The Weirdest Noob

by Arthur Stone

  This suited Ros just fine. He stripped to his long johns and placed all his possessions in one of the bags, which he then put in his belt slot, ordering for the belt to become visible and tangible for a moment.

  He froze for a moment, gathering his courage. It wasn’t easy to bring himself to do what he’d decided. Could he be going over the top with his paranoia?

  Away with doubts! He had to follow through with his plan.

  He peered at the horizon again, sighed, and read a mirthless limerick:

  “There was a romantic young nerd[MB1]…”

  He drew a deep breath, as if about to dive into a pool.

  “Who believed he could fly like a bird.”

  He took off and started running.

  “He leaped off a skyscraper

  As his final caper,”

  A jump from the end of the crag. As he looked at the approaching rocks below with his heart pounding like a drum, he uttered the final line with a quavering voice:

  “And was flat as a sheet when interred.”

  Darkness.

  “You have died. XP lost: 11.2% of the current value. Attention! Use scrolls and skills that lower the loss of experience upon death, or have players with high-level resurrecting skills help you. Attention! Another death may result in the loss of a level! You are resurrected at your current bind spot: Rallia Province, Devil’s Fingers Ridge, eastern slope of Mount Aqueton. Current owner: none. Attention: this is a dangerous zone. There is high likelihood of aggressive actions from monsters and players. It is not recommended to place your bind spots in dangerous zones.”

  In less than half an hour, Ros started to really hate that message.

  * * *

  Ros left the mountains as a level ten noob—the furthest he could roll his level back. He didn’t regret the loss at all—after all, he had retained all the stats. The only problem was that he couldn’t wear equipment with high level requirements, but he would get over it.

  Apart from the wish to conceal his oddities, he had another reason to roll his levels back to ten. According to the description of the racial ability that came as the gift to the last representative of the race, once he’d restore the levels to their previous values, he should get a point to primary stats for every level. That would add up to seventy-nine points. Given the arithmetic, you could roll your level back as many times as you wanted until you grew bored or until the system decided you were getting too cheeky, which should happen sooner or later—after all, he would have a serious advantage over players with no such ability. Otherwise, Ros could keep at it for years and transform himself into a monster that even the most beefed-up Chinese player would be unable to handle.

  But he should use the opportunity while he had it. The character was to be pushed to the max. With his stats he should be able to take on mobs with levels two or three times higher than his own, which should speed up the leveling. Not to mention the extra XP that he would get from achievements.

  He could advance to twenty or thirty quickly, and then roll back again. And again. And again. He would turn his character into the sweetest piece of candy in the universe.

  The dark firs gave way to sunlit pinery. It was much easier to walk here, and his spirits kept rising. Ros had common well-worn boots on his feet, and equally worn trousers, with a leather cuirass that had known better days protecting his chest. There was an enhanced bow without any extraordinary stats in his right hand, and a nondescript novice’s bag on his hip. Not even the most careful scrutiny would detect anything odd about him now.

  He just needed to avoid party invitations with stat disclosure. The bonus from the presence of a legendary hero in a party would also likely be noticed. Or, rather, would definitely be noticed. There’d be some notification to this effect for sure.

  * * *

  “Today at 9 AM a raid party of high-level Russian-speaking players made a surprise appearance at the walls of Arbenne, catching the NPC guards unawares, and captured the gates. Even though there were many top clan players in the city, the bandits encounter no serious resistance as they assaulted Arbenne. The aggressors were well-organized, and followed a plan, easily dispatching individual players and small groups, none of which managed to put up a unified front.

  The highest casualties were suffered when fellow clans started to send in reinforcements. By that time, the entire city was controlled by the Russians, and all the players coming out of the teleports were met with assaulted en masse, never getting a chance to organize a resistance. When reinforcements started to arrive from outside the city, they found it hard to get in, since the raiders raised the portcullis and placed their top archers and mages in the towers.

  While the gates were being smashed under enemy fire, the attackers looted the bodies and got up to all kinds of mischief. The employment bureau was destroyed, and the stationary teleport broken. The local offices of several clans were burned down, and profane graffiti was left on several buildings and constructions. As soon as the gate fell, the raiders retreated using teleport scrolls. Reliable sources claim they took a number of expensive items as trophies from top players, including four legendary and set items. The same source reports the players are negotiating with the Russians regarding ransom for the lost valuables.

  It remains unclear how something like this could have happened to a city with so many top guild players gathered around in their unrelenting search for Rostendrix Poterentax, especially given that the possibility of such a raid had been considered in advance. Nevertheless, the Russians have appeared out of the blue and achieved everything they had intended. Whoever claims their objective was the occupation of the province is wrong—they did not have enough resources to stage so much as a symbolic defense of an unimportant city.

  They just came and did what they had set out to do. The leadership of our top clans should have developed an effective strategy against such raids long ago.

  See the center spread for more details.”

  From the Rallian Herald front page.

  Chapter 32

  “The Slavic Brotherhood guild announces an extra recruitment campaign!

