Clans War

by Mahanenko, Vasily

  It was an unspoken rule that once a competition ended, the participants headed to the nearest tavern to celebrate. It’s barely worth mentioning that the prices here were astronomical, while the crowd of players looking for a free drink was impassible in all 100 virtual instances of this place. Individual characters and even tables would pop in and out of existence in the tavern, but the general number of players remained about the same. The tournament competitors had started at the same time, so within a few minutes a mob of winners (vanquishers of two angry bosses — a two-horned rhinoceros and a slug) rushed into the tavern. The Celestial players had been the first to complete the qualifying Labyrinth, leaving the tilt-yard a mere three minutes and forty seconds after they’d entered it. The best time had been set very high. The results of the qualifying round didn’t affect later standings, but Bihan clearly wanted to signal that his fighters had no equals at the tournament. Astrum had come in second with just over five minutes, while Phoenix wasn’t even among the top three.

  “Why?” I placed my glass on the tray that the waiter was carrying among the players and turned to face the Rogue. “I want to win.”

  “Not much of an argument,” Plinto smirked but then grew serious. “It took me way too long to earn my ‘Bloodied’ title to see it evaporate in the arena. Do you think that anyone will be in fear or awe of me if I lose against two pimple-faced students? I may as well delete myself after something like that. So, please, be so kind as to explain the true reason for your wish to become mincemeat.”

  “The arena, as I understand it, scales everyone to Level 100,” I paused waiting for Plinto’s nod before continuing, “which means that you can’t use any heavy artillery in it.”

  “That’s exactly why we’ll be mincemeat,” Plinto interrupted. “All of my heavy artillery kicks in at Level 150. The entire arsenal I’ve been playing with for the last few years consists of Level 200 powers. Now I won’t have them, and I’ll be no different from a newbie who’s just clambered into the capsule. So what’s the point?”

  “You see,” I made a dramatic pause, evoking a frown of displeasure from the Rogue, and then went on: “I want to piss off anyone I can. I’ll throw the gauntlet into Bihan’s face, at his fighters, at Ehkiller, Kalatea, whoever! I want to make it so that every arena participant only wants a chance to fight us.”

  “Let’s say I know how to make that happen,” little mad devils flared up in Plinto’s eyes — the same ones that all of Malabar had learned to fear — yet again he grew serious: “Only, that doesn’t explain how you plan on turning two meat-popsicles into fighters. I’ll remind you again — you’re a Shaman and I’m a Rogue…”

  “When did I say I’d fight in the arena as a Shaman,” I raised an eyebrow inquisitively. “And I never said that I need you as a Level 100 Rogue. That really would be stupid — to fight as such an odd combination.”

  “In that case, how…” Plinto began but here his face lit up with the comprehension of my greater idea.

  “I’m only a Level 16 Dragon,” I went on in an innocent tone, resurrecting the mad devils in Plinto’s eyes. Unnoticed by those around us and perhaps even by himself, Plinto transformed into his Vampire Form: The little demons dissolved in the general redness of his eyes. Though the tavern was still full of people, an empty space formed around. The Shadow players that had been sitting beside us remembered that they had urgent business to attend to, the new players for some reason didn’t rush to take their vacant seats or, if they phased in from another instance of the tavern, they quickly understood that the beer was colder in another instance. The aura of fear emanating from the High Vampire worked perfectly.

  “I’m terrified to imagine what will happen to a Dragon when he enters the arena at Level 100,” I began to shake my head expressively, playing dumb. “There aren’t any rules saying we can’t use our race powers, are there?”

  “You know, Mahan, I feel like taking a walk all of a sudden.” If I hadn’t been accustomed to Plinto’s voice in his Vampire Form, I would’ve been struck by such a chill that my goosebumps would’ve been the size of eggs! Despite the disabled PvP, Plinto’s voice caused toothaches among the players standing beside us, expanding the ‘no-man’s-land’ around us even further.

