The Way of the Outcast (Mirror World Book #3) LitRPG series

by Alexey Osadchuk

  When I turned the corner of one of the huts, a gut feeling forced me to look back. I peered through a sloppy row of bamboo stakes which apparently served as the main building material here. My new friend was staring after me, oblivious of the fact that I could see him. Which was good. Because I really didn't like what I read in his stare.

  Chapter Five

  "It had all started when they'd found gold on that wretched island," old Sergeant Crux said, baring the yellow stumps of his teeth.

  He looked more like a street bum than a valorous Mellenville warrior. He was disheveled with a scraggly beard, his eyes red with either lack of sleep or constant alcohol abuse. He wore a tatty old army tunic.

  I'd been forced to sit and listen to his soliloquy because this guy apparently was the location's key NPC.

  "So you know how it goes," this excuse for a sergeant sniffed and spat on the ground. "The moment there's gold found somewhere, the place starts crawling with opportunists. Mellenville officials promptly sent in a prospecting expedition. But less than a year later, it became clear it wasn't worth the diggers' wages. The vein proved to be very poor, but at first it had indeed showed promise. They'd even managed to build the fort and the outposts. The expedition wasted some more time looking for more resources on other islands until finally they threw in the towel and announced they were leaving for the continent."

  He rasped out a cough and went on, "They left our garrison on the main island in order to protect this miserable location. Gradually they forgot all about us. Just one of those things. What with epidemics, pirate raids and wild beasts' attacks, our ranks kept shrinking. The forest continued to reclaim the island. So it went on until finally something happened that no one could have expected. Later our wizard managed to work out what it was all about, but by then it was too late. The process had already gained momentum, you see."

  He heaved a sigh. "If I told you these islands' entire history, I'd be at it all day. To put it short, our idiot architect had ignored the warning signs we'd discovered in the island's hinterland and laid the fort's foundations right on top of an ancient pagan shrine. He never asked himself why his workers were dying like flies. Who cares about prisoners, anyway? Because that's who built the fort: prisoners. Murderers, rapists and pillagers. Their bodies were simply thrown into deep holes nearby. So finally the fort was built. The architect got his share of praise. He packed up his stuff, very pleased with himself, and went back to his posh house in the center of Mellenville," the Sarge kept frowning and clenching his fists as he told me about it.

  "Finally the day came which was the start of our undoing. Ask our guys if you don't believe me. That day, one of our recon groups returned to the fort. You'd think it's normal, wouldn't you? Problem was, they'd been missing for over a month."

  I decided to add my two cents to the conversation, "That's a good reason to celebrate, isn't it?"

  He cast a sideways look at me, his eye bloodshot. "So we thought too. Being lost in the jungle for a month is no joke! But when we opened the gate... you could forget celebrating!"

  "Why?" I had a feeling I knew the answer already.

  He shook his head. "They weren't our guys, were they? It was them all right but only their decomposed bodies... raised by some evil ancient magic. It was all because of Zeddekey, may he burn in hell! Our wizards had told him not to disturb the old shrine. He hadn't listened, had he? He did everything his own way, the bastard!"

  As he continued to shower curses on the hapless architect, I racked my brains trying to remember where I'd heard the name before. Zeddekey... Zeddekey...

  Wait.

  But of course! Zeddekey's Catacombs which riddled the ground under the Citadel, the local instance that Tronus had recommended me to visit.

  Funny this Zeddekey had left his mark here as well. The only difference was, he was a legend back on the continent while here everybody seemed to curse his name.

  The walking dead here, the bloodthirsty ghosts of dead builders there... this Zeddekey definitely had a bone to pick with the forces of the afterlife.

  As I thus reminisced, the Sarge had already moved on to cursing the architect's ancestry, each and every one of them, until finally tuberculosis got the better of him, sending him into a choked bout of coughing.

  Gasping, he spat on the floor. His spittle was veined with blood. "My days are numbered, I'm afraid," he croaked.

