by Kevin Murphy
“Yes,” said Jitan, looking both annoyed and insulted. “Do you know of any other master-ranked pyromancers?” Jitan pointed down to his white sash, much in the way Aramon had.
Had Dakkon known what each sash represented beforehand, Jitan’s identity would have been as clear as day. With no real basis for comparison, though, a white sash denoting higher rank than a fiery red one seemed completely arbitrary.
It probably wouldn’t help for Dakkon to mention that he had been traveling with an incredibly powerful pyromancer, but he couldn’t resist a mostly-harmless jab to offset his surly reception.
“At least one,” replied Dakkon in a nonchalant tone. “Strongest I’ve ever seen.”
“Then go bother them,” said Jitan, unruffled. “Otherwise, state your business and go.”
“Very well. I want you to teach me fire magic,” Dakkon said.
Jitan’s sourness faded a little at the request, then returned an instant later.
“Fire evocation isn’t easy to learn. Well, it was for me,” Jitan amended, “but I can tell you first hand that most people don’t have the faculties for it.”
“I think I can manage.” Dakkon remembered Aramon’s words. Jitan was, apparently, not a very good teacher.
“It also won’t be cheap,” said Jitan. “The lack of talented new arrivals has stymied the flow of new apprentices. As I’m on something of a deadline, anyone who wants to learn will need to pick up the slack.”
“Wouldn’t charging more money just drive even more people away?” Dakkon asked.
“I won’t abide idle, speculative banter. I’ve got better things to do,” Jitan said, pointing the thumb of his left hand back toward the metal orb which had already begun to lose its infernal glow. “Do you want to learn, or do you not?”
“Obviously,” said Dakkon. “How much?”
“80 platinum,” Jitan said without so much as batting an eyelid.
“What!” Dakkon nearly shouted in surprise. He had expected to be fleeced a little given the situation, but this was more akin to a bad joke than the start of any legitimate dickering. Though the exchange rate fluctuated to a degree, 80 platinum was roughly equivalent to 8,000 real world credits. Though his accommodations were far from luxurious, a month’s rent still cost him 1,000 credits. For what Jitan was asking, Dakkon wouldn’t need to worry about living expenses for around six months. Dakkon was even certain that he’d already overpaid for his first class, thermomancer, by trading away an item he had been given. Even then, he was confident that his training for the thermomancer class hadn’t cost him a single platinum piece. Either Jitan was incredible at bluffing, or somewhere—deep down inside—he really believed his extortionate rate was reasonable. Even if he wanted to be fleeced sideways, it was more money than Dakkon had despite the 50 platinum he’d received from Lina for helping her get her class-relic back.
“Hell no,” Dakkon said, resolutely. “You’re out of your damned mind if you think anyone will pay anything even close to that!”
“Very well,” said Jitan as he pulled his goggles back down over his eyes and turned to resume his project of heating and bending metal.
Dakkon found himself in a tight spot. Time was of the essence. He needed to get out of town quickly—before his and Cline’s employed disguises were common-enough knowledge that they’d be accosted in the streets. It was the sort of information that would spread like fire to parched wheat, and once it did Dakkon wanted to already be well away from Turlin.
Jitan raised his hands to the metal orb and it began to glow more brightly once again.
The chances that Dakkon might run into another fire mage capable of training him while galivanting amongst the wilderness were slim to none. Finding another appealing class was just as unlikely. Ultimately, he knew deep down that money was merely a means to an end. Having five months plus worth of rent on his person was comforting, but it wasn’t helping him accomplish any goals.
“Gah, fine,” said Dakkon. “I’ll pay you 10 platinum.” The amount was one month’s rent and it was absurdly more than the class training was worth.
Jitan didn’t bother looking up from his work. Apparently, a paltry month’s rent for Dakkon wasn’t even worth his time.
“All right, you digital extortionist,” thought Dakkon. “I can play this game.”
