AlterWorld (LitRPG: Play to Live. Book #1)

by D. Rus

  Chapter Six

  After a few more minutes of leisurely walking along a well-trodden path, I reached the edge of the forest with a view of the town wall. Here, Rover and I had to part ways. I was running a high chance of walking into a guards patrol, and Elven warriors wouldn't appreciate a zombie visitor. I had to tread carefully in my dealings with the city.

  Higher-level Necs normally had a special spell to put the raised undead to rest. I was forced to utter the trigger word, "Begone!" With a guttural groan, the zombie fell apart. Its translucent soul flitted up to the skies while the earth swallowed the remains of its flesh. RIP, dude.

  The small area in front of the town gate bustled with people. Players and NPCs—that is, AI-controlled characters—buzzed in and out of vendors' stores, either getting rid of petty loot or stocking up on basics. Others searched for hunting parties to join, while even more were busy striking deals in the safety of a popular public place.

  I wasn't in a hurry, though. The vendors weren't interested in offering a fair price, exploiting the gamers' penchant for a quick sell. Not that I had something to worry about, not with my few pelts and petty gnoll loot. Still, it wouldn't hurt to investigate. I networked with the vendors a bit, memorizing a price or two to compare them later to those in town.

  Ten guards stood watch by the gate, mainly level 100, plus a sergeant and a mage, both 130.

  I respectfully spoke to the mage, "Would you be ever so kind, Sir, to direct me somewhere where I could spend the night without too much strain on my wallet?

  He looked me over with his typical customs officer's eye and laughed. "Won't do your wallet any good, straining. It shouldn't even try to cough if you ask me. Past the gate, turn left and keep walking until you come to the market square. Ask for the Three Little Pigs Inn. Their prices are set to suit any wallet.

  I froze, thunderstruck. The mage guffawed. "Love to see this sort of reaction from your kind. The inn belongs to the Olders clan. Was started by one of the Immortals. Get off then, I've got work to do. And keep an eye on your wallet. It may be thin but our local guys aren't squeamish."

  I nodded and followed his instructions. Leaving the thick tunnel of the gate tower behind, I turned left. The lower city didn't resemble the Elven architecture of online fantasy pics. A normal medieval hole in the wall, some of it dusty, some clean. Could be cleaner, actually. Closer to the city center, a few celestial blue spires showed in the haze. There, a magic beacon glinted next to the iridescent bubbles of dome shields. All the sightseeing had to be done there: the palace buildings, the arsenal, guilds, banks: whatever captured the game designers' fancy and whatever wealthy players could afford to invest into pricey Sector A lands. Whenever I needed a break from gnolls, I could always go there for a peek.

  I found a small shop that traded in everything that moved. Their prices indeed were five percent higher than those behind the city limits. Now I was nine silver richer. The coins bore a profile of a stern-looking Elf against the backdrop of the rising—or, alternatively, setting—sun. Add to them two handfuls of coppers I'd farmed earlier, total count 260. Their current rates were 1:100 silver to copper and 1:10 gold to silver. In total, I had one gold, one silver and sixty copper.

  On top of that, I could sell a dozen bracelets for a couple dozen copper apiece. Virtual gold converted to real-life US dollar at 10:1. So all of today's loot wouldn't buy me a beer in the real world. Not good.

  My eye caught on a shop sign which featured, besides various blades and armor, also a few octagonal Soul Stones. That's funny. I pushed the heavy door and walked in. A scarred beast of an Elf glanced over me, his heavy eyes deceptively indifferent.

  "We don't buy trophies," he murmured and continued polishing an equally beastly broadsword.

  "I wouldn't dream of insulting you with any such offer, Sir Gunnar," I said in my best deferential voice. "As I walked past your shop, I noticed the picture of some excellent stones. I have a funny feeling I've seen them somewhere before. Could you be ever so kind to tell me what they are?"

  Gunnar cringed, exposing an excellent pair of fangs. Did he have an orc or two in his family tree?

  "Keep going, stranger. These stones don't drop from rabbits nor are they sold at jewelers'. You don't look as if you can afford rabbit crap."

  That hurt. Really. I undid my bag strings and dug in for a handful of stones. "How's this for crap?"

