Countdown_LitRPG Series

by Michael Atamanov

  Even the greenest amateur can understand that one arrow to the chest will not stop a massive killing machine. Where was a feeble archer to aim? Obviously, for the head, which would do increased damage. So, just as the elf loosed her bowstring, I blocked my face with the broad blade of my pole-ax.

  Clink! I got lucky. The arrow ricocheted aside, and my weapon gave a shudder. Dumb move! She should have shot at my legs and slowed me down. Then she could get a couple more shots off. But the pointy-eared Elf was acting too predictably. After that failure, she lost courage. Staying in place, she loosed another arrow, then tried to run away. But it was too late! I hacked diagonally down from the right, and the pretty long-eared girl's head rolled along the stones, lopped off by my heavy pole-ax. A fifth frag! And without losing any health!

  I stopped and opened the map again. There wasn't much time left. Where could I find two more enemies? Just then, as if answering my question, a distinct yelp sounded out twenty steps in front of me, behind another door. Another enemy down. I wonder who died this time? I opened the player table. The name of the Human Spearman went dim, then the number opposite my last remaining rival flipped to a four. And again, the victim didn't manage to see his killer. Skillful bastard, no two ways about it...

  In the upper right corner of the screen, the timer was ticking away, telling me there were just two minutes until the end of the match. If several players survived to the end, a rematch would trigger, and the eight best cyber-athletes of the final would meet again on the same map. Oh, please not that. After the prolonged gaming marathon, I could barely think as it was. What was more, I had an important test in third period today, which I wanted to study for then, ideally, get a little sleep. Well, forward! Nothing ventured, nothing gained!

  Throwing the door open, I quickly leapt back, repeating the trick I used on the Archer. But no one attacked me. Strange. Somewhat calmer, I looked around. The gloomy little room was strewn with furniture. It had two exits, one to the left and one to the right, but they both led to the same semi-circular ivy-covered balcony. There was also a round hatch in the ceiling and a rope ladder hanging down. Perhaps the mysterious stealth character was up there. But most likely, my opponent was still somewhere in this small darkened room, hiding in invisibility and waiting for me to slip up. Now, my mission was to discover them without exposing my vulnerable back. Many game classes could land a critical hit by stabbing a rival in the back, and that meant increased damage.

  I cut the rope ladder down, then made a crisscross in the air with my pole-ax and abruptly led the blade along the floor a few times. Nothing. Either my enemy was skilled enough to dodge silently (which was hard to believe), or just wasn't here. But then, where were they? Waiting up above? Hardly. After all, they probably also wanted to end this here and now, not play a rematch. Could they really be waiting for me on a sunny balcony? Come on, that was nonsense. Why would a stealth character come out of the shadows?

  I looked around again. There was simply nowhere to hide in this small room. Shelves, a little table, an open cabinet with crooked doors. Cutting through space with my weapon again, I convinced myself that my opponent was not here. Another alarm screeched out. Just one minute left in the final. So, I needed to make up my mind. Should I go out onto the balcony through the right door, or the left? My rival must have been waiting for me behind one of these doors. They were probably sitting in invisibility and watching me agonize right now. Luck of the draw. Would I manage to come face-to-face with my opponent and kill with my advantage in strength, or would I make the wrong choice, get stabbed in the back and lose?

  With a heavy sigh, I made my decision and... with all my might, spending all my endurance, I slashed the cabinet with my pole-ax!

  My heavy weapon cut into something soft. Bingo! Instead of boards and splinters, blood spattered, and a cloven body fell to the floor. A Shapeshifter. This class sat in waiting to attack an unsuspecting victim from behind, usually killing them in one blow. They were used very rarely in online tournaments because they moved slowly, had to be right next to their victims, and would be absolutely helpless if the first blow didn’t kill. Unexpected choice, but I had to admit that it had very nearly brought them victory.

  “Hell yeah! Did you see that?!” I shouted joyfully to my roommates, removing my virtual-reality helmet.

