Hope Engine

by Andrew Lynch

  After passing a few more trees, I saw the first of the mobs. He wore a long, flowing, black robe, covering him from head to toe. The hood covered his eyes to an almost impractical degree, and his robe spilled onto the floor. In a hand raised far above his head, he held a knife, brown with rust. I selected him and the only information I could see was a name above his head. “Cultist” and “Wooded Cult Leader”. There was a two next to his name. I assumed it was his level, which made him the same as me. He was busy worshipping some dark god, no doubt. But still, I could only see one of them. I needed information before I did anything rash.

  Even though the cultist clearly had zero peripheral vision, I began circling towards his rear. Maybe they had some sort of magic sight, who knew? It didn’t take long before I could see the rest of the chanters. This dark priest had gathered a rather sizeable congregation, I’d give him that. He stood at the head of a large symbol that had been carved into the ground. There were six other cultists around the symbol in identical garb to him, but they had no visible weapons. Beyond the seven, were another twelve, on their knees with heads bowed – there for rhythmic chanting support, presumably. The cheerleaders of the cultist world.

  That was enough information for me. Nineteen enemies were too much. I had been thinking I could handle maybe three, tops. I took a step backwards. Time to get away from the danger. I’d go find a small woodland creature for my first fight. Much more suitable.

  A twig snapped, and at the same time I both realised that it hadn’t been my foot to snap the twig, and that nineteen was an odd number of cultists.

  The twentieth cultist’s foot hit me in the back, rolling me forward, sprawling me at the edge of the clearing. I didn’t take any damage thanks to my Shadow Skin, but I was still a slave to basic physics and could be pushed around. Good to remember, you know, after I’d died.

  The chanting stopped and once I’d managed to sit up, all the cultists were looking at me. They all had to look up and peer down to be able to see under their hoods. It was comical, but that knife still looked awfully sharp despite the rust. It probably had a plus to poison damage, if anything.

  The cultist that had pushed me gargled something unintelligible from behind me, and the lead cultist held up a hand to silence him.

  With a raspy breath, the cultist let out a shrill voice. ‘Who dares to interrupt The Wooded Cult during the time of their great summoning?’

  There was a pause as everyone awaited my response. I glanced behind me to see the gargling cultist had a similarly rusted dagger in his hand. They hadn’t attacked immediately, so maybe I had a chance of saving myself. I got to my feet in a slow and measured manner, and dusted myself off.

  ‘I am Akuma Severo. Lord of this land.’ I mean, I wasn’t sure if I was lord of this wood, but “Akuma Severo, lord of two unimpressive-by-any-standard huts” didn’t have quite the same ring to it. Confidence was key when bluffing.

  ‘You look more like a priest than a lord.’

  I looked down at my plain beige robes, which I now suspected had been my bedsheets, and realised I’d find it hard to argue the point. I looked like a monk. ‘Yes. I am a man of worship, but it is the Altar of power that I kneel before.’

  A little blue number ticked away in the corner of my vision. Okay, what had I just done? Completed a quest? Levelled up a skill?

  There were soft murmurs from the cultist chorus.

  ‘We do not seek personal power. We are not so selfish. We have a higher cause.’

  ‘What is it you desire?’

  ‘Power.’

  ‘But I just said–’

  ‘The power to break the world!’

  The cultists chanted a single word that reverberated through my chest. Okay, they wanted to destroy the world. They were proper crazies. This didn’t bode well for me, but it was bluff or die.

  ‘And you planned to do this by summoning something?’

  ‘That’s right. Tonight, we shall summon Tepidious.’

  I cleared my throat. ‘Sorry, you want to “break the world” by summoning someone who’s name is literally “tepid”? What’s he, the demon of room temperature water?’

  More muttering among the cultists.

  ‘Never! He is the lord of apathy! We shall bring the world to a standstill and slit mankind’s throats when they are defenceless, uncaring if they live or die!’

  ‘I mean… don’t get me wrong, that’s actually a really good idea. It’s quite subtle and would probably work. But it’s not very… grand, is it?’ I argued. ‘Hardly befitting of the mighty Wooded Cult. But, what do I know? I’m just an interloper.’

  Louder mutterings from the cultists now. I think I was about to start a revolt, which would make slipping away while they brutally murdered their leader an easy task. Perfect.

  ‘You lack vision, Interloper! We do not seek the instant gratification of lesser worshippers.’

  More muttering, but with a touch of questioning hum behind it.

  ‘Oh, really? So, if some powerful being were to offer you your desires right now, you’d turn it down?’

  ‘Of course!’ There were full-on gasps from the cultists now. ‘Well, hold on, hold. No, if they offered us what we wanted, then we’d accept. But we are willing to wait.’

  I started to get an idea of where to take this bluff. ‘You seek power, but are willing to work towards building it over a long period of time?’

  ‘That’s correct. But we are done with your petty questions. Kill him, and his body shall fuel our summoning!’

  I heard the cultist behind me step forwards, and his rusted blade cut the air as he raised it for the killing strike.

  ‘Wait!’ I shouted, trying to not make it sound like I was begging. ‘Do you believe in fate?’