  His face froze. In one smooth swift motion, he stole past me and barred the door. Then he turned round and laid his heavy hand on my shoulder. I braced myself for more trouble.

  "Welcome, brother."

  Quest completion alert! You've completed a secret quest: Dark Brotherhood.

  Reward: 1 gold

  Your relationship with the Dark Alliance has improved!

  Your relationship with Gunnar has improved!

  Congratulations! You've received Achievement: The First in Town. You've become the first person in this town who has completed the quest: Dark Brotherhood.

  Reward: +100 to Fame

  Fame points are extremely valuable. Famous characters can access unique quests, develop rare abilities or acquire secret knowledge.

  See Wiki for more details.

  New quest alert! Dark Brotherhood II.

  Quest type: secret, rare

  Find the Fallen One's secret supporters in the cities of the Lands of Light. Every new worshipper will double your reward.

  Would you like to accept the quest?

  Good. Time to breathe a sigh of relief. That guy Gunnar looked scarier than he really was. And I got a ton of goodies to boot. Accept: Yes. No question about it.

  The unexpected piece of gold doubled my property. My inner greedy pig, still mourning the loss of the laurite, purred as it bit the coin to make sure it was real.

  And I couldn't even have hoped for Fame points. Normally, to get them, you had to either engage in some back-breaking farming, earning weird achievements like Rat Catcher that you got for every ten thousand rats trapped. Alternatively, you could get them for some truly rare, if not unique, achievements in a particular location or city, if not in the whole world. Without Fame points, you couldn't even dream of having access to the elite game content open only to the Top 5% of all players.

  In the meantime, Gunnar busied himself laying a small table groaning with liquor and cold cuts that filled the shop with the smells of ham and herbs. My stomach rumbled prompting a new system message:

  Warning! You're hungry and thirsty. Your body can't regenerate Life points or mana any longer. You need to eat and drink ASAP!

  The Elf guffawed. "You must be starving, brother. Do me the honor. Here in this rathole of Light one has nobody to share a drink with."

  He proved to be a convivial type. He drank and chatted non-stop, mixing city gossip with his own elaborate war stories. He asked me to come again soon promising all sorts of discounts for his Dark brother. When I asked him for some Necro gear, he gave me a skeptical look and shook his head.

  "I'm dealing mainly in heavy steel armor. Chainmail is the limit. But you casters, you don't even wear leather, only rag shit. Same with weapons. A shield, a long sword, a mace—all this I can get you. Had you been a Death Knight, we'd have equipped you like you wouldn't believe it. It wouldn't cost you that much, either. I've got some interesting things here."

  To prove his point, he jumped from the table and disappeared into a store room. He came out almost straight away with a weird-looking bone staff, all carved and plated with gold and silver—or it could have been solid gold, I wouldn't know. Gunnar pressed some knob causing the top of the staff to explode in a dazzle of black flame. It flared out and swallowed all the light around it creating a dim hemisphere a couple feet in diameter.

  I peered at the object:

  Staff of Dark Flame

  Item Class: Rare

  Effect 1: +5 to Intellect, +3 to Strength, +3 to Constitution

  Effect 2: +3 to the raised creature's level when hand-held.

  Effect
3: The raised creature deals +10% fire damage.

  Effect 4: Each of the raised creature's attacks has 2% chance to ignite the target, adding 210 points Damage.

  Class restrictions: Only Death Knight

  What a beauty. Wish I had two of them. Actually, if you had indeed had two, would their effects add up?

  "Oh wow. How much?"

  Gunnar darkened. "If it wasn't for class restrictions, it would cost at least five or six hundred. But right now who would need it in this fucking hole? It's yours for a hundred. Really," he got so worked up he knocked down a wine glass and didn't even notice it, "in the Dark Lands, you'll sell it for a couple grand."

  I shook my head, disappointed, and hurled my flat wallet onto the table. Dammit. A Nec would kill for a staff like that while a Death Knight wouldn't even know what to do with it. A Knight's pet is too weak, so raising it even ten levels wouldn't make much difference. And the Knight would be stupid to use up one hand holding it instead of holding a shield or a two-handed sword. What a shame.