  “Whom would you like to piss off?” Two serious, red eyes fixed on mine. The joy evaporated from my mind like liquid nitrogen in the open air, so I replied in a voice no less terrible than Plinto’s: cold and devastating, saturated with the same nitrogen.

  “Everyone! The more people want to kill us, the better. I need to replace the cold calculation in people’s minds with pure rancor. If I do that, they won’t notice the obvious and I’ll be able to snatch the Tomb from under their noses. That’s the main goal of the arena.”

  “Stacey?”

  “She’s with us.”

  “Where are you going to get the other seventeen?”

  “The clan raid,” I almost stuttered answering this question. Plinto had caught on too quickly. Was my plan for winning the Tomb really so obvious?

  “Won’t work. They might leak the plan,” Plinto paused pensively. “I have the right friends. How would you feel about some disinterested third parties?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Only the result is important.”

  “Like I once said, if there are two ways forward, a correct one and a wrong one, Mahan will always choose the third,” said Plinto and after a long pause, during which each one of us thought about our affairs, Plinto thawed and turned back into a human, dispelling the aura of terror around him. The tavern all but sighed a sigh of relief. Noise and babble came pouring back into the space around us. The players looked around puzzled as if failing to understand why a moment ago they wanted to howl from misery, while now everything was buzzing with joy and celebration.

  A sphere of negation popped up around us.

  “I don’t like to warm others’ ears,” Plinto explained, placing the scroll back into his bag. “I have an idea about how to piss everyone off, you can trust my many years of experience. Here’s what I suggest…”

  It took us an hour to hammer out a strategy for driving our opponents crazy. Plinto was full of napalm. I hadn’t imagined that this small and gaunt Rogue would be so full of anger towards the surrounding world. He took most of the work on himself, leaving me some trivial actions, the general gist of which came down to nodding my head and saying: “Such is my decision. If someone doesn’t like it, let’s take it to the arena and figure it out.” We discussed the upcoming battles too. Plinto assumed reasonably that our Dragon and Vampire ranks — didn’t count as levels and wouldn’t scale up. However, he remembered Thunderclap perfectly well and how we’d used it to slaughter our enemies in Kartoss and Krispa. He also remembered Draco who had the same power. And he remembered his own powers of control and suppression. In general, the arsenal at our disposal for turning the other players to mincemeat was quite expansive. At the same time Plinto insisted that we fight our first bouts in the arena as Rogue and Shaman. The million participants suggested that we’d have to fight a maximum of twenty rounds to reach the final, so it wouldn’t do to play our aces right away. Even as early as the round of 64 everyone would be studying their competitors, so we needed to conceal the powers we’d use in the home stretch as much as possible.

  “Gnum, launch the GAS!” When I returned to Altameda, I headed straight for the workshop. Stacey was still there, asking Gnum about the airship’s various tactical-technical characteristics, which led to my order going to naught. I was forced to explain.

  “I need to clear any aviation enthusiasts from the airspace above the tournament. Anybody that decides to fly must be sent back to earth. We net the griffins as before and reap the XP.”

  “Erm…” Stacey raised her eyebrows, demanding an explanation.

  “I’m tired of being the good guy,” I smiled bloodthirstily. “Both empires are out to get me without even explaining why. No problem — in that case, I’ll give them a good reason. They will have s
uch a reason to be angry with me that acting on their emotions they will give me exactly what I want. And the Tomb will be ours!”

  “They won’t remove the defensive perimeter around it,” Stacey began but when she encountered my smile, her eyes went wide with surprise.

  “Is Plinto with us?”

  “Of course. It’s his idea to knock down the flyers. We just discussed it.”

  “We need another 17 people…”

  “Plinto promised to come up with them. Damn, is it really that obvious?”

  “Hey what are you guys talking about anyway?” Gnum spoke up, demonstrating that it wasn’t that obvious. At least someone doesn’t see my plan in all its glory.