Using his thermomancer’s ‘Hotspot’ ability, Dakkon formed a small, invisible sphere—encapsulating the glowing orb and the metal tendril that Jitan had just begun to twist again. Dakkon poured his mana into making his created bubble as cold as he could manage. When focusing on an area smaller than his a thumb, he could create a point chilly enough to rapidly freeze water—but, even while affecting an object slightly larger than a football, Dakkon was sure he could make the gaudy-looking crafting process grind to a halt.
The tendril of metal that Jitan twisted with his heavy-duty tongs cooled more quickly than the rest of the orb. Growing brittle, the tendril cracked, and Jitan stopped what he was working on with a resigned sigh.
“Some sort of cold magic, huh?” said Jitan. “Fine. I probably won’t need to hold back quite as much when training someone who can protect themselves. Since that’ll make things easier, I’ll train you for 25 platinum.”
“That’s still way too much,” said Dakkon.
With the gentle wave of Jitan’s right hand, the metal orb regained its temperature and malleability despite Dakkon’s attempts to sabotage the process. The young master of fire magic was simply too strong to be defied by a little patch of cold.
Dakkon grinned and reversed the temperature of his ‘Hotspot’ skill to the hottest he could manage. It wasn’t much on its own—when testing out skills, Dakkon found his thermomancy to be better at freezing than burning or boiling. Still, Jitan’s infusion of extra heat to offset the bubble of cold was strong enough that the sudden change of temperature melted and deformed the mostly-smooth metal ball.
“I’ll pay 15 platinum because I’m done haggling. Alternatively, I can stand here and keep watching as you break your ball some more,” Dakkon bluffed. If he’d had the time to wait around pestering the young fire master, then he’d have also had the time to find a more reasonably priced lesson in fire magic from some other city.
Jitan watched his crafting project continue to lose its shape. The orb flattened against the crucible-like stand which held it in place as it grew far hotter than Dakkon had intended. By the time the metal began to bubble almost like boiling water, he realized it was Jitan’s turn to make a point: it was not wise to poke a bear in his cave, even should you happen to disagree with it.
“You’ll pay 20 platinum,” began Jitan, “and unlike everyone else, you’ll pay upfront and in full—regardless of whether or not you manage to absorb the lessons I teach.” Meeting Dakkon’s eyes, he continued, “I won’t force you to waiver or fail—but, if you give up like the others, that’s your choice to make.”
“Deal,” Dakkon said while extending his hand, and—for the first time in their brief dealings—Jitan seemed legitimately pleased.
Chapter 3: Another Place
Brett finally had the leisure to stop and think about things while he hunted. Ever since the Tournament of the Gods began, the escape he so enjoyed within Chronicle had started to erode. The game had begun to seem markedly more like the outside world. He felt like his actions were being monitored and weighed. He loathed the feeling.
For as long as he could remember, Brett had been groomed to take over in his father’s stead when that fateful day came. Brett didn’t wholly resent the responsibility, but he also hadn’t asked for it. Brett couldn’t exactly see the situation as fair. His father had never been forced to endure extensive grooming to make him ‘well-rounded.’ Brett’s old man hadn’t been forced to study supplementary courses such as business strategy from a young age. The daily grind was tedious. Lessons were tedious. For him, there was no wonder why he preferred a simpler existence within the game world. The eight hours in Chronicle per each one h
our in the real world gave Brett an avenue to just be himself, free from the watchful eyes of his retainers. Brett still had several daily obligations which required him to go offline, but that just made logging in so much sweeter.
Though he’d never outright admit it, Brett was incredibly grateful for his two closest friends—Savior and Arden—even if he’d never met them in the real world. Those two were always available to group up and quest with him whenever he got back online. No matter their group situation, they’d always have an spot reserved for him.