  Overall, we'd enjoyed each other's company and parted almost as friends. I double-checked my directions for the Three Little Pigs and, swaying, continued on my way. It was getting dark and I really had to find somewhere to spend the night.

  The inn wasn't difficult to find. You couldn't miss the enormous sign with three dancing characters looking happy as pigs in shit.

  The door opened into a brightly-lit main room. Large and clean, it was crowded with tables and what looked like quite comfortable seats. About forty people—groups and singles—were busy chewing, drinking, talking and laughing. And there was enough space left for three times as many patrons.

  No one paid much attention to me, even though my shabby appearance stood out in this roomful of high-level players. I approached the bar and addressed the imposing innkeeper,

  "Good evening, Sir. I was wondering if I could rent a room for the night."

  He cast me an ironic glance and went on polishing a beer mug, waiting for me to go on.

  I raised an eyebrow. "Is there a problem?"

  The innkeeper mimicked my expression making my heart twitch with jealousy. "Aren't you going to ask me for a job? Dishwashing, wood chopping?"

  "I don't think so… Sir. You can always hire a Chinese android to do your chores. They will wash your dishes for a night, chop your wood for a week or stab a dummy with a wooden sword for a month. Doesn't interest me in the slightest. I'd rather pay you."

  The innkeeper chuckled, pleased with the answer. "That's the way to do it. Don't take offense, kid. We get all sorts here," he waved his hand in the air, "Santa's little helpers… They'll slop around with the dishcloth until they learn that this type of quest—full immersion, mind you—only ends after sunset, so they vanish before you even catch their name."

  "In all honesty, Sir, I'm often too lazy to take my coffee cup to the sink. Not that I'm proud of it but just to give you some idea of my opinion of that sort of quest, if you know what I mean."

  "Absolutely. I've got just the room for you. Plain but clean. Perfect for a night or to drop one's bag in. One gold per night. With all respect, can't afford to let it any cheaper."

  I shook my head in disbelief. He didn't want much, did he?

  Seeing I was on the fence, the host stepped up on his persuasion skills. "Dinner's on the house. Plain but filling. You've never tasted beer like we have."

  All right, all right, he won. I produced my gold piece and slammed it on the bar.

  In return, I received a smallish key and some advice. "Room ten. Second floor. No going upstairs. Floors three and four don't like being disturbed. In case you don't know, The Pigs are owned by the Olders. The digitized clan, like most of our customers. So show some understanding. They don't play: they live here. Go sit at the table. Dinner's in a minute."

  Great timing. I nodded my complete understanding and took a place at an empty table.

  A couple minutes later, a cute waitress brought me a beer and a bowl of pickles. I wasn't hungry at all after Gunnar's exercise in hospitality, but when they brought in a plateful of fried potatoes… seriously, I just love the virtual world for being able to stuff oneself silly without gaining an ounce. It wasn't your junk French fries from the corner joint but true-to-God potatoes fried in plenty of fat in a heavy iron skillet with generous amounts of chopped pork and onions… For the next fifteen minutes, I was absent from both realities.

  I was sitting there, happily stuffed, and finishing my second beer when the door opened letting in a strange couple. The man, tall and burly, bristling with weapons and armor, stomped in with a slim Elfa in his wake. She scampered along, clinging to the man's hand.

  Replying to the patrons' greetings as he walked, the man brought the Elfa to the large gong in the center of the room. He reached for the mallet and offered it to the girl, smiling. As he nodded, she squeezed her eyes shut and hit the gong with all her negligible might. BAAAANG!

  The sound still echoed in the corners when the patrons jumped up, applauding. The locals seemed all to know what was going on. Only a couple of strangers like myself stared around with confused smiles.

  The man raised his hand asking for silence. "My friends. As you have all gathered, we have a newcomer. Let's be grateful to the perma effect for our second lives and for this adorable young lady."

  The audience cheered and raised their mugs. The burly man went on, "Just think I was leaving through the West Gate yesterday morning and who do I see but this lovely newblette. Sitting there hugging bunnies she was, feeding 'em daisies."

  The room burst into healthy laughter. The girl blushed and attempted to hide behind the man's wide back. Two brutal-looking female warriors, all leather and blades, started elbowing their way toward her from the back tables. They fussed around the girl, whispering, stroking and soothing.