  The lead cultist cleared his throat. ‘As a group of dark-worshipping hermits, we have to, yes.’

  ‘Then what if I told you, your summoning spell had already worked?’

  ‘That doesn’t make any sense. We haven’t performed the ritual yet.’

  ‘And yet, here I am.’ Go big or go home, right?

  For a moment, the lead cultist seemed lost for words.’ You are not Tepidious.’

  I noticed that the seated cultists had shuffled themselves into a huddle and were now talking amongst themselves.

  ‘Aren’t I? I offer you everything he does. A chance to consolidate power. To build yourselves over time. I offer you a home to call your own, and together, one day, we can rule everyth– more than we currently do.’ I didn’t want to oversell it.

  Finally, one of the other cultists spoke up. This one was standing to the right of the leader at another point on the summoning circle. ‘He has a future. You don’t have a future.’

  ‘Not now, Horace.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ the cultist Horace said. ‘I feel this is a valid time to speak up. Your plan stopped after we successfully summoned Tepidious. Severo wants us to continue after that and actually do something.’

  The leader spat through clenched teeth. ‘We will discuss this later. I am in the middle of something.’

  Upset grumbling from the cultist choir.

  I decided to seize upon whatever this Horace was alluding to. ‘That’s right. I shall lead you forwards to power and… fulfillment. Yes, with me, you shall be generally content with your lives.’

  I suddenly realised that besides power, I didn’t really know what evil cultists desired. Oddly, it seemed to work, and again I saw the blue numbers adding to my total. I’d done something right. I think.

  Horace let his arms fall to his side, and despite the too long and loose sleeves of the robe, I saw the tip of his rusted dagger. ‘No, brother. Our new Lord has spoken!’

  These words galvanised the rest of the cultists, and rusted daggers appeared from underneath the robes of all.

  ‘No. No, you can’t do this! My plan was multi-tiered.’ The cultists moved towards the now floundering leader. ‘You didn’t need to know the next part until it was the right ti
me.’

  The leader turned and ran, but immediately tripped over his impractical robes. The cultists gave chase, falling to the floor almost as quickly as the leader had. It was only Horace who kept a steady pace, his footsteps marking the coming end of the leader’s life. The leader was anything but passive during Horace’s measured stalk, but he was trapped in a mess of robes, unable to stand until, finally, Horace reached out for the leader’s head, and plunged his rusted dagger into the black depths of the cowl.

  During this time, I had done as planned, and attempted to run. Unfortunately, I’d forgotten there was a cultist directly behind me, and another kick had kept me down.

  Horace hid the dagger back inside his robes and waited patiently. I wasn’t sure what exactly he was waiting for, but there was a lot of commotion behind him as the cultist choir tried to get back to their feet.

  Still on my backside, I tried to begin negotiations again. Maybe I could incite two murders in as many minutes.

  ‘Horace, I can tell you’re a man of action. A man wishing for a powerful future. Not a man to bow to others.’ I was no expert at this, but I couldn’t see the harm in a bit of flattery.

  The cultists were now back on two legs and were taking careful steps through the demonic symbol on the ground until they stood behind Horace. All daggers had been hidden again, but I knew they were there.

  Horace spoke. At least, I assume it was him. They were all so close together, and I still couldn’t see beneath their hoods. ‘You are correct. I bow to no man. But a god…’

  Horace dropped to his knees, and the rest followed suit. Well, damn. I must have rolled a critical hit on my bluff, because I had just convinced a cult of evil maniacs that I was their god. Cool!

  Chapter 9: Minions

  I stood next to Angie as we inspected the new troops.

  Actually, they were officially called…

  ‘Why minions?’ I asked.

  ‘It keeps in the evil warlock theme. If you had picked a priest, they’d be called disciples, warriors get recruits, and so on.’

  ‘Oh. Makes sense.’

  ‘It does. Minion is their basic level, but they can progress into different roles, all with suitable names like neophyte, acolyte, zealot and so on.’

  ‘I’m still trying to figure out how to level myself up, so I’ll worry about levelling up minions later.’

  Angie turned to me. ‘You know, some players would have been too squeamish to do what you did.’

  I shrugged. ‘They were an evil cult. I hardly feel killing the leader of it was a huge loss to the world.’

  She looked meaningfully at my new robe.

  ‘Oh, looting his body? Yeah, that felt weird. Luckily, Horace only slit his throat, so there wasn’t any damage to the robe.’

  ‘It’s a good first robe. You were lucky.’

  ‘It is?’

  She nodded. Then she noticed my blank stare.

  ‘You haven’t inspected it?’

  ‘Yeah, of course. It just said, “Dirty Robe”.’

  She scrunched her face up. ‘Eyes above. You’re playing without stats, aren’t you?’

  ‘Umm, huh?’

  ‘Go to the settings menu and turn “Statistics” to medium. It will help, trust me.’

  ‘To know that, you must have trained people before me, right?’ She didn’t reply, but I did as she said. I inspected the robe again. “Dirty Robe. 1 armour. +2 Mind. +1 Strength. -1 Agility. 20% chance to root self”

  ‘Ooh, stats!’

