”

  “And that is?”

  Something scratched on the side of the Doomwagon, growling. Liv opened the window curtain to find a particularly angry omicron werewolf. With one hand on the window lock, and another preparing a flame skull, she answered:

  “Why be hard on yourself, when you can be hard on your enemies?”

  Chapter 13

  The Master Plan

  “Morgues are the only place where a fascist displays decent organizational skills.”

  —Lutero Gualtieri, Rosencracian Comfort Food Recipes (No Grim Ramblings About Death This Time, I Swear)

  Back in the Whalers' Rest Hospital, a pair of young men in janitor's jumpsuits wheeled a soda machine past the swinging morgue doors. One was a Mystic, and the eyes of the other were particularly heated in their own way.

  Their jumpsuits hid GU uniforms, and the soda machine hid 300 pounds of Ascendant Fragstone—the same kind used in Crestograd.

  “Craig, hide the front toward one of the walls,” said the Mystic.

  “Why's that?” said the non-Mystic.

  “Someone comes in here, sees the voggin' Diet Aether logo, they're gonna get suspicious.”

  “It's a hospital, Mack. Hospitals got Aether machines.”

  “Maybe the waiting rooms, but who the vog's gonna drink Diet Aether in a morgue?”

  A voice from the sidelines said, “I mean, I probably would, if it weren't diet. Gotta have the sugar, y'know? Otherwise, it tastes like chemicals, and you know it's a bunch of nasty chemicals, but junk food requires a certain suspension of disbelief, if you ask me.”

  Mack the Mystic and Craig the non-Mystic jumped, turning to find Friar Noah Tamino standing in the corner.

  “Anyway, my name's Noah,” he said, trying to keep a smile. “Glad I caught up with you fellas in time. I just wanted to have a word with you two before you went on with whatever it is you're doing with that vending machine. By any chance, does it have a bomb in it?”

  “Your mom has a bomb in it,” said Mack.

  Likely having descended from at least one golden retriever, Noah tilted his head in confusion.

  Craig whipped out a pistol and cocked it at Noah. “Is this you tryin' to stop us, beta male?”

  “Not quite!” Noah backed away. “I mean, I just wanted to remind you that Argo's watching your actions, and it's not too late to repent for your—”

  “Atone for your sins, waaah, I'm morbidly obese and have no real friends!'” Craig put on his best pantomime of Noah. “Mack, this guy's voggin' hilarious.”

  “Cut the crap! We're on borrowed time, so are you gonna cap him or not?”

  “Totally, just...” Craig's hand trembled. “Gimme a sec, gotta get in the zone.”

  “I see,” said Noah. The blue glow of his crystal's staff was slowly fading into red. “If you're gonna get in your zone, you'd probably oughta do it soon, because...well, y'know.”

  “Because what?”

  Mack kneaded his aching forehead. “Because nothing, now shoot him!”

  “Because we just finished defusing your bomb?”

  [Steve — Toss]

  CLUNK! The bomb's remote detonating mechanism, its wires stripped and frayed, beaned against Craig's head. Satisfied with his work, Steve scurried into the hallway.

  [12 DMG to Warrior Craig]

  (If, dear reader, you should ever decide to build a bomb…well, first of all, vog you and stop that, and second, never put the most important bits within reach of a monkey.)<
br />
  Era and Ofelia ran in from the front door, their weapons drawn, and Noah scurried behind them.

  Mack sighed.

  “If it's anything,” said Craig, “I'm in the zone now.”

  [Bestiary: Warrior Craig]

  [Type: Human, Gunner]

  [Weaknesses: Lots.]

  [HP: 4,000]

  [Description: A chump.]

  [Bestiary: Warrior Mack]

  [Type: Human, Mystic]

  [Weaknesses: Less than Craig, but still lots.]

  [HP: 3,500]

  [Description: A magical chump.]

  [Ofelia — Stormheart]

  “I'm in the zone, too!” bellowed Ofelia, as white arcs of lightning scurried over her body and enhanced her stats.

  [Raised Ofelia’s ATK/DEF!]