  And froze...

  My dorm room was full of people wearing the dappled gray uniforms of the Moscow Police Department. My friends were pinned to the floor, their wrists cuffed behind their backs.

  “Yes, we saw,” chuckled a mustached man holding a snub-nose machine gun. He looked to be in charge here. “How ‘bout you make like your friends and get on the floor, spread your legs and put your hands behind your back. Don’t make me repeat myself, champ.”

  Chapter Two. Expelled

  “AM I GONNA be expelled?” I asked when the important investigator finally found the time to interrogate me.

  “What do you think?” the middle-aged mustached officer answered with a question. Based on his shoulder loops, he was a captain. He skimmed a stack of papers on the table and signed a few of them. “It would have been just fine if you and your little friends were only playing computer games instead of studying at the best university in the country. Can’t say I’d approve, but at least I could understand. But you just had to let people make bets! So, there’s nothing I can do here. Russian Federation Criminal Code article 171.2 item 2. Up to four years in penal custody. Kirill, you really did step in it.”

  I shuddered, then nodded stupidly. Of course, I already knew this, because I had looked last year to see where our illegal enterprise might land us. Four years in prison... I groaned and shuddered, trying to gather my scattered thoughts. I was so exhausted and panicked that my head was working very slowly. Before this, I had spent three unpleasant hours on a bench in lockup at the local police department. My cellmates were a group unbearably stinking bums, who had also shit themselves. I did everything in my power to stay away from them and not sleep, but I did drift off eventually. A little while later, I was shoved awake by a police sergeant, and he led me down the hallway into this office. I was told he was an investigator, but he didn’t ask me any questions, just confirmed my first and last name and the short biography in my personal file.

  And I answered his questions eagerly. Yes, I am Kirill Viktorovich Ignatiev, twenty years of age. A native of the small town of Suzdal in the Vladimir Oblast. No brothers or sisters. I don’t remember my mother. I wasn’t even four when she died. But my father died relatively recently. It hadn’t even been three years. He was a geologist, and his group happened upon some illegal gold miners in Eastern Siberia, who didn’t want any witnesses to their criminal enterprise. After that, I stayed in Suzdal with my aunt, finished high school and was admitted to the Geology Department of Moscow State University.

  The investigator listened attentively, marking something in his papers. Then it was as if he forgot I existed. He turned on his computer and searched for a long time, scanning through screens of text.

  “And where are my roommates?” I asked just to break the prolonged silence.

  The officer finally tore his gaze from the screen, set the ball-point pen on the stack of papers and looked attentively at me.

  “Those two losers? For now, they’re being held in a cell and not told what will happen to them. It's the usual procedure. We’re we’re trying to make them nervous and fill their heads with horror stories. And tomorrow or the day after, when they're morally prepared, we’ll offer them a simple choice: either go to court for the illegal gambling software, or voluntarily join the army. Your sidekicks haven’t finished their mandatory reserve-officer training programs, so they’ll go serve as privates in the engineering corps. That's usually where students expelled from the Geology Department are sent. They’ll serve the Motherland, gain life experience and get a good lesson about what happens to lawbreakers.”

  I considered it, but it was very hard to think in my sleep-deprived stat
e. On the one hand, it was good that there was some alternative to prison. On the other, I had no idea why the officer was telling me that, and why I was being held separately from my classmates. Former classmates, to be more accurate.

  “And why am I being held separate from my friends?” I finally asked.

  “Because you, Kirill, are not a mere participant, but the ringleader of this whole illegal enterprise. It's been quite the public fiasco, and someone has to answer before the law. Although as for you, it isn’t decided yet. We need to first confirm some details. Maybe we’ll stick you with your friends, then you can all go build pontoons and raise bridges in the Far North or something. Although, it’s also possible that you’ll have a richer choice than your roommates.”

