Of course, I found it on my own after a few months of rugged adventuring, but the rest of us can only get to this country through teleportation. And guess whose dad just happens to be the CEO of the Koscheis' favorite teleportation R&D company? This guy!* My stupid baby brother Thoric is pillaging the Jones Tele-Logistics Solutions coffers to set up a remote location relay system that'll be completed by October, whereupon we'll hold the bitchin'est party in history in Ulfenstadt's capital city. (Thoric's nerd ass says the ancients called the city crap like, “Erko-Berko-Manah-Manah” or “Palace of Pyres” or “the Seat of Tit Anus”—vog that noise! IT'S MONTROPOLIS NOW).
When that's over, we'll set up shop in these fresh for the taking ruins and establish the Kingdom of Ulfenstad —“land of the wolf” in some nerdy language, probably. I will be the king you've always dreamed of, and you'll live the rest of your life as the strong, unapologetic lord of your estate.
*Not that my dad's cool or interesting in any way. He left my mom for a Rosie. First one to bring me his head gets their own castle and 20 bonus slaves).
Q: Where is Ulfenstadt?
A: None of your damn business until I say so.
Q: How are we going to supply Ulfenstadt with natural resources?
A: Oh, my brothers, this is where it gets epic. Just after the party, we'll set off on what I like to call the Death March.
I see us riding into the Imperial City on horseback and motorcycles, smashing the glass of every storefront we see, taking for ourselves whatever looks cool—food, drink, tech, slaves, and especially women—and leaving the rest to burn.
I see us moving from city to city, blasting a path through the politically correct world with the Neverstones on our swords, until everything we want is ours, degeneracy is an uncomfortable memory of the past, and nothing will ever grow again in the fields of Rosencrace. And I see you, warrior, taking back everything this world owes you, everything that “fairness” and empty accusations of bigotry have denied you. You will become the man you've always wanted to be.
And the best part? We'll do it again and again, whenever we need more stuff. To the civilians, our raids will become an uncomfortable, but necessary and respectable fixture of Ariesian life, like taxes, or school, or going to the DMV.
Q: That sounds really cool, but won't we get arrested?
A: First off, vog you, coward. Second, that won't be an issue to begin with.
If we don't kill the Chosen Three by then, the Dark Lord Non-Intervention Act will keep the world nice and lazy for us to pillage. (Even the Templars swear by the DLNI act—they won't even budge, they'll just sit in their power armor and twiddle their power thumbs while we kidnap their daughters and butcher their sons. That's how terrified they are of upsetting the “balance of good and evil” or whatever bullvog the DLNI was based on. Voggin' cowards).
If we do kill the Chosen Three by then, which is the preferred option, then the Imperial government will admit we've been the heroes all along, and they'll help us burn their world to the ground. (Don't believe me? Just look at Hera, Nicodemus, Yami, and all the other Dark Lords that won, and how they are portrayed today. History really is written by the victors).
Q: What monsters are we gonna use with the Jade Crown?
A: Monsters are for betas. The Jade Crown is just for symbolic value, and I'm throwing it away for the next cycle as soon as I win. We've got men, and that's all we need.
Q: Lord Monty, how did you get so strong?
A: Are we talking physically? For that, I do 700 pushups every morning and evening, I drink only beer and water, I eat only raw meat (no seasoning) and multivitamins, and don't go a day without kicking someone's ass. As far as mentally, I fight people and never lose.
Q: Can I show this pamphlet to anyone who isn't in the GU?
A: That depends. Can you sleep with one eye open for the rest of your life, bitch?
The paper shivered in Era's hands. This must be what the whole “I need a priest” thing feels like.
“I very much need a priest,” whimpered Noah.
Yeah...that.
“Anything else?” asked Craig.
“Nah, that just about covers it.” Era folded the paper into a crude rectangle, too tight and compact to be seen accidentally. Gods. I've been so selfish, just thinking about how bad things could get for me. We're all in danger here. This “Death March” would be the Fall of Rosencrace all over again, but worse.