  Requirements: Cyrillic usernames ONLY without any Anglo-Yank bullshit, level 100 and up, possibly less for supporting characters upon arrangement via private chat. Video feed interviews, with your real face shown. Browns and blacks can get lost in the forest or go back to Blackistan.

  Browns and blacks, go to hell,

  Slavs will never treat you well.

  Brothers, join the holy fight,

  Smash the apes with all your might.

  Clan’s purpose: to squash Yanks, blacks, and Asians.”

  Advertisement on the main page of the Slavic Brotherhood clan page (one of the minor guilds from the Eastern European sector).

  A similar post on the game forum was deleted eight minutes after publication, and the forum account of the publisher was blocked according to Article 12.4 (publication of text, video- or audio-content of pornographic or violent nature, or materials that promote terrorism, neo-Nazism, discrimination of any sort, drugs or alcohol, as well as profanity, verbal abuse, or attempts to engage other players in any or all of the above).

  * * *

  It took Ros three days to cross the forest, jumping at every rustle—for no reason, too, since he didn’t encounter a single living soul over this entire period. Birds chirped, small lizards scattered from under his feet, but also lots of hares, and even more squirrels. He occasionally chanced upon larger animals, too: roe deer, elks, and wolves, and once he even saw a bear. But none of these encounters resulted in any bloodshed—Ros did not behave aggressively, and no one tried to hurt him, either.

  It was ironic, but the once-famous hunter subsided on nothing but berries, only using his knife to cut or dig out a medicinal herb he’d spot, having studied the pictures of useful herbs on the forum in advance. Should anyone ask him what he was up to in this godforsaken place, he could claim with all honesty that he was searching for rare ingredients to level his
alchemical skills, and demonstrate the harvested herbs to prove it.

  He’d unlocked the Herbalism skill as a result, receiving six points to it right away—the heroic qualities of his character added five points to every newly acquired skill.

  Once that happened, he started noticing herbs from a much greater distance, including those of some rarity apart from the more common species.

  Another auxiliary stat that he had unlocked was Voyager—simply by spending a few days walking through the wilderness without meeting anyone.

  On the morning of the fourth day, Ros reached the road. This came as no surprise—he had intended to reach it, even though he’d thought it would take him longer. High Vigor and Speed stats—as well as many others—allowed him to move much faster than the average player.

  He had covered over sixty miles, measuring from the cave exit, and had crossed the province border. Now he was in Livoria, just as nondescript a province as the one he left behind. It was where he had planned to stay for a while, waiting for the commotion to subside. The idea was simple—no one would look for him too hard near the border with Rallia, since he would logically have to try to get as far away from it as he could.

  There was also another consideration: Rallia was the starting location for novices with expanded accounts. There were several zones here with large numbers of low-level mobs used by players for leveling their characters in the early stages of their development.

  What’s the best place for hiding a tree? A forest, of course.

  Ros decided to hide among players who were just like him.

  Noobs.

  He reached the road, but he didn’t know which part it was—there were no indicators of his position anywhere around. He would have to choose the direction, nolens volens.

  Ros made his choice and turned right.

  * * *

  He walked for two hours without seeing any riders or pedestrians. This was starting to look odd, since the road did not look abandoned. On the contrary, it gave the impression of having been well trodden.

  Could it be some holiday today that kept folks off the road?

  What happened next looked nothing like a holiday event. Three players of an obviously high level dashed out from behind the bend. He noticed the expensive-looking armor covered in clan symbols and cryptic emblems, the fancy weapons, and the general bearing that was… well… not noob-like in any way.

  The usernames were rather uncanny: Chelyabinsk_Is_Tough[11], Noobster111, and Deflowerer of Males. All in Cyrillic lettering—Ros never saw anything of this sort before.

  “Hey!” Noobster111 shouted mirthfully. “If it isn’t an itsy bitsy noob walking down the path! Well, hello there, little Yank boy!”

  Ros didn’t manage to respond—the lightning disgorged by the mage’s staff hit him in the chest, blinding and stunning him, followed by a heavy crossbow bolt. As the darkness swallowed him, he overheard one of the players say:

  “A tough noob, that one—didn’t kick the bucket right away.”

  “You are killed by the player: Chelyabinsk_Is_Tough. You have no personal bind spot and are resurrected at the nearest altar of the forces of light with a twenty-four hour binding. Your current bind spot: the altar of the Forces of Fertility, Village of Sakta, Livoria Province. Current owner: Sakta villager community. Attention: provisionally safe zone. Low probability of aggressive actions from monsters and players.”

  “Hey, another one got kissed by the Russians!” said someone right into Ros’ ear.

  He blinked a few times, focusing his eyes, still hurting from the flash, and saw himself at the edge of a field of yellow wheat, next to a vertical slab of stone covered with unidentifiable semi-obliterated lettering. There were around two dozen players sitting and lying around, and some of them were logged on. A barrage of questions was unleashed on Ros all at once.

  “Who did you in?”

  “Where were they?”

  “Did your catch their names?”

  “Hold on!” he raised a hand. “You’re not even letting me answer. I guess you’ve already surmised I’ve been killed by the Russians.”