  "So! Last night I was coming back from war, same road, same gate. And there she was, the poor wretch, still level one, chasing butterflies. Really funny was the way she ran, sort of waddling, like a duck with both legs broken. All right, I thought. This morning I'm out again farming. And this character here is curled up by the wall sleeping. I couldn't take it any longer. I woke her up and spoke to her. Checked her for all the signs. She's perma all right. She's one of us now. What's your name—Lana? Or do you prefer Lanileth? Mind saying a few words about yourself?"

  The girl faltered for a moment. Then she plucked up courage and spoke softly.

  "My name's Lana. I'm eighteen. Cerebral palsy since birth. When my parents learned that I wouldn't walk, they gave me up to an institution and legally disowned me. When I turned eighteen, I was supposed to get social housing. But the new law had changed it to a monetary compensation. Which stretches nowhere. I had some friends who promised to help me. They took the money and disappeared. I… I was reading the handicapped persons' forum looking for some painless ways to end my life. And I found this perma thread there instead. I asked a few questions, the forum members suggested a few names and addresses. I went to some underground perma parlor. They gave me some papers to sign. I gave them the rest of the money. So here I am…"

  The girl gave the room a timid smile. The burly warrior patted her shoulder, removed his gold-gleaming bracelet and slid it onto the girl's wrist. Immediately the bracelet shrank to fit, as if it had always belonged to her.

  "A gift. Otherwise it might take you some time to buy anything if you limit your leveling skills to bunny-hugging."

  The audience clamored their approval. A line of givers formed, giving the girl a thin purple-bladed dagger, a stack of gold pieces; someone placed a pair of earrings on the table in front of her, then a ring, and yet another ring, glistening with a strange-looking gem.

  I had nothing to give her but I got an idea. I walked out the door and came back in a minute with a bunch of little plain blue flowers that grew along the fence. They pleased the Elfa a lot. She blushed and hid her face in the flowers, apparently unaccustomed to human attention.

  My knees ga
ve way as a heavy hand slapped my shoulder. The burly man, already nursing a beer mug, gave me a wide smile. "Well done. I'm sure she'll appreciate that. Here, we're forgetting that girls want flowers, not cold steel."

  Now was a chance to talk to a local. A digitized local.

  "I'm afraid that's all I have," I nodded at my table. "Fancy another beer?"

  He looked me over. "Well, if you're serious…"

  He slouched in his seat, made a complex sign to the bar tender and turned to me. "What's that about?"

  "It's my first day in the game. Just curious."

  "So why are you sitting in a bar instead of hunting? Any idea what kind of folk we have here?"

  I nodded. "Personally, I've got nowhere to hurry to. Got loads of time. Enough to do everything."

  The warrior grinned. "Going perma?"

  "Yeah. Unforeseen health problems. But provided it all works out, it could even be for the better. I seem to like it here."

  "Well, whatever you say," the man echoed.

  "What's gonna happen to the girl now? Are you accepting her into the clan?"

  "Which clan?"

  "The," I tried to remember, 'the Olders."

  The man snorted. "Who told you I'm one of them?"

  Shit. I'd completely forgotten that default settings showed nothing but a player's name.

  I opened the menu and ticked a few boxes. Now if you concentrated while looking at a player, a prompt popped up over their head,

  Eric. Level 109. Veterans.

  Veterans had to be his clan name.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "It's just that the innkeeper said that everything here belongs to the Olders. And I haven't had much chance to adjust the system settings yet."

  "Never mind," Eric said amiably. "You're right about the old farts. They own quite a lot here. In any case, they prefer to stay in their clan castles or in their mansions within the gold line. You won't see them in a bar. They have their own watering holes. Fucking sharks. You see, it's all those old boys, some successful businessmen, a few millionaires even. They all decided to start a new life. They shit money. They transfer some of it to AlterWorld and use it to buy and sell. And build. Actually, they've been quite useful with their money-making mentality. They can't help it. They've set up a proper bank as an alternative to the game one. A post office, texting services…"

  My ear caught the familiar word, "Texting? You mean, texting the real world? From a real cell phone? How d'you do it?"