Ofelia let out a sad laugh. “A plan like this would only work in Aries,” she said. “If we didn't have the damnable DLNI act, Monty would death march right into a line of fire.”
“You're not wrong,” said Era. “But now, we gotta think of our next move.” And by we, I mean I, and by think, I mean overthink.
Lutero Gualtieri's teachings don't fail me now.
Problem: the Death March, which is every bit as scary as it sounds.
Goal: Anything other than letting it go on as planned.
Facts:
Even if we survive, the DLNI act would make the people of the Ariesian empire sitting ducks.
According to Pamina, the majority of people would rather protect themselves than obey that law.
Templars are not among those people, nor are the police or any armies.
Can we kill the DLNI act?
The Crown Princess has been trying to for years, and being a monarch, her word is law. No go.
Sadly, we'll have to work within the parameters of the DLNI act, for now.
If we kill Lord Monty and win this round of the Cycle, his goons won't have their precious legal immunity.
Better yet, if we kill him while they're already out, they'll ride right into a Templar ambush. Power-armored space marines versus racist nerds with something to prove—I like it already. Heh heh heh.
But where even is Lord Monty?
Urgh...there's the rub. No third path, here.
NO! There's always a third path. Think harder, dammit! What am I missing here?
Can we use the Astral Flute and the Bells of Miracles?
I've been trying to find some kind of way to activate the Bells of Miracles, but there are no buttons, no levers, no mechanism of any kind. Noah took a look at the Flute, and there aren't even any holes on it. It's more of an Astral Rod.
What do they even do?
Did Galgalim give any instructions on how to use them while I was knocked out?
“You will know the purpose of these two instruments in time.”
Yeah, that's real helpful.
What else did Galgalim say?
“The world is screaming, and you must sing it into a sleep of peaceful centuries.”
Kinda hard to have a peaceful century with a Dark Lord campaign every five years, but—
Wait a minute.
Holy vog, that’s IT!
Not only are we the Chosen Three...
We're the last Chosen Three, and we have to break the Cycle.
No Cycle means no DLNI act!
No Cycle means no more Dark Lord collateral damage!
No Cycle means the people of Luminar can sleep a little easier!
But killing or defeating Lord Monty would just keep the Cycle going.
Oh. Great. Now how do we fix this?
“You will know the purpose of these two instruments in time.”
…
Dammit.
OKAY...
Solution:
Find Monty, if possible. Capture him, but DO NOT kill or defeat him, because that would just keep the Cycle going.
If that isn't possible, throw as many wrenches in the GU's plan as we can, to stall the Death March and buy time.
Figure out how to use these enchanted instruments, at which point we:
Break the Cycle.
—“Master Plan: Where in the World Is Dark Lord Monostatos?” Q.E.D.
“Sir, do you need anything?”
Era looked up. His friends and their prisoner were gone, and a concerned elvish hospimancer in teal scrubs bent down
to him. The sun was headed westward—mid-afternoon already. Crap. How long have I been zoned out?
“Nah, I'm good,” he said. “Has my dad already been discharged?”
The hospimancer flashed a nervous smile. “Actually, he broke his new prosthetic arm in half, said it didn't have enough guns, called the doctor a few names that are either outdated ethnic slurs or exotic turtles, drank another patient's IV fluid, and stormed out the front door stark naked.”
Come to think of it, I did hear some background noise. “So that's a yes, then.”
Back at the Doomwagon, Era scanned over Craig's pamphlet for any potential secret messages, or any hint of additional information. No luck.
Craig himself had been dropped off at a desolate highway rest area just south of Tarlynn. Apparently, his plan was to camp there in hiding until Monty's campaign ended, living off the vending machines. To be fair, he had tons of loose change.
Mischa exited his extradimensional stolen Koschei crap closet with new clothes, a smile, and a fully-functional assembly line arm hastily sutured onto his right shoulder. “Check it out, y'all, I'm robo-dad!” he said.
