Neverstone: A LitRPG Adventure (The Mad Elf Book 1)
Page 26
Or, alternatively, you could go back to the bus and let me guide you back on the path of the hero. Do you think I give second chances like this to people who don't deserve them? I see potential in you, Era. Underneath all that cowardice, that hatred, that bitter grudge against everything Koschei, that dependence on others, that complete lack of realistically useful combat ability, that laziness, and that desperate need for a sensible haircut, there's intelligence, and resilience. Even if the rest of the world refuses to recognize that, I can, and soon, everyone else will.”
Raphael lowered his stun baton, approached Era, extended his free hand, and smiled. “Erasmus, this is just another hard lesson to learn, and you've made a lot of progress. You don't have to be just another homeless Rosie, and die alone, unloved, and with no one to miss you. Through me—and only me—you can let go of your insecurities, believe in yourself, and become a—”
3,000% certain.
[Era — Centrifugal Fling]
Visualizing his sword as a runaway merry-go-round, Era snatched Raphael's arm with his left hand. In his right, he clutched the Schiavona, which began to spin.
Raphael struggled to escape Era's grip, but when the sword picked up speed, he clung to Era for survival. The floating sword swirled and twirled, faster and faster, until Era, fighting his violent dizziness as best he could, flicked his left arm—
[So Long, Eh Raphael?]
—catapulting Raphael into the air, over the cliff, across the sea...
...and straight into the trash barge's hugest, most rancid pile of nope on a Godsdamn rope. Raphael’s levitation bracelets sputtered and died as a thick, caustic liquid, which used to be several cows, seeped into their fragile inner workings.
[12 DMG to Raphael]
[6,324,568 DMG to Raphael's ego]
“Third path!” yelled Era, struggling to stand up from the head wrenching aftermath of his least favorite fencing technique. “I don't need you to— Oh vog, gotta hurl.”
Thankfully, the cliff's edge was only a few steps away.
Era's rough day ended on a much-needed high note. He returned to the Doomwagon hanging his head (and dragging Noah), expecting to get an earful from the others and having to pass apologies and lengthy “won't happen agains” around like obligatory classroom Valentines. But Mischa, having caught sight of Liv trying to bring one of “those hideous weapons” (that's how Ofelia put it; Mischa's version was decidedly more NC-17 and involved leprechauns) onto his bus, had already explained Era's aversion to the Medusa Gun.
As a result, Ofelia became increasingly paranoid for Era's safety—she had survived the Fall of Rosencrace herself and had similar triggers. When he finally came back, it was as if he'd returned from a war. Liv had a few of her impulsive hugs ready, and honestly, Era was starting to not mind them as much. Doesn't have to be romantic, right? Friends do this sort of thing. No pressure. The only flak Era got for his actions was from his father, for giving Raphael the boot before Mischa could “give that Koschei sumbitch a buckshot enema” first.
As for the two remaining KM-115s: Mischa dismantled one to sell its parts at the nearest black market for beer money, and Branwen ate the other, giving her the first case of honest to Gods food poisoning she'd had in a decade.
Chapter 18
Mea Culpa
[CURRENT ROSTER (After the Sol Invictus):]
[Era — Fencer — Level 71 — HP 6240 — MP 700]
[Liv — Mystic — Level 73 — HP 5220 — MP 1500]
[Noah — Healer — Level 69 — HP 4520 — MP 2200]
[Ofelia — Paladin — Level 68 — HP 6800 — MP 750]
[Branwen — Berserker — Level 70 — HP 12,300 — MP 0]
The Doomwagon's next stop was the Rosencracian town of La Toza, and the road ahead would be through the Ramblind Forest, where, to Era's delight, a fierce thunderstorm was brewing.
Granted, Era had trouble sleeping through Noah's terrified sobbing, but the sight of heavy raindrops on the window next to his bed was never something he'd want to miss (especially not for the Bug Man's nightmares). As much as he loved sitting in the rain, thunderstorms were too much to enjoy outside, but when he looked at them from inside, they made him feel grateful for a roof and walls.
Still, it was well after two in the morning, and Era's eyelids would quickly succumb to gravity, if not for Noah's annoying mumbling and whimpers. I don't wanna be a jerk about it, though. I know he's scared of lightning.
Hey, you know what? I owe the guy. Noah helped me through the whole Medusa Gun thing, so maybe it wouldn't kill me to keep him calm through the storm. How, though? Definitely hugging him, but I can't do that all night. Maybe tell him some of Lutero Gualtieri's musings about fear. How does it go again? “Without fear, we'd lose our love of life?” Better play it by ear first.
He peeked out from over the side of his bed —Noah, in his bottom bunk, was wearing his noise-canceling headphones and happily snoring away.
And yet, the whimpering continued. Did he just outsource his fear of lightning to a third party? Wait, hyperbole aside, is that an actual thing you can do with magic? Questions for later.
Era turned a curious ear to find the source. It's coming from the bathroom. He checked the bunk below him—Liv was sleeping. The recliner—Mischa was sleeping. The front—Steve was driving. The couch—Branwen was sitting with a bucket on her head, mumbling something about “nighttime, nighttime.” The bunk across from him...