  "No way," I said with an encouraging smile. "You're gonna outlive us all."

  He shook his head. "Leave it. What was I about? Oh yes. Our zombie scouts. My brother-in-law was among them. It's not that I liked him that much, not at all. Still, he didn't deserve it. No idea how I'm going to face my wife now."

  He scratched the back of his head, deep in thought. "We smoked the zombies double quick. Not the first time, thank God. A lot of our guys had been over the Black Stream, and those lands are absolutely packed with all kinds of evil. The wizard helped a lot too. We bid our slain brothers farewell, then burned them all on a ceremonial pyre, as tradition dictates. We were about to go back to the barracks when a night watch kid came running and screaming, "Zombies! Zombies!" We talked some sense into him and hurried to the walls. They were everywhere! Eyes burning, teeth clattering, reaching their fetid hands out to get you..."

  He paused. "Quite a few of them had been our soldiers. We could tell by their gear. Dead fortress builders, too. There were others — they looked like human beings only they weren't. They must have been the bodies of all those who'd ever died on this island. The wizard said it was some very old magic. He wasn't up to it. He also said — I still remember it — that one day the fort would fall. Said it was better to leave now than waste soldiers' lives."

  He stopped and stole a glance around. "Me and my corporals, we tended to agree with him. Time was an issue. As soon as the zombies cut us off from the outposts, we'd be left without food or water. But our Captain had other ideas. He started yelling at the wizard, calling him a traitor and threatening he'd have him chained to the wall, the idiot. Not that the wizard paid any heed to him. But the look he gave us... It still burns a hole in me. It's as if he was looking at corpses. Me and my men, we got real scared. And the Captain just wouldn't leave it alone, would he? He was trying to set us up against the wizard. Too young, too stupid. Too different from the rest of us. You tell me: who are sergeants? That's right, they're yesterday's soldiers. And this, excuse my French, snotnose, had only just let go of his mommy's apron strings. A so-called knight! They receive rank according to their nobility status..."

  He fell silent, staring ahead of him. "The rest of that night was relatively trouble-free, if you don't mind zombies perambulating in front of the fort walls. But closer to the morning we realized that the wizard had left and taken part of the garrison along. The night watch were the only ones left. I don't blame them. Not really. I might have done the same. Strategically he'd done the right thing, taking the bulk of the garrison out of the encirclement. It wasn't his fault it didn't quite go as he'd planned. By the evening, they were already back. Dead."

  I obediently listened as he told me the rest of the story: the surviving garrison's miraculous escape and their subsequent struggle for survival at the last remaining outpost. I'd read it already at some forum or other, anyway.

  As he spoke, my thoughts kept returning to another very important problem. How could I level up in the shortest time possible? Because time was an issue. I had too many obligations to fulfill — and quickly, too. Dreadlock had unwittingly given me an idea. I had to spend some quality time online looking into it. It might just work.

  The Sarge was already finishing his tale. I screwed my face into an expression of mourning for his fallen comrades. The game's AI must have analyzed it and considered it appropriate, because the Sarge finally decided to dish out my first quest.

  "Listen, Olgerd," he turned to me. "I can tell that you have your heart in the right place. You can see what's going on here. Every pair of hands is precious."

  I loo
ked meaningfully around me. He was actually right. Sure this wasn't the most popular of locations — what between the constant rain, zombies, Swamp Monks and other uglies — but still. According to Dmitry, players still came here, but I couldn't see anyone. Apart from Dreadlock and his mysterious friends, that is. The village looked abandoned. Could everyone be out doing quests, bound to return closer to the evening? Then again, who was I to complain? A deserted location was exactly what I needed.

  "If you need help, Sarge, try me."

  He gave me a toothless grin. "Jolly good, jolly good!" he rubbed his hands. "You've seen our wall, haven't you?"

  I nodded.

  "What I'd like you to do," he went on, "is to beat some stakes into the ground by the East gate. Think you could do that?"