Liv, Ofelia, and Noah, now thoroughly exhausted from their attempts to control his earlier outburst, gave a thumbs up.
“We should get back to the Soybean farm,” said Era. “Raphael's probably tapping his foot and looking at his watch as we speak.”
Noah slapped his palm onto the great barren plains of his forehead. “Chicken and waffles, I totally forgot!”
“Me too, so we'll just tell Raphael this was an emergency.” Era turned to his dad. “One that won't happen again, right?”
After ten minutes, Mischa was able to finagle the remote control enough for his robot arm to give a thumbs up in response.
Skinny Pete was gone. His pickup truck sat gathering dust in his garage, his upended weapon cache laid strewn across his field, undisturbed, and his doors were all unlocked.
The previous day, a vacationing couple a few miles to the south claimed to have seen him hobbling down the shoulder of the highway, staring mindlessly into the void, with a semi-translucent grey scar on his forehead, but that was the last anyone heard of Skinny Pete Magee.
To pay respects, Era decided to loot his house.
He hobbled through the clutter of Skinny Pete's house—old magazines, dirty laundry, paper plates. Bags of months old trash lay in the corners, flies circling above them. There was a dumpster out front, but that had long since been filled. That smell, though. Do the garbage guys just avoid this place? The answer: probably.
A sign over the kitchen door frame read, “I'd rather have a sister in the whorehouse than a brother who's a Rosie!” Aaand there goes any reservation I had about stealing his crap.
Then again, what crap is there to steal here, anyway? We already took the cool weapons, and I don't remember him having any electronics or—
“Your excuse is satisfactory.”
Startled out of his thoughts, Era stumbled into the kitchen, face planting into a patch of black mold on the linoleum.
Looking up, he saw the source of the voice—Raphael, resting his besockandsandal'd feet upon the checkered kitchen tablecloth, and reading a book—“Blind to Your Suffering: Pietro V's Reign of Terror,” complete with a scowling picture of Ofelia's father.
“I'm sure it is,” said Era, “but I'd have to give one first. Where's Skinny Pete?”
“I dealt with his black-marketing accordingly. Now, sit down with me, Erasmus.”
Era took a seat in the three and a half legged chair across from Raphael.
“For not staying here at the farm, as I had instructed you,” said Raphael, “That much I can look past. Mischa's wounds did require immediate attention.”
“Ah, so you already—”
[Raphael — Throw the Book at You!]
The book about Pietro bounced against Era's forehead, and by the time he could register that such a thing did indeed happen, the book had fallen into his hands.
“What I can't excuse,” said Raphael, his voice rising steadily, “is the war criminal you just recruited!”
And here it is, the 300 pound elf in the room, half of which are the armor. “Ofelia's not a war criminal.”
“His father was a—”
“Her.”
“Pietro was a genocidal lunatic, who rounded up and murdered thousands of Mystics just like Liv. Or is Liv not important to you?”
“I recently discovered that she and Liv are old friends. Plus, Ofelia took the Ram's Hoof Oath, and has no interest in re-enacting her father's tyranny.”
Raphael's eyes flared. His pale face took on a purplish hue. “Erasmus. Perhaps you can forgive Pietro the Blind's crimes, but you never had to live through the Jauncliffe Bombing like I did. Pietro denied that it even happened. That it was a hoax. That a thousand cruise missiles just flew into a pleasant resort town out of nowhere. That Imperial Rosencrace never did anything wrong.”
“Wait, the Jauncliffe Bombing was five centur—” Oh, right, lifespan enlargement. “Sorry, keep going.”
“And clearly, Pietro's child loves Pietro's child's father, right? Idolizes him, even?”
“Dude, just say 'her,' it's a lot less syllables.”
“Point being, either Pietro the Younger goes, or you're going home.”
Joke's on you, I'm homeless. “Your Excellency, I hated her dad, and I still do. But she's a paladin. A holy knight. Paladins have insane combat potential, and they're nearly impossible to come by outside of straightup hiring one of the Templars. I've decided that we're keeping her, and with all due respect, I don't recall Galgalim putting you in charge of this team.”