  Craig swung his arm to aim his pistol, only to—

  [Ofelia — Attack]

  —end up with Ofelia's one-handed gladius through his back.

  [927 DMG to Warrior Craig]

  Ofelia kicked Craig off her sword kebab, sending the warrior flying face first into Era's sword.

  [Era — Attack]

  Craig became a human baseball as the Schiavona's swing sent him flying into the wall on the other side of the room. His pistol fell from his hand, landing a few feet away.

  [Critical Hit!]

  [1,549 DMG to Warrior Craig]

  Mack gathered a few threads of magical energy in his hands, readying a—

  [Era — Flying Lance]

  —nothing, because Era's blade flew into his chest, pinning him to the northern wall of morgue shelves, next to Drawer 27A.

  [1,203 DMG to Warrior Mack]

  [Warrior Mack — Fireball]

  “Vog it!” said Mack, wheezing through his war-pixelated lungs. “We never needed a detonator in the first place.” He raised his quivering right hand, forming just enough flaming energy to detonate the explosives.

  “Don't, you'll kill us all!”

  “Show some courage in death, Craig. We die so that the dream of true masculinity may li—”

  Drawer 27A opened.

  On its own.

  Mack's fireball dissipated, and he forgot the whole “courage in death” thing in record time. To be fair, the living dead can have that effect. A shivering, grasping hand crept out from the drawer, clawing for the nearest available head.

  The hand snatched Mack by the scalp. Mack screamed.

  [Liv — Mind Crash]

  It was Liv's hand, channeling every bit of disgust about hiding in a poorly-maintained corpse holding chamber into a deadly, invisible spell that vibrated through Mack's brain.

  Mack ran screaming into the basement hallway. “Zombies! Run for your lives!” he yelled, flailing away from the morgue for a good five seconds before pausing, and having a very life-changing realization about something.

  “Huh,” said Mack. “Never thought about it that way.”

  Unfortunately, since this realization was an effect of the Mind Crash spell, his head then exploded into a mess of rainbows, confetti, lightning, and war molecules.

  [50,002 DMG to Warrior Mack]

  [Warrior Mack was slain!]

  With Mack's death, Liv felt the rush of the Mystic Spirit coursing through her body, adding his powers to her own, along with the powers of the four other weak Mystics that Mack had killed.

  [Liv acquired Mack's powers!]

  [Liv's absorption level is now 60!]

  Catching sight of the rainbow sparkles that accompanied his comrade's death, Craig flew into a rage, scrambling to his feet and reaching for his gun.

  Era stood on the gun, holding it down with his prosthesis, and grinned down at Craig.

  From the corner of his eye, Craig could also see Noah, smiling and waving.

  “It's not too late,” said Noah. “You can still change your—”

  Seeing the healer he had failed to kill, Craig returned to whatever “the zone” was, screamed, and ran toward the healer to punch him in the adorable, rosy cheeked face.

  Noah crouched on the ground and flung a stat buff spell onto his attacker.

  [Noah — Speed Buff]

  [Warrior Craig's speed increased by 40!]

  WHAM!

  In less than a second, Craig was in the hospital hallway, his head and shoulders tightly nestled in the wall.

  [Warrior Craig — Trip Over Noah]

  [Critical Hit!]

  [1,300 DMG to self]

  Craig slumped from his wall, trying to regain his vision from the bright swarm of his own war molecules surrounding him. Silently brainstorming a fake identity to assume in order to avoid the GU's wrath, he threw up his arms and surrendered.

  [Victory!]

  [Gained 2,030 EXP and 1,200 G.]

  As the Chosen Three—minus Liv, who was getting rid of the bomb on an empty beach— sat in the waiting room chairs to catch Mischa on the way out, Ofelia kept a tight grip on Craig's wrist. Noah spoke with the hospimancer (like a nurse, but there was magic involved) at the front desk and returned to the group with an annoyed sigh.

  “It's gonna be another two hours,” he said. “Sorry, Era.”