  “Just family talk,” said Stacey. “It’s not that obvious, Mahan. It’s just that I wanted to propose this option myself and was considering how to broach the subject. After all, this thing means a lot to you and to just destroy it…Especially right now. Still, you won’t be able to piss everyone off with a single GAS. What else?”

  Another sphere of negation appeared around us. Gnum pursed his lips demonstratively, expressing his displeasure at being left out, turned on his heels and walked over to his creation. What a wonder he was! It took me another ten minutes to tell Stacey about our maniacal plot. To my surprise, Stacey approved of it entirely, even though the word Phoenix popped up several times in my explanation.

  “I’m with you,” she concluded, dispelling the sphere. “I’ll take care of Bihan and his lapdog myself, and…Heh, you know Dan, knowing the rules of the game sometimes turns out to be such an advantage…Gnum! I need you to do something for me! We need you to craft some enormous fireworks and attach them to some satchels. Mahan’s right — launch the GAS! We’re going to clear out the skies over Altameda.”

  Several hours later, the mood of the players in the camp had reached a boiling point.

  “What the hell is Mahan up to?!”

  “What is this outrage?! Why aren’t we allowed to fly?”

  “I call upon a Herald, I request your assistance!”

  “Guardian, appear and punish the violators!”

  “Do something about these assholes already!”

  I walked to the Arena smiling happily and paying no attention to the enraged players. I had to admit that I understood Plinto perfectly. He had been living in an aura of reverence for several years now — the rancor directed at him not only spurred him on, but drove him to exacerbate the situation, do something that would cause the players not just to get in your way to express their anger, but even flee from this same path in fear. For, here comes Death!

  In two hours, the GAS had sent about a thousand players to respawn. When we described to Gnum what we wanted him to do, he merely smiled. “Nets are so last century. I’ll show them that flying is bad for their health,” the gnome said meaningfully and headed off to his ship. I worried about the GAS at first, figuring that its creator’s whimsy might be its undoing, but my fears were unfounded. Gnum exceeded all my expectations. Wizened by their initial experience fighting the airship, the enemy players didn’t approach it and tried to hit it from afar, yet the GAS didn’t fire a single net. Instead, it began to shoot small streams of what looked like sap at the griffins and other flying fauna. The sap gummed up the griffins’ wings, forcing them to spiral to the ground. And the streams came flying so quickly that the players didn’t have time to dodge them and began to plummet in flocks.

  “That’s a useful invention,” Geranika’s voice sounded next to me. I had stopped outside the entrance to the arena to take in another mass of players majestically tumbling out of the sky. The fallen were immediately revived by their friends on the ground and stubbornly flew up into the air again and again. At some point, it occurred to the players that the GAS could fire broadsides of twenty streams at once, so they began to group together in one place and came flying in for another round of revivals. And yet, despite being so ‘last century,’ the GAS still had its nets. “I propose you name this weapon the Hailmaker . It’s quite the spectacle to watch the Free Citizens fall so whimsically, flailing their arms as if they were wings and cursing you so colorfully. Why do you need all this by the way? What’s your angle?”

  “Strange to hear that question from the Lord of Shadow, who’s done nothing but try to destroy Barliona his entire career,” I smiled. “I’ve been declared an outlaw and this is my way of showing the Free Citizens what awaits them if they come after me. Revival, revival and more revival.”

  “Here’s a thought,” Geranika shook his head. “Can I help you?”

  “Erm…Actually there is one thing. Will you help me set up a private arena? Plinto and I would be happy to answer for our crimes before the Free Citizens. Anyone who wishes, will get a chance to regain their honor by battling us two versus two. If a duo of fighters manages to defeat us, they will get this,” I handed Geranika a list of twenty Unique and Legendary items that I currently had knocking about my storage vaults. “However, there has to be some basic ante. An item of similar quality. We’ll use this as a pool that will increase the winnings — every item will end up on the list. As for the number of bouts…Any contestant can battle with us as many times as he likes. And the selection of opponents will be automatic: Whoever commits the most valuable item will get priority.”