Raphael's face fell in his palms, and he kneaded his scalp. “Are we seriously falling back on the divine right argument, Erasmus? There's no scientific evidence for the existence of any gods.”
“I mean, if you told me that a few months ago, I'd have listened, but I kinda met—”
“They're aliens, Erasmus!” Raphael yelled. “They’re racist, shapeshifting aliens from the dark planet Zarlox, who came to our world to dress up as gods and turn us into communists and drink our spinal fluids!”
Three droplets fell from the kitchen sink. A rat in the corner nibbled on the drywall. Outside, the screen door creaked in the wind.
Sweat poured from Raphael's face, his recent attempt to summarize 2,000 years of Koscheian atheist theory into two sentences having been just a little too accurate. Poor Era was left with the sort of facial expression he would have given when seeing his aunt Costanzia, naked on her porch, screaming curses at schoolgirls for dressing immodestly.
“Just give Ofelia a chance, all right?” said Era. “That's all I'm asking.”
Raphael sighed. “She gets one chance.”
“Thanks, Your Excellency.”
“Whatever. Now, may I see the pamphlet you got from that GU warrior?”
Era passed over the pamphlet. Raphael unfolded it and grazed at it for a good five minutes of total silence.
Finishing the pamphlet, Raphael turned his eyes up to Era, and his voice grew cold and intense: “They're in Lemuria.”
Chapter 14
Well, Roger My Jollies
[CURRENT ROSTER (after some off-page level grinding)]
[Era — Fencer — Level 30 — HP 2650 — MP 300
[Liv — Mystic — Level 31 — HP 2390 — MP 550]
[Noah — Healer — Level 28 — HP 2000 — MP 600]
[Ofelia — Paladin — Level 29 — HP 3100 — MP 400]
Steve and Mischa sat at the wheel and weaved through the rural traffic. The Chosen Three, and their recently chosen Fourth, sat in a semicircle on the floor before Raphael, who sat in Mischa's recliner. (Mischa had agreed, so long as he got to coat his recliner in bleach afterwards to un-Koschei the leather.) If one was sitting on the beds nearby, it would have looked very much like a storybook reading for significantly older than usual preschoolers.
“Having seen the pamphlet,” said Raphael,
“I can say with certainty that this 'undiscovered world' to which Monty refers is the lost continent of Lemuria.”
“Lemuria's real?” asked Liv.
“Of course, it is; 'Palace of Pyres' obviously refers to the old Lemurian cremation grounds. Koschei Thaumatronics has a laboratory there.” A grin crossed Raphael’s face. “An inaccessible ghost continent full of cursed ruins and the deadliest monsters on Luminar—it's like the place was made for experiments and—”
[????? — Fist of the Invincible Pedestrian]
A scream from Mischa. The brakes squealed.
Too late.
WHAM!
[74,028 DMG to Doomwagon]
The Doomwagon sat on the highway's shoulder, a deep, human-shaped dent having been punched through its radiator to the darkness of the machinery below. The crystal furnace smoked and sparked, threatening to explode. Era and Raphael scurried out.
Half a mile in front of them was parked a pickup truck towing a pontoon boat—the HMS Video Nasty.
[Mischa — Repair-3]
[Doomwagon recovered 40,000 HP!]
Mischa mumbled old automancy chants to himself as he extended his free hand, channeling car healing energy into the bus.
“Mr. Gualtieri, I demand an explanation for this interruption!” said Raphael.
“Some crazy—” Mischa spat out between incantations, “—dwarf girl—jumped in front—killed herself—everyone alright?”
“Noah's okay, just panicky,” said Era. “The others are hurt, but not bad, and Noah's healing them.”
“Good, good. Sorry about this—“ Mischa extended his robotic arm into the dent. “Something—blocking the healing—probably the dwarf girl—taking her out—”
Neverstone: A LitRPG Adventure (The Mad Elf Book 1) Page 18