  New quest alert: East Gate fortifications!

  Go into the forest and cut 20 stakes, then hammer them into the ground by the East Gate.

  Reward: varies

  Accept: Yes/No

  On the surface this looked simple enough. Still, completing this quest would require my meeting all of the village's NPCs.

  Firstly, I would need an axe made by the local blacksmith;

  Secondly, I might have to see their store keeper and ask him for a spade;

  And thirdly, I'd have to seek out the archer in the watchtower for directions as to exactly where to place the stakes. In return, every one of these chars would exact a service from me. So basically, I was in for quite a busy day.

  I accepted the quest, bade my goodbyes to the Sarge and headed to the local smithy. According to the story book, Abel the blacksmith was about to return to the continent. By this token every newb in need of his help was immediately recruited as a porter, lugging cratefuls of tools, coal and steel parts — everything that the foresightful blacksmith could still salvage from the island — to the ship. Only then would Abel gift an axe to the lucky player — which, being a quest item, was basically worthless as it would disappear from your bag the moment you completed the quest.

  I noticed him from afar. Little wonder: he was a good seven foot tall with a shoulder span to match and hands the size of sledge hammers. His head was as large as a beer keg trimmed with a black beard. He stood there knitting his eyebrows in thought.

  "Good morning," I said.

  "Hi," he mumbled, apparently not in the mood for talking.

  "I need to speak to you," I insisted. "The Sarge told me to cut a few stakes-"

  "What's keeping you?" he interrupted me. "Go and do it."

  I shrugged. "I don't have an axe, do I? So I saw you and I thought you might have one for me."

  "I might," he boomed. "But what's in it for me?"

  "I haven't come to you empty-handed. Do you need help, by any chance?"

  "Help?" he finally turned to me and gave me a long studying look. He must have been happy with what he saw because he grunted his approval. "I can see you're the working type. A digger?"

  I smiled back. "You could say that."

  He nodded. "Good. I do have a job for you. We're awaiting a ship from Mellenville to come and get us out of this wretched place. So I decided I'd better get ready. But I've got so much stuff! You can see for yourself. If you help me move everything to the shore, I'll make it worth your while."

  New quest alert: Help the Blacksmith!

  Help Abel to carry his possessions to the shore.

  Reward: an axe

  Accept: Yes/No

  I accepted the quest and offered him my hand. "Deal!"

  * * *

  The quest didn't take me long: my gear's high Strength stats had taken care of that. I'd moved the entire contents of Abel's smithy to the shore in forty minutes flat. Had I been wearing a starting kit, it might have been a challenge.

  It paid off: the system rewarded me with +10 to my Relationship with Abel and added a bonus on top.

  "Great job!" he gave me an almighty slap on the back which very nearly knocked the living daylights out of me. "You're fast, aren't you?"

  "I am," I suppressed a wince. "If there's something else you need..."

  "Agreed," he nodded, pleased. "Now my part of the deal."

  Quest alert: Help the Blacksmith. Quest completed!

  Reward: An Axe

  Type: Quest item

  Bonus reward: an Iron Necklace of a Shaman Swamp Monk

  Their bonus wasn't much to write home about. Utterly useless, to be precise. Still, the sheer fact of receiving it felt good.

  I thanked the blacksmith, walked a dozen paces away from his hut and perched myself on the edge of a half-rotten log.

  Now. Let's have a look at my gifts.

  The Shaman Monk's necklace may not have looked like much of a gift but still that wasn't a reason to ignore its properties.

  A necklace was an overstatement, really. Nine bits of iron were strung together on the knotted dry stalk of some plant. Despite its primitive shape, this item definitely pointed at Swamp Monks evolving and developing intelligence. At least some of them were.

  This excuse for a necklace offered its bearer +1 to Speed. Not that it was so important considering the item's whopping 1 pt. Durability.

  As I fingered through the necklace, I noticed that one of the knots was about to come undone. Mechanically I decided to tighten it without even thinking of any potential consequences.