While Arden had somewhat of a short fuse and was prouder than all hell, he had been a good friend. Like Brett, he too came from a wealthy business-driven family, but being the youngest of several sons afforded him a lot more freedom in his day-to-day life. He had had plenty of time to do as he pleased while growing up and was proud that he’d made many brief appearances within various competitive gaming circuits, though he had never actually won anything. It was through one of these tournaments that he had met Savior. They couldn’t recall exactly who had said what, but one thing led to another and they decided to try hanging out online.
Savior was a different sort altogether. He clearly didn’t come from money, but he never asked Brett or Arden for anything. They’d have given it to him, too, if he asked—after a bit of teasing, without a doubt—but Savior never would ask. Savior wasn’t so predictable—he was a breath of fresh air. Even though he had to work a day job to make ends meet, Savior was always the life of the group. He was happy-go-lucky in a way that Brett and Arden had never really known in their lives, but at the same time he was damned good at what he set his mind on. Savior had won an assortment of low-to-moderate stakes tournaments for fighting games, shooters, and even a few low-contact sports. He had thrashed both Brett and Arden handily at any game the three had ever played together, and though Brett still tried challenging him from time to time, Arden had given up trying long ago.
The three of them had been working well together in Chronicle and were at least as good at getting out of trouble as they were at getting into it. They had tried time and time again to group up with other players, but for a long while nothing seemed to ever pan out. Either others couldn’t keep up, or they just weren’t interested in waiting until both Brett and Savior’s free times synced up—though, most of the downtime was Brett’s fault since Savior’s job was for a customer service giant that had begun operating within Chronicle’s time compression. Dumb requests were just as common in the virtual world as they were in the real one, and—like the man who demanded complete reimbursement for virtual gear he bought from players despite Savior’s employer having no real ties to Chronicle beyond ‘real’ estate—the most jaw-droppingly idiotic calls were often retold for a laugh.
Savior placed his left hand on the back of his neck and let out a loud, bored yawn. Arden glowered at him, though Brett couldn’t help but grin. They were both right. It was boring to just sit there on the side of the road and wait—really boring. As seconds passed, Arden seemed to grow more and more tense.
Arden was always the most accommodating of their trio. He worked around the other two’s downtimes with few complaints, which was a surprising quality considering his hot head. Then, finally, a few months back in game time, the three had managed to find a flexible fourth for their group—Suresh.
Suresh didn’t really say much, but he certainly had a presence—a sort of imposing stare that you could always feel on the side of your neck. That ‘presence’ didn’t particularly bother Brett or Savior, but Arden never really seemed quite as at ease when the large-bodied Suresh was around. Even despite Arden’s discomfort, they were all eager to keep Suresh on the team. Arden had a fondness for those who proved themselves to be strong in his particular areas of interest—like he had with Savior—and if Suresh was anything, it was strong. He’d saved all their asses several times, and, through gear or training, was probably equal to any two of them in a fight.
The tall, broad-shouldered Suresh never offered any complaints, either. Most of the time, he just went along with whatever the group was doing. He was very private about his real-world affairs, but it wasn’t hard to figure out that he was well-off, too. Most of his gear trumped that of the other members in the party, and they weren’t exactly wearing tattered rags. He was quite a bit older than the others, though. So, Brett suspected that, rather than come from a wealthy family, Suresh had made his own fortune on the other side.
When the Tournament was announced, three of their four—Brett, Savior, and Suresh—had been marked as participants. Arden wasn’t chosen, as though the gods themselves had been aiming to prod at his short temper. Since then, perhaps in response to Arden’s discontent, Suresh had been acting differently—even stepping up to bark orders when, before, he’d never gone so far as to even give advice. Most concerns Brett held for Suresh’s sudden stance of authority, however, were soothed by the ever-happy Savior who had said, aside, “Well, at least now we know he’s not just some mindless robot.”
The four had worked well together. They had their mischievous streaks, sure, but what’s a game without a little mischief? Competition ends in equal parts exultation and misgivings. It breeds winners and losers, both, in games and in life. So, what if a few blades of grass got trampled underfoot? They were the stronger team—the better people. They were the ones destined to come out on top.