  ‘Most equipment at this level will only be armour, and maybe a single stat point. Inspect yourself for context.’

  Of course. I must have had basic stats when I chose a character, but I hadn’t even thought to look. I focused on myself and a small stat window popped up.

  It turned out, Tulgatha had a pretty stripped-down stat selection – a happy medium between hardcore and casual. Strength, Heart, Mind, Agility, Charisma, and Luck. I had a single point in each. The page also told me that I was level two, and that I had one point to place in any of my stats.

  ‘Angie, where should I place this point?’

  ‘That depends on what you want to become. Don’t feel rushed though, it won’t disappear. Take your time.’

  ‘Nah, it’s okay. I’m a warlock, I cast spells, so I’ll put it in Mind. Simple.’

  ‘Wait, there could–’

  ‘Done it already.’

  Angie’s shoulders slumped. ‘Okay. Perhaps we need to think about your progression path a bit more before level three.’

  I was lost in this new stat screen now. This really should have been covered in the tutorial. I swiped to my character screen, so I could see what I had equipped, and also my “Living Stats” as they seemed to be called. I only had my “Dirty Robe”, plus “Leather Scraps” on my feet – unsurprisingly there were no stats on those.

  Now, Living Stats were interesting. Hunger, Thirst, Toxicity, and Fatigue. This was the survival element of Tulgatha that had been mentioned in the opening spiel. And my village was the strategy part of the game. I assumed that if I didn’t like one aspect of Tulgatha, I could ignore it and level up just as effectively by only building my village, or scavenging weeds, if that was where my passion truly lay.

  The screen also showed my current armour of “2”. One from my robe, and one from my skin. I was starting to see why gear was the key to powering up. With only a single stat point each level, this one robe had effectively granted me three levels. If I found equivalent gear for all slots, I could be level two but with the power of a naked level thirty. Like any game though, I’m sure there was even better gear to be had…

  ‘Angie, how do I get the best gear?’

  ‘At your level, a strong village is best. In a while however, running Situations will overtake the village benefits.’

  ‘No, right, sure. But I mean, max level, end game stuff. How do I get the best gear?’

  She nodded in understanding. ‘There are many ways, and it depends on the path you choose. If you decide to become a quick-witted politician, then you don’t need to kill a dragon to get your best in slot chest piece.’

  Someone next to me cleared their throat. ‘Excuse me, master.

  I turned, remembering that the cultists were all kneeling and awaiting instruction. ‘Yes, Horace.’

  ‘What is thy bidding, my master?’

  I inspected the men. Well, the gender-neutral band. There could have been anything under those robes – more knives, perhaps – and only Horace had proven to be vaguely male with his name. Even his voice was questionable, in a certain light.

  ‘I have a very important task for all of you. It is one that shall require dedication and shall test your will. It will force you to prove yourself.’

  Horace skittered back and fell to his knees alongside the other cultists.

  ‘Go out into the woods and find–’ I dug around in my pockets and pulled out a handful of the death daisies. ‘As many of these as you can. You will all need at least four.’

  The group looked up awkwardly, so they could see under their hoods. ‘The Bubonic Buttercups, master? Are we to eat them?’

  As he gave them their name, it appeared above them as I held the Bubonic Buttercups out in front of me.

  ‘Eat them? What? No! Anything with the word Bubonic in its name shouldn’t be eaten. We will use these to… hem.’

  ‘Hem, my master?’

  ‘Hem, Horace, hem.’

  They exchanged confused looks.

  ‘It stands to reason that, at some point, we may be attacked, or perhaps have to move heavy objects – building materials and the like. I’ve seen the effect your robes have had on your Agility stat, and the horrendous chance you’ll root yourself by falling over. We will use these remarkably resilient weeds as makeshift thread to hem our robes.’

  There was silence at my first decree. I suddenly had visions of those rusty knives being pulled out, but this time aimed at me. After a very long ten seconds, Horace said, ‘Tha
t is… not something we’ve… we will have to consult the dark texts on the subject, master.’

  I frowned and glanced at Angie. She seemed uninterested in the entire affair.

  ‘Dark texts are going to take issue with flashing some ankle and letting you actually see out of your hoods? Well, that sounds silly, doesn’t it?’

  Awkward coughing from the cultists.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Yes, my master. Despite our reservations, it shall be done. What of food, master?’

  ‘You have dwelled in the forests, so what have you done in the past?’

  ‘The Bubonic Buttercups make a palatable broth, master.’

  ‘Is there anything else in the forest? Anything at all?’

  Horace hesitated. ‘There is a single source of meat and fur, master, yes. Technically.’

  Red flags shot up for me when he said “Technically”. Metaphorical red flags, not UI ones. ‘What do you mean technically, Horace?’

  ‘All wildlife was scourged from the forest long ago by a pack of Moonbeasts, master. Primal and savage animals, twice the height of a human, and with an innate grasp on magic.’

  I slowly turned to Angie. ‘That sounds dangerous…’ She nodded. ‘Like we couldn’t farm them for meat…?’ She nodded again. ‘Great, the only source of meat around here are bloody raid boss level mobs. Why are they even here? That doesn’t make sense.’