  The strange-looking system message came as a surprise,

  Warning! You're trying to alter an item's nature without possessing the necessary skills, recipes or blueprints!

  Probability of ruining the item: 99%.

  How interesting.

  I could already see I was looking at another sleepless night at the computer screen just researching it all. Every day I was learning something new.

  Very well. And what if I did try to "alter the item's nature"? If it got ruined, so what! I could live with that. It was worth the experiment. Especially considering the necklace was about to give up the ghost, anyway.

  I gingerly pulled at the stalk's ends, slowly tightening the knot. Just a tiny little bit more...

  As if!

  Warning! You've destroyed an item: the Iron Necklace of a Shaman Swamp Monk!

  You've received:

  An Iron Bead, 4.

  A length of reed string, 1.

  Reward: +2 to Knowledge

  Current Knowledge: 27/40

  Well, well, well. Curiouser and curiouser.

  Congratulations! You've received Achievement: Mr. Bungler.

  Reward: +1% to your chance of receiving Knowledge.

  I rolled the necklace beads around in my hand. Was I supposed to laugh or cry? Whoever called this clumsy misshapen bit of iron a bead must have had either too much sense of humor or too little imagination.

  It was about an inch wide. Quite heavy, too. Where was the logic in that? A nine-bead necklace must weigh quite a bit — and still it was supposed to improve Speed, of all things.

  Never mind. I shouldn't add to my mine of useless information. Neither the beads nor the reed string had any stats. But seeing as both had been mentioned, they might come in handy to someone. I might check the auction once I logged out.

  Casting another glance over my unexpected riches I was about to shove them in my bag when I had an idea.

  And what if...

  My fingers closed around my slingshot's handle. Breathless, I chose the biggest bead and lay it into the pouch.

  The Minor Pocket Slingshot is loaded!

  Missile: an Iron Bead

  Fit for Purpose: Yes

  Range: +2.3

  Rate of Fire: +2.5

  Precision: +2.3

  Damage: +6.7 ... +7.9

  I felt my lips stretch in an involuntary grin. "Excellent!"

  I quickly checked the remaining beads. Their stats were more or less similar. Pebbles were not a patch on them. Very good.

  My experiment had proven very useful. Now I had four good slugs in case of an emergency.

  And what if I tinkered with the bracelet t
oo? Then again, what could it bring me — a scrap of leather or a fragment of bone at the most. Besides, it was brand new. I might actually be able to sell it once I was back on the continent. It might not fetch a lot but a few gold was still a few gold. Especially considering I knew nothing about its potential market value yet.

  That was it, then. No experiments this time. I needed to read up on it first.

  I weighed the beads in my hand. "Shame there're so few of you. You could have made my life so much easier."

  Eh... I froze in place just as I was about to get up. "Actually, it might work. Did I assemble it for nothing?"

  Consumed by this new idea, I stole a harried look around. No one. What I was about to do definitely wasn't meant for prying eyes.

  I moved behind a dilapidated hut, just in case. With any luck, no one would disturb me there.

  I reached into my bag and produced the Replicator which had lain idle there all this time. It looked just like a school microscope minus all the buttons, gear wheels, lenses and other paraphernalia.

  I'd already tried to use this wonder gizmo a couple of times but failed at each turn. Judging by its name, it was meant to copy or recreate — but what? No idea. You can't imagine the kinds of things I'd offered it: rocks, food, pieces of clothing... No way. Wonder if it might work now?

  I laid the "microscope" in my lap. To begin with, I offered it several pebbles I'd picked up on my way to the village. Predictably, no response.

  I returned the pebbles to my bag and moved to step 2, choosing the largest and roundest bead of all. Having said that... no. I'd better use the smallest one. If anything happened to it, at least I wouldn't regret it so much.

  Right! Let's take a look.

  Good job Sveta my wife couldn't see me now.

  The moment I laid the little clump of iron onto the "microscope's" tray, the system generously offered a new message,