Ofelia's not in bed.
He listened closer. He could barely make out words from the bathroom.“...it is through Galgalim's cleansing thunder that his sins are absolved, so it has been said in Paradisia, and so shall it be done...” over and over, interspersed with muffled screaming through teeth.
He stared at the bathroom, wondering if Ofelia needed help.
The door opened, and Ofelia stepped out in her pajamas, holding Branwen's taser. What?
Her eyes met with Era's. Era began to say something.
[Ofelia — Hypnotize]
With a flicker of energy from her hand, he didn't.
[Era forgot what he just saw!]
[Era fell asleep!]
There were exactly three neighborhoods in La Toza: “Trailer Park,” “Fenced Off Necrylified Ruins/Mass Graves,” and “Super Strip Mall World.” Two years of Celsioran construction and marketing had resulted in the latter—a college town's worth of outlet stores and boutiques, interconnected with patios and a few monorails.
It had opened to considerable fanfare just last year, as well as controversy. On one hand, it was quite literally built over a mass grave from the Fall of Rosencrace. On the other hand, it had frogurt.
The Doomwagon had parked just outside the aforementioned frogurt-gathering place, “Signor Rosie's.”
The mascot was a pointy-eared villain in a top hat and cloak, ready to stab an ice cream cone in the back. Racist? Most likely. Of course, that could also be gathered from the purple “VOG YOUR RACIST YOGURT” that Liv was spray painting on their windows.
She'd just finished embellishments on the “RACIST” when Era stepped behind her. “Uh, Liv? What the hell are you doing?”
“If the GU can hide behind the DLNI act,” she said, “so can we. We're still on this quest, so... use it or lose it.”
The fencer chuckled. “I know that. But I need to run some errands for Dad. He needs a new robot arm, and some stuff called 'levitation-grade runic paint,' whatever that is.”
“Yeah, so?”
“I was thinking more, y'know...shoplifting spree?”
Liv paused in the middle of the last “R.” Her face was covered with the kind of smile reserved for a snake that had just eaten something particularly adorable. She stepped back and hurled the half empty can of paint through the window, sending shards of shiny, clinky Hurt Dust™ all over the pavement. Thankfully, the frogurt place was empty.
“Slasher, you son of a bitch,” she said, grabbing his hand. “Let's go.”
Once they were gone, Ofelia ste
pped out, with Mischa in pursuit. No particular rush, of course, but he had a certain haste and otherwise pursuitly gait about him.
And for the first time in a while, Ofelia wasn't in her armor, but a black turtleneck and a plain skirt.
“At least wait 'til Little Dork gets back!” said Mischa.
Ofelia shook her head. “Sorry, I'm already late for the vigil.”
The elder Gualtieri scoffed. “So, what, you're just gonna bail on my son?”
“Of course not! But this is the week of...” She shuddered at the thought and took a moment to gather herself. “Look. If I were leaving for good, I would have taken my gear, right? I have to pay my respects for the Fall of Rosencrace at the nearest orthodox cathedral.”
“That time of year already?” Mischa rubbed his aching left temple. “Voggin' hell. You'd think I woulda remembered.”
“There's a part of all of us that wishes to forget, signor. I'll be back by Monday, I promise.”
“Awright, awright. I'll let Little Dork know.”
“Gratsiya, signor.”
As Ofelia made her way down the sidewalk, Mischa jumped from a sudden scream inside the Doomwagon: “Noelle! Where's my vogging taser?”
Ofelia's “nearest orthodox cathedral” turned out to be a trailer with a few photocopied icons. The hymnals were stapled together. A saint's relic salvaged from the Chapel of the Holy Keeper of La Toza was being kept in a plastic baggie.
She'd never stormed out of a church in her life. First time for everything, I suppose.
So, with wire clippers in hand, Ofelia made her way past the mesh fence and into the forbidden ruins of old La Toza.
One half of the Holy Keeper Cathedral was Necrylic. The other half was ashen debris. Still, two thirds of its famous dome remained hanging above the center, and that was enough to have a quasi—cathedrally feel about the whole affair. In what could only be called a miracle, the icon of St. Cyrus was still intact. Ofelia knelt before the icon, prayer book in hand, abstaining from anything other than pain and self-tasering.
At the four-hour mark, Ofelia became particularly aware of how alien her hand felt on the paper of Litany Against Comfort #19.
Maybe salvaging my family's honor is a lost cause.
Do it anyway!
But I'm not my father! I can make this right in my own way; I don't need to hate myself!
Need? No.
Deserve? YES.
Don't forget! My bloodline is the reason the Gods destroyed Rosencrace.
But I’m not the one who murdered thousands of Mystics.
Shirking our responsibilities, are we?
Papa can't repent anymore, as he's in Hell.
Now it's on you.
You're the last of the Niccolo bloodline. If you don't make up for everything your father did, Celsior is going to slaughter every elf in the Universe!
And Galgalim will allow this.