  The officer fell silent and again delved into his documents. I meanwhile tried to understand what exactly he had in mind, and what details he might be interested in. I was left in silence long enough that I started nodding off. But suddenly, the telephone on the investigator's table rang and I nearly jumped in surprise. The officer took the telephone, silently listened to a message, then lowered the receiver.

  “They've just finished decrypting all of your accounting, and the list of prizewinners and totals from all the past tournaments,” he shared, not hiding his self-satisfaction. “Now, all the players can be punished. Some will be expelled, if they’re already struggling. The rest will be given a quick kick in the ass to put them back on the straight and narrow. But as for you...” the man stopped sharply, setting a few pieces of paper out before him. He gave a whistle of surprise, underlined something with a pen, then raised his eyes. “Based on the finance reports, Kirill, you played in fifty-three online tournaments. Twenty-seven of them you won, and you ranked high enough to get some money in all the rest. Is that right?”

  “Yes, yes it is,” I said, not trying to worm my way out of it. “I only fell below prize level in two tournaments. In the rest, I got at least some reward. Although what does that matter now...?”

  However, based on the noticeable change in his behavior, my results were important for some reason. The investigator carefully placed all the papers on the table in a plastic folder, covered it and leaned in my direction.

  “Strange as it may seem, it really does matter. Just yesterday, we got a very unusual request from the tip-top: compile a list of inveterate gaming addicts from Moscow's student population and send that up the chain. Luckily, we happened to find all the information we needed on your game server.”

  “Who might want a list of student gamers?”

  The mustached officer shrugged and sat back in his chair.

  “I only know what I’m told. Some institute in the Moscow Oblast working on virtual reality wants a few experienced gamers to test their programs. I don't know how many vacancies they've got and I don’t know the exact conditions but, for you, this is a great alternative to prison clothes or army boots. So think, Kirill. Such a chance doesn’t come along very often. You can avoid punishment and get a good job instead. Just think fast. This loophole won’t stay open forever.”

  I considered it feverishly. Work for a bit in an institute in the Moscow Oblast while all this brouhaha settles down? It sounded amazing! Even if the salary was modest, that didn’t matter now. What was more, apparently, they weren’t going to confiscate the money I’d won, because all my debit cards were still in my wallet. So that meant I had some savings to live on.

  “What's to think about? I'm in!” I loudly declared. “Where do I sign?”

  Chapter Three. Comrades in Misfortune

  I WAS AWOKEN by a girl shouting angrily in surprise.

  “So the freaking contract with the institute is for two years?!” the girl moaned, nearly in hysterics.

  I peeked open an eye and... finally woke up. I was in an unfamiliar place, a dark room, filled with bags of cement and old furniture. It took me a few seconds to get my bearings and remember where I was. Some hangar or warehouse I'd been brought to directly from the police department in a vehicle with blacked-out windows. To be honest, I couldn’t say how long the drive was or which direction it went, because I fell asleep as soon as I hit the seat. I only remembered being pushed out, led into this room and told to “wait for the rest of the group.”

  My body was aching and numb. I'd fallen asleep in an unmerciful pose on the hard and uncomfortable bench, which was like those usually found in bus-station waiting rooms. The kind with armrests between the seats so bums couldn’t spend the night on them. But today, I was so tired I somehow contrived to splay out my extremities and lie down. But when I tried to move, I felt a sharp pain in my numb leg.

  “Well, well. The yogi awakens!” someone quipped, which was met with laughter.

  I somehow got out of the trap, straightened up and turned to see who else was in the room. Three young men and two young women, the whole group approximately my age. Were they also expelled gamers, taken to work at the mysterious institute?

  Maybe, but one of the girls didn’t fit the image. She immediately caught my attention. A flashy long-legged blonde with a pretty doll-like face, she a mind-blowingly perfect figure and... a clever attentive gaze that immediately undercut the rest and betrayed a high intellect. She had on a stylish travelling dress and shoes, a designer bag and expensive emerald earrings. This elegant beauty didn’t look like the kind of person who needed virtual worlds to replace reality.