Only recently, they had laughed and laughed after tricking a newbie into being pounced on by some big-ass tree-cat—well, Suresh didn’t laugh, but then, he never did. Then, four days ago, they’d fought alongside a healer as they moved deep into an unsafe cave. Once monsters began to reappear on the path behind them, the four logged out leaving her stranded. You simply had to take pleasure in the little things.
Now, instead of strictly hunting monsters as he had before, Brett was hunting people—not that it made much of a difference to him either way.
“Ah, finally,” Brett thought to himself.
The hooded player who they had been lying in wait for came into view. Brett held up an arm to the others gathered amongst the trees, then dropped it ceremoniously.
“Time for the fun part, boys,” Brett said.
Chapter 4: Hot and Bothered
Jitan seared Dakkon’s skin for what felt like the thousandth time.
[Jitan has burned you for 19 points of damage. Remaining HP 84/675]
No matter how many times he felt the flames, they still caused him to grit his teeth.
“Perhaps your cold barrier is actually hindering your advancement,” suggested Jitan, as flame jumped and danced from finger to finger above his upturned right hand.
“That barrier’s the only reason you haven’t cooked me yet!” Dakkon grunted, obstinately.
Jitan shrugged his indifference. “It’s your money—so, we’ll do it your way.”
“Hold on!” pleaded Dakkon, anxiously. “I need another break to heal back up.”
Jitan sighed and closed his raised hand, extinguishing the flames which had flared from it.
For around forty minutes, ignoring breaks spent regenerating, Jitan had scorched Dakkon with a small flame produced by a low-level fire skill. Though pain was diminished within Chronicle, taking damage still hurt. Some damage in the game, such as damage from fire, could hurt quite a bit as it had been designed to keep players out of and away from obstacles like burning buildings. The experience felt to Dakkon like he was being tortured for information. Had torture been the scenario, then he definitely would have talked, but—unfortunately for him—Dakkon was the one who’d greenlit his own abuse.
Brief though they may have been, each break gave him a chance to reaffirm his resolve. Despite insistent urges to take his time, dawdling now would do him no long-term favors. Though he’d already fantasized about stopping thrice, he certainly couldn’t come back later. He’d already ponied up good money for the experience, after all.
Restoring health wasn’t the only thing Dakkon did on his breaks. He also distracted himse
lf by checking up on the status of friends he’d met in Chronicle. Cline was doing well—he’d already learned what he needed to from a fletching trainer and was busy buying gear in the marketplace where they’d decided to rendezvous.
Letis—Dakkon’s unfortunately-named friend who, through his tireless efforts and the callous humor of the gods, had been ‘granted’ the ability to spontaneously grow leafy green lettuce miraculously at his whim—had acquired a license to work as a traveling merchant from the capital city of Correndin. The license was in no way required to become a trader, but having one allowed Letis to officially trade with—and on behalf of—any city within the human realm of Denmas. Letis assured Dakkon that trading missions for local governments were among the best ways to become a renowned trader. Supposedly, that was the first step toward having the good fortune to trade on behalf of King Raemun with the non-human kingdoms. International trade had the potential to be insanely lucrative, and no one knew what sorts of doors it could open. If any player had already managed it, they certainly weren’t talking about it.
Sift—the powerhouse monk who had martyred himself in their fight against an ancient, rampaging wolf spirit—finally ventured away from his home city of Tian. Saden—the showy exorcist essential in getting to and defeating that same boss—took his companion monk out of the city to hunt. Like Dakkon and Cline, Sift had also been selected as a participant in the Tournament of the Gods, which turned out to be the ideal excuse for Saden to mobilize the devastating might of his monk friend. Even though Sift had no natural inclination to hunt and fight other players, the opportunity was too singular to pass up. The pair were clever and cautious players. Even though they considered themselves friends of Dakkon, they’d decided not to reveal their location until after Sift was released from the tournament through death or total victory.