  “I'm just glad they're taking their time,” said Era. “This is my dad we're talking about, so I'd prefer they didn't rush it and give him some kind of new infection that I can't pronounce.”

  “That's just dandy,” said Ofelia, “but what do we do about our prisoner?”

  “Hmm,” said Era. “I mean, this is a waiting room, so I dunno if we're allowed to do a full blown interrogation, with broken limbs and torture and all that.”

  Noah gasped, and clutched onto Craig with a protective arm.

  “No need,” said Craig, his voice still weak from his thorough beating in the morgue. “I'll tell you everything you want to know. I'm too tired to care.”

  Ha! Welcome to my world. Era sat closer to Craig. “Thanks for saving me the embarrassment, Craig. Let's be real, I've never tortured anyone before and would probably suck at it.”

  “That's a good thing!” stammered Noah.

  “You're not wrong. Now, let's start off with the basics. What's Lord Monty planning?”

  Reaching into the pocket of his jumpsuit disguise, Craig pulled out a pamphlet.

  GU Recruit Intake — Frequently Asked Questions:

  Q: What are my duties as a warrior?

  A: Whatever someone of a higher rank tells you.

  Q: What should I not do?

  A: Break any of the ten laws. Do that, and you'll die where you stand.

  Q: What are the ten laws?

  A: Well...

  Law One (the most important one): No crying. Crying is for girls.

  Law Two: No Gods, no religion, no masters other than the GU, no higher purpose than strength and conquest.

  Law Three: No pets, except attack dogs.

  Law Four: No doctors, and no medicine. If you get hurt, walk it off. If you get sick, hurry up and die before you drag the rest of us down.

  Law Five: Obey commands from higher ranks without question, unless someone in a higher-er rank gives you a different one.

  Law Six: Once you're in the GU, you're in for life. No double-crossing, no compromise, no retreat, no breaks longer than five minutes. You can retire when you're dead.

  Law Seven: Under no circumstances are you to be weak.*

  Law Eight: Show respect only for those who deserve it.**

  Law Nine: By the age of 25, you will have bedded at least ten attractive women and conceived at least three children, at least two of whom are boys. Failure is not an option.

  Law Ten: Gnashfist IX: Crotchsaw's Revenge is objectively the best Gnashfist movie of all time, if not the best work of fiction in human history. THIS IS NOT UP FOR DEBATE!

  *The parameters for what constitutes “being weak” are to be determined individually as per the discretion of each legate's jurisdiction, so long as they do not contradict any of the other nine laws, and are not vetoed by Lord Monty or overruled by a legatial assembly
two-thirds majority vote.

  — Thoric

  **To clarify, here are the types of people incapable of deserving respect: women, girls, Rosies, cats, beta through omega males, my dad, liberals, leftists, gays and other sexual deviants, degenerates, people who think Gnashfist VI is the best Gnashfist movie, my dad, gods and god-lovers, fatties, slaves, anyone with a disease, anyone who can't bench over 150 pounds, people who say they're not religious, but 'spiritual,' virgins, and my dad.

  — Monty

  Q: What are the ranks?

  A: Slave (this rank won't show up until November), Warrior (that's you), Centurion (that's the guy you'll answer to for the majority of your time as a warrior), Legate (that's the guy the Centurion answers to), and Dark Lord (that's me, bitches).

  Q: How do I advance in the ranks?

  A: I dunno, be really good at fighting, what do you think? I'm not your dad, I can't hold your hand the whole voggin' time! Geez.

  Q: What, specifically, is the GU trying to do with the Dark Lord campaign?

  A: First off, we're not gonna conquer the world. House Koschei already did that, and it turned them into a bunch of psychotic manchildren. We're going to make a new country, all for ourselves—Ulfenstadt.

  Here's the thing: I've found an undiscovered world. Far away from civilization, Rosies, feminists, political correctness, and the reach of nuclear missiles and whatever that “Light of the Gods” crap is. It's full of cities, weapons, and buildings from a long-dead civilization, and, speaking from experience, literally all of the monsters taste amazing. Even the undead ones!