  "How d'you think? Elementary. You PM a player positioning as Text—that's his nickname. In the message, you put the phone number and the text. And transfer him a gold piece. He sends your message to the number provided. It's not just one player, of course. It's a whole business."

  The mind boggles. Weren't these guys great. But a gold piece… Was it the only price tag they had?

  Eric watched my discouraged face. "Too pricey for you still?"

  "Not exactly. The price is probably right. But I've just paid the only piece of gold I've farmed for a room. I've got another one that came with a quest I didn't ask for. But I'd rather keep it for a rainy day. You can't expect this sort of luck too often."

  "Was it a girl you wanted to text?"

  "No. Mother. She's worried sick, you know. For our parents we never grow. And she can't work out all this game shit."

  Eric fell silent for a moment. "Go ahead, type it. I've got a subscription. You pay fifty gold a month and can text a novel if you want."

  "Thanks, dude," I dictated a quick message saying that everything was fine, that I had it all worked out and lived in a good hotel. My headaches were gone and my appetite was back.

  On hearing that last bit, Eric smiled but sort of sadly. "Just like back home. My mom was the same. I was an active-duty officer, six foot four, and she was checking if I was wearing warm underpants and whether I'd packed her homemade meatballs."

  Seeing him overtaken by gloom, I promptly changed the subject. "This clan of yours, what's it about?"

  Eric cheered up a bit. "Combat vets. Mainly the two Chechen wars, the second Georgian campaign and the Far East conflict. But we also have a few military advisors, foreign intelligence people, special forces, and even a few handicapped Afghan vets. No internal shit—no police or anti-riot men. They have a clan of their own. There's some sort of cold war going on between us. So you see, it's not much we can do with this chick. But we need to find her a place and something to do before she gets into trouble. Things aren't as easy as they seem here. We're now talking about building a nursery to train new players for the clan. We're short on healers and buffers. Normally we only get true blue warriors, if you know what I mean."

  Honestly, I was quite surprised. I didn't expect to find so many professional military in the game.

  Eric gave me a crooked grin. "I can't tell you how many of us are here. It's classified. Let's put it this way, it's a three-figure number. And as for why we're here… D'you know how I used the bathroom after the second Georgian campaign? You pull your pants down and clamp the drip. Then you unstick the plastic container from your hip, pour its contents down the toilet and stick it back on again. A frag in my stomach, half the bladder down the drain. Shit happens."

  He paused. "Some motherfuckers made billions in army supplies. Those in the arms industry got their cut, too. And those on top helped them carve up the budget. And all the while young lost-eyed kids kept fertilizing the ground in strange lands with their blood. That's the way it goes…"

  He turned to me. "D'you see that guy over there flirting with girls—blond hair, blue eyes? If you met him in the real world, you'd have had nightmares for a week. He spent twenty minutes keeping the enemy away from his APC, not letting them get close enough to finish off his guys. He was so burned that dogs pissed themselves with fear when they saw him. Do we still sound too many to you? Each of them here is a bodiless, soulless stump…"

  He was right. Shit happened. But I had another question to ask him, too. "I've noticed a funny thing here. Whoever I speak to, they're all Russian. Your clan, too. Where are all the foreigners?"

  "Oh, dude. You sure you read the Terms and Conditions? Or did you just tick the box? Relax. No one does. I didn't. I had it explained to me, too. The game localizes users using their IP addresses, their interface language, their address and credit card issuer. They know who we are and where we are from. So they throw us all into one language cluster using an algorithm that only the admins know. This is mainly a Russian-speaking zone. We have some Eastern European players, a handful of unidentified immigrants, but not many, just within statistical error."

  "Wait a bit. And what happens if some Frenchie wants to play for the High Elves? What's he gonna do?"

  "P-lease. AlterWorld is quarter of the size of the globe. Plenty of Cities of Light to go around. I have a funny feeling the developers split us up for a reason. Once we sorted out our internal differences, we might start a new world war. Now that's some serious money—real money. Today's billions are peanuts in comparison."

  I gave it some thought. Actually, he could be right.

  Overall, our conversation proved quite productive. As night approached, I walked upstairs, slightly swaying. I sleepily looked over the clean and comfortable little room, pulled off my clothes and shut out, ending my first day in the new world.