Quiet. So, no time to lose.
Suffer. Now.
“Stra'voi, my dear Ofelia! How goes it?”
Ofelia's heart seized up. It was her father's voice, behind her.
At seven feet tall, Pietro the Blind always was a giant among elves. He walked towards her in the dust, fully dressed in his trademark fur cape, military uniform, and sunglasses—Pietro never liked his glass eyes to be completely on display.
“Are you not happy to see me?” asked Pietro. “I've been searching all over for you, and now that I've finally—”
“What perception-filter enchantment are you using?”
“Pardon?”
“One, my father has been dead for five years. Two, my father is blind, and you have no cane. So kindly drop the illusion and address me as you are.”
Pietro, who quite obviously wasn't Pietro, chuckled. “There's a rational explanation for both, my dear. For the first: I faked my death because I lost a drunken bet. For the second: my senses of smell and hearing are 200 times that of humans, a trait we've had to develop due to the horns coming out of our—”
Ofelia groaned.
“My, my, it seems the plan has gone south rather quickly,” said Not-Pietro.
“I would never have guessed,” said Ofelia.
“Very well, Ofelia, let's try this again: I'm here to kidnap you and hold you for ransom. And to answer your perception filter question, I'm using a lyrebird pendant—pretty entry-level ‘look like the person they wanna see the most’ kinda stuff.”
[Goblin Chief — Decloak]
Removing an invisible string from his neck, Not-Pietro dissolved into a nine-foot-tall, green-skinned abomination. A lipless mouth, black gums, and crooked, rotting fangs. A pair of spiral horns had sprouted from where his eyes should have been, extending around his head and winding several times, forming a natural cage for his face. Three pairs of thin and atrophied arms, poked out from a robe made of stitched-together shirts stolen from graveyards.
He dangled a blue and gold pendant in one of his six hands. “See?” he asked, in a surprisingly pleasant baritone.
“Keep it on,” said Ofelia.
“Fair enough.”
[Goblin Chief — Disguise]
Ofelia rolled her eyes. “Well, at least you're not GU.”
“Begging your pardon, I have no idea what that is. Now, are you going to come with us?”
“Will there be torture and/or other manhandling of my person involved?”
“Not unless we don't get the ransom. Eating you right off the bat would put a damper on the whole 'if you wanna see her unharmed' thing, y'know?”
“Right, right.” Perfect. The Gods have sent me a more manageable punishment for my actions than sitting in these toxic ruins. “Then let's be off, shall we? I surrender.”
Not-Pietro looked behind her and yelled: “Narò! Baluetye, korù ga!”
Five goblins, half the size of Not-Pietro's true form but just as disgusting, sprung out from below the shattered floor tiles. One shoved Ofelia in a potato sack, and then they bounded off through the fence toward the treeline at the edge of the town.
[Name The Secret Mastermind Of House Koschei]
[A S T R I D _]
In a rickety tool shed on a northern beach, there was utter darkness, save for a few lines of daylight peeking in through the boards and a blinking red LED.
The door swung open and slammed shut in one swift motion, and there stood Prince Raphael. Having been thoroughly marinated in freezing seawater and liquefied carrion, the prince wasn't thrilled. He breathed heavily through his nostrils, and though he couldn't stand the smell, his spite left little room to care.
A scrolling red marquee shone in the darkness of the shed: “INPUT PASSWORD.”
Raphael raised his hands and clapped “A-S-T-R-I-D” in Morse code. His sister's name could get you almost anywhere in Luminar, provided you didn't die where you stood for saying it too loud.
“WELCOME.” The whirring of tiny servos from the ground indicated that the floor-mounted Medusa Gun turrets had been deactivated.
The lights flickered on, and Raphael saw a desk and a criminally outdated computer—a beige processor tower the size of a fridge, and a CRT monitor with all 256 colors, half of which were black, and the other half the same shade of green. Everything was connected to an armored complex of underground wires and radio relays that spanned all over the Ariesian Empire.
On the floor were a few scattered chunks of Necrylic remains of the last poor bastard who tried to log in without authorization.
This was DAZHBOG, the Koscheis' private information network. Raphael himself designed the network a few hundred years ago. The principle behind it was simple: rather than working to stay one step ahead of rapidly-modernizing hackers, the Koscheis would bewilder their enemies by staying a few billion steps behind. Would-be internet pirates often mocked it at first, only to panic as they tried to learn how to correctly forge a ten byte punch card diskette in the five minutes before the Templars kicked their door down.
Raphael pushed the on button and sat down as
the cooling fans roared the ancient device out of its slumber.
< DAZHBOG Secure Data Mainframe v 1.0.3.3 >
< ~ House Koschei — Liberty Through Innovation ~ >
>Enter UID: RaphaelHK
>Enter Password: ******************
>[Access Granted — User Recognized — RAPHAEL_KOSCHEI]
>[Welcome, Your Excellency.]
>[Select command — DATA / ISSUE ORDERS / JOIN]
>/join
>[Joining discussion in progress...]
>[User RaphaelHK joined.]