  “That much wasn’t hard to guess—the same thing happened to us.”

  “What would those Russians want here in the first place?”

  “Don’t you read the news?”

  “I spent three days roaming the woods, gathering herbs. Haven’t seen anyone or read the forum. So, what happened?”

  “The Russians are slaughtering everyone—there are so many of them, too. It’s worse than a cockroach infestation.”

  “They say there are even more of them in Rallia. They’re everywhere, it’s a real war down there. All because of that noob with a bundle of achievements.”

  “But he did it in Rallia. What would they want here?”

  “Well, they’re Russians, so they don’t care where they go as long as there are plenty of noobs for them to slaughter. And there are more noobs here than in Rallia.”

  “Damn! And I’d just managed to find some rare herbs, but they killed me before I could harvest them!” Ros lied.

  “Why did you decide to mess with herbs, anyway? They won’t earn you anything here—the good stuff is rare.”

  “It’s for my own use. I want to raise my Alchemy a little so that I might make simple potions for leveling.”

  “Sure, everyone needs that. What’s your level, anyway?”

  “Ten.”

  “Not much.”

  “The upside is that you lose virtually nothing when you die. Or nothing at all, in case of a locked account.”

  “So why do you hang around here?”

  “What else can we do? It’s dangerous to leave. That’s just what the Russians are waiting for.” The player he was talking to pointed toward the other end of the wheat field, where a thick pine forest began. “They’re right over there.”

  The player’s tone was so grave that Ros involuntarily squinted, peering into the woods. Everybody’s agitation made him think he could see green silhouettes of T-34 tanks amid the trees, complete with drunk stormtroopers and trained bears.

  “So, how long do you plan to sit here like this? Why don’t we gather up a posse and kick their butts?”

  “You’ve got to be joking. We’re total noobs, and the folks you can expect to find there can ice us all with a single sneeze. We need to wait for our top players to arrive.”

  “Yeah, some of them already did…”

  “Oh? And what happened?” Ros inquired.

  “Nothing much. Four good-looking guys and two girls came over, saying the Russians would soon find themselves rezzing in expensive underwear from a fancy boutique. We sat down to wait, and eventually our party came back—one of the girls was wearing a frilly negligee, and one of the guys was in his boxers. We did see some nice underwear, after all. They got some reinforcements later, so we’re waiting to see how it plays out. If you have any popcorn, it’s high time to get it out—the fighting should begin any second now.”

  There was a flash in the woods nearby, followed by a sound of thunder. A wisp of smoke rose into the air.

  “That’s it!” one of the players exhaled excitedly. “Our guys will show them now!”

  There was a bang, and a man in dented armor materialized next to the stone, with a lost, if not altogether crazed, look in his eyes.

  “How did it go?” a freckled girl of an unidentifiable race asked him sympathetically.

  “Those effing Russian bastards!” cursed the warrior, barely managing to move his tongue. He jumped up and trotted back to the battleground unsteadily.

  “Must be a tough battle,” an empathetic voice sounded behind him.

  Bang, bang, bang, bang. Four of them at once: three guys and a girl, all armed with bows.

  The girl immediately started shouting at the distancing warrior:

  “Targer, wait up! We’ve got to go together! They’ve got an insanely tough mage!”

  “One mage? Just one mage? What’s there to be afraid of?�
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  “I’m telling you, he’s real tough!”

  “All mages are wimps, I’ll crush that squishy asshole!”

  “There are two buffers casting shields and heals on him—all of us combined could do nothing about him!”

  “Then you dispatch the buffers first!”

  “They’re Russian buffers! They all have high Acrobatics and tree-climbing skills, apart from everything else, and their Speed and Agility are up the wazoo as well! They jump like kangaroos and hop from tree to tree—one moment they’re here, the next they’re gone! You can’t hit them at all!”

  “Those freaking Russians! Whoever’s heard of such buffers, anyway?”

  “I’m telling you, they’re Russian buffers! And they went for us archers right after they stopped you from getting close enough to the mage to control him! Oh, hell! I’ve lost my boots! They were enchanted!!!”

  Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang.

  Ros stopped counting—over two dozen deceased players resurrected at the altar. The last one was a dwarf. His armor wasn’t dented, but it was smoking.

  He rose to his feet with a grunt, and let out a diatribe with zero concern for political correctness:

  “Effing Russian swines! The bastards! It’s a good job we got bound to this spot!”

  “How many were there?” asked the talkative girl.

  The dwarf didn’t vouchsafe an answer.

  “Lyce, get offline ASAP and call Kirg. Tell him there’s a minor Russian raid party here. Top class lightning mage with mad skills, support players who might as well be ninjas, six warriors in the covering party, all of whom are much tougher than me, and three proficient archers. Excellent teamwork, always assisting on target. Tell him we didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell against them. He should bring everyone over, otherwise it’ll be pointless. They caught a few morons with red names who got bound to a spot in the bushes to avoid showing their faces at the village, and are now wasting them as soon as they rezz. They will keep camping them until they get all their loot or until they get their levels down to nothing.”