  The other girl, in contrast, was totally unremarkable: short, dark-haired and modestly dressed in a pair of thick glasses perched on her nose, something of a classic plain jane.

  “Hey everybody!” I greeted them all with a smile. “Did I miss anything interesting? I heard someone mention a two-year contract?”

  “Yeah, Artur,” the plain jane pointed at a long-haired hippy-looking boy with an ring in his left ear. “He said that, in his dean’s office, he was presented with a two-year contract.”

  “Yep, totally!” the hippy confirmed. He was dressed in tattered jeans and a black t-shirt with a Pink Floyd logo. “I got expelled today. I was already in my third year! It’s a long story, but they had their reasons. I tried to fight it, though, and even wrote a statement to the dean like, I’d learned my lesson and wouldn't do it again bla bla bla... But that asshole said I have to prove I meant it, and work on a special assignment in a paramilitary institute in the Moscow Oblast. He said they’d reinstate me after I’m done. And he made me sign a contract that said, ‘two years’ in black and white.”

  Artur finished his speech, lowered his head and fell silent. The others were also silent and looking unabashedly at me.

  “What about you? Expelled student, like the rest of us?” asked a squatting boy. His hair cut short, this was the most gopnik-looking person imaginable[1]. He was wearing a black leather jacket, track pants, running shoes with no socks, and a newsboy cap. To complete the picture of the classic low-class Russian, all he’d need was a black eye and a rumpled Belomorkanal cigarette in his mouth.

  I had nothing to hide, so I told them my real name and said I had been expelled from the Geology Department of Moscow State University because, instead of studying, I had been playing an online game for money.

  “Just like the rest of us,” the plain jane chuckled bitterly. “While you were asleep, we all introduced ourselves and figured out that we were all in the same online tournament. What was more, we all got to the final. Worst of all, I almost won the last round with my archer. I was one of the final four surviving players. I had a stroke of bad luck. I missed a few times and a fighter shredded me...”

  “You should have shot at the ogre’s legs and walked backward so he couldn’t get you,” I said, giving some belated advice. The girl exclaimed in astonishment:

  “So that was you, Kirill?! It was your ogre that killed me? You won the final! You probably got a ton of money, come clean!”

  “Hmm, how the...” I got embarrassed and lowered my gaze to the floor. “Sure, I won, but I didn’t get a single kopeck. As soon as I took the helme
t off my head, the cops had me in cuffs. I didn’t even get up from my comp.”

  Here, a previously silent muscular boy who looked to be from the Caucasus region cut into our conversation. Until then, he had been trying fruitlessly to get his cell phone to work.

  “As for the tournament, I'm telling you — it was the organizers that called the cops! After all, only they knew all the players IP-addresses. And they gave us all up to the fuzz so they wouldn’t have to pay out. They just pocketed all the money, the sons of bitches!”

  Everyone there held the same opinion. Curses and abuse flew at the tournament organizers. And I complained loudest of all so no one would suspect me of having a connection to the mysterious conmen. Finally, everyone had said their fill and fell silent. I took advantage of the pause and asked everybody to introduce themselves again.

  The blonde said she was Anya from First Medical. She didn’t regret being expelled at all, because she couldn’t bear the sight of blood, and it was all her parents’ stupid idea to push her into medicine in the first place. The second girl was called Masha and, skipping over the details, said she was a grad student at a technical university in Moscow, and was also glad to be out of school. For her, it was a prolonged torture with constant lack of money, and humiliating begging for stipends and dorm rooms.

  The gopnik grudgingly squeezed out that his name was Denis, and that we “don’t need to know the rest, because that’s all in the past.” The last guy was more open, though. He said his first name was Imran and that he was a SAMBO[2] expert. Imran had graduated last year from the Athletics Institute at the top of his class but was in no rush to return to his native Dagestan, continuing to live by hook or crook with his friends in the dorm as he waited for his golden ticket.