  “All right, I will set up a private arena,” Geranika’s eyes fogged over, yet he kept on speaking. A Corporate official had taken control over the NPC. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because I believe there aren’t any worthy fighters among the players,” I shrugged my shoulders. “And I couldn’t care less what type of battle will be chosen. With a scaled level or with our current ones…who cares…I formally declare this and request that the following text is added to the description of the private arena: ‘Mahan and Plinto consider you jerks a bunch of hapless crabs and want to have some fun at your expense. Anyone wishing to prove otherwise is invited to our private arena, at the entrance cost of some unique item.’ And, by the way, the current list of rewards should be made public as well. So that everyone can see it and know what the prize pool consists of. Plinto and I are prepared to fight up to five bouts a day.”

  “You’re so confident in your abilities?”

  “Just make the arena. We can discuss my confidence later!” I interrupted curtly, unwilling to continue the conversation. I didn’t mind chatting with Geranika, but Corporate employees — the same ones who had stripped me of my reputation — didn’t warrant my attention. “Also we need a betting pool! I’ll wager this miracle item that no one will be able to defeat us for ten bouts straight. The calling bet should match the value of the item.”

  I pulled out Lait’s Stinger and handed it to Geranika. I didn’t have any Death Knights who could wield this thing anyway. And I wasn’t going to sell it. So I could risk losing it if something went off. After all, this is just a game! Let them try and win the staff. The item shimmered and vanished. The bet had been accepted.

  “Anything else?”

  “No that’s enough. Bring Geranika back. He’s more fun to talk to.”

  Attention all tournament participants!

  Mahan and Plinto consider you jerks a bunch of hapless crabs and want to…

  I couldn’t contain my grin when the notification appeared. For some unknown reason the Corporation didn’t bother censoring my arena description and literally forwarded my words without changing them. Someone would definitely get pissed at this — and after that the number of competitors wishing to win the prize would grow like a snowball. Humans are humans…

  There was an hour left before the first bout. I went through the registration, entered the arena and frowned seeing my HP drop tenfold. Neither the players nor the spectators were there yet. They would appear at seven on the dot, so I sat down on the sand and opened my settings. I needed to figure out the powers I had as a Shadow Shaman.

  We would be facing two players, so I didn’t even look at my AoE Shadow summons. They’d be too weak. At Le
vel 100 there weren’t that many powers available to me, mostly just Medium Shadows. Healing, Battle, and Slowing — an ordinary assortment, similar to what the other classes had. I was about to open design mode to strengthen the Shadows through Crafting, when a curious idea occurred to me. Shamans have access to the Astral Plane, an alternate dimension where the masters of this class like to hang out. A highly advanced Shaman can visit it whenever he likes, receiving various bonuses and quests. I wonder who will act as the Supreme Spirits of the Higher and Lower Worlds to a Shadow Shaman like I was at the moment. Will there be anyone at all?

  It’d be nice to find out while there’s still time.

  The Shaman has three hands…

  A loading bar flashed past my eyes, informing me that I was about to enter a location I’d never visited before. All the better — with my current reputation, I didn’t really want to go to the Astral Plane anyway. The space around me shimmered and turned to fog. When it dissipated, I found myself in a small brick room, with two beings that resembled concentrations of white and black flame in humanoid forms. I could make out the eyes of each humanoid, which now focused on me with obvious astonishment.

  “A Free Citizen?” boomed the white flame. “Where did he come from?”

  “Are the shackles falling?” the dark flame asked with no less shock and boom. “Or is this yet another illusion of our endless torment?”

  “I don’t think so, brother,” drawled the white flame and right then the space around us exploded:

  “WHO DARES? ” The humanoids flew aside like they were bowling pins. “HOW?! YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED HERE! BEGONE! ”

  “Destroy the Throne!” the white flame managed to scream.