“Did ya hear me right?” She tapped his scalp. “You’ve been out for twelve hours. I thought you were in a coma. I thought your pod was malfunctioning.”
“Maybe the pod noticed I needed some shut-eye. I’m feeling much less stressed.”
She gave a mellow smile. “That is good. How’s the Infection?”
“Gone. Anything happen while I was out?”
“Nope.” Her tone was clipped. “Mmmm… Well, the rat ya killed dropped a loot gem—”
“Anything good?”
She presented both hands. “Ta-da! Dual Luck rings! Almost a full set! Well, half a set.”
His eyes rolled. “You are lucky that you aren’t all by yourself out here in the wild.”
“I am,” she giggled. “And so are you. Had a bad dream, didn’t ya?”
“I did.”
“Wanna share?”
“Not really.”
“Awww, kay.” She rubbed his shoulder. “But don’t forget… I’ll always be here for ya.” She leaned into his breathing space. Her eyes widened crazily. “Always. Forever and ever. Got it?”
He was slow to say, “Yeah, got it.”
“Good.” She sprang backward. “Anywho, breakfast will be ready soon. I hope ya like mole meat stew. We’ve got enough for a week! Lucky, I know!”
A gag reflex sucked stomach acids up his throat, but he managed to put on an enthusiastic face, because it could be worse. Much, much worse. “My favorite.”
31
It was already midday, and Rowan was hammering a last nail into his beehive.
A standard design from a popular MyTube channel, rectangle frames hung side by side inside a towering box. Three boxes in total, stacked, made of thick sturdy wood. This should be enough insulation to keep the bees alive over winter; they deserved that much at least. Their honey had saved four lives now.
“Row,” Gabrielle said, “what are ya smilin’ about?”
“These bees deserve the finest wooden hive. I am a fair ruler.”
She giggled. “Are ya going all hippy-mode on me?”
“Perhaps. Living out here low-tech has awakened something.”
She said after a moment, “Same, I think. I like that we’re growing all our own food.”
As did he. “All organic. Hopefully we don’t get more mutant pests.”
“Don’t jinx it.”
He chuckled, casting his gaze left and right checking for anything mutant-like just in case. They were standing in the middle of an area of tilled soil, thirty by thirty yards. The Farmer profession standardized crops to one square-yard plots for plants, which coincided nicely with grid overlay blocks. Frigid Fiber plants were on the larger side, one seed per plot, while others such as carrots were a super efficient twenty seeds per plot according to a forum post.
Rowan squinted at the ground, asking for information.
Crop Farm
Size: 900 plots (46 used)
Crops: Frigid Fiber (31), Primrose (8), Turnip (6), Crude Pinewood Beehive (1)
Frigid Fibers, grayish-blue bushes, had already sprouted thanks to Enhanced Growth. Tufts of green mana rose into the air from each plot every minute. Little tentacles were poking up through the soil. Leaves were already soaking up sunlight. Excellent, very excellent.
And Turnips? Did his eyes deceive? Rowan asked, “Where’d you get Turnip seeds?”
On knees manually transferring primrose flowers to plots, Gabrielle said lazily, “Viola found them growing. She turned em into seeds with Seedify.”
“Seedify?”
“Does that skill need an explanation?”
“Goofy name.” He huffed. “And are you sure you’re planting the maximum per plot by hand?”
She hummed a long note. “Dunno, but primrose seeds will naturally scatter.”
“Then I suppose it doesn’t matter.” These inner plots were all reserved for flowers.
Rowan wasn’t looking forward to defending all this farm land. But eventually, this entire valley-like area, many acres worth of nutrient-rich soil, would be safe behind a big beautiful wall sealing off the mountain pass. And a wall along the coast too, if needed.
The cousins’ slave threads shortened. Skylar said, “I think we got every last one… Most of them, at least.” Between his palms floated a bubble of glassy mana. Dozens of calmed bees buzzed about while hundreds more piled into the bottom as a mass of black and yellow.
Rowan briefly imagined Skylar wrangling an adult cow using that skill. “Did you get the queen?”
“She’s in there, I saw,” Viola answered. She was carrying a box of combs.
“Alright. Let’s get the comb in first. Do you have a skill for that?”
“Mmmmmm.” Her head tilted, her Elven ear twitching. “Let me try…” She said a word in the mystical language. Beige mana shot from her fingertips onto the combs, taking grip, but then dissipated with a splash of mist. Her head shook. “Nah. You’ll have to do it manually.”
Gabrielle said, “Maybe Builder has something. Viola. Help me with the primrose.”
“Okay.” She passed the box to Rowan.
He secured combs to frames, many filled with honey, with iron wire and dried grass. Agile arms and hands did quick work. Seven frames were occupied then returned to the crafted hive. Easy.
“Almost out of mana,” Skylar said. “Also Luthias wants to see you. Didn’t ask why.”
Rowan nodded, placed two rocks onto the stack in case of wind.
Mumbling a mystical word, Skylar’s hands glowed light-green. The mana bubble undulated and shifted into the shape of a funnel, ushering the bees into their new home through a flap opening. The queen bee, much fatter and longer than the others, was one of the first to fly in. The rest naturally followed. Good subjects. No rebellion there.
No mutations either. Was Gabrielle’s Luck points finally coming in play? Rowan wanted to believe so.
He grinned in satisfaction and watched bees come out of a slit in the wood. They bounced from one flower to the next, gathering tiny clumps of pollen and nectar. They were already settled in, happy as bees should be. Taking care of these helpful little guys was satisfying in a sort of kingly way, keeping them safe from danger.
There was more than enough danger to be had.
Why can’t those Trolls just leave us alone? he thought bitterly as an onset of stress constricted his ribs. Nothing had happened all day, and a six-crow omen was still hanging over his head. The Elves were adamant that something big—bigger than a Giant Mole attack—was likely to happen soon within the week.
Rowan stuffed these worries into a mental box, left the three to the agricultural work, and jogged toward a secret back entrance in the palisade. When he stepped inside, a shield icon appeared above his health bar.
Fortified (72 Quality): +1 Constitution and Resistance while inside your town wall
Not bad. One stat point could save a life.
Inside the workshop, Luthias sat on a bench, forging iron arrow-tips one by one. He held his fingers five inches apart. Tendrils of fiery mana, glowing red-hot, poured from each nail and converged to a point where scraps of iron melted into a blob. Pieces of slag fell onto the clay board, other impurities burning off.
A word muttered, Luthias shaped molten iron with his mind alone. An arrowhead formed over the course of ten seconds, the point dull and bent at an obtuse angle—too deformed to be even called an arrowhead. That piece of abstract art cooled and softly placed itself onto the clay.
“Damn,” Luthias mumbled, scowling.
Rowan said in an authoritative voice, “Terrible work with that one. The rest look good, though.”
Luthias flinched, his composure tested. A piece of iron scrap clunked to the floor from his lap, and a hint of a smile curled those smooth lips. “The legendary Hammer of Illron was not forged in a day.”
“Hammer?” Rowan blurted. “Which class uses those?”
“Knights. I was never skilled with swords or bows or staves. Hammers—you swing wit
h all your might.”
“Good to know.” Rowan took a breath, looking around. Nothing particularly interesting was occurring. “You asked to see me?”
“Indeed. I recall a scroll detailing lost runestone deposits in the Arctic, but it is an old scroll. If you allow a supply for a Forging Station, the quality and speed of my work would greatly increase.”
“Thank you for telling me. Anything else?”
“That is all.”
Rowan offered a polite nod, Luthias grunting in return, and departed with rapid steps, a few insects trampled in his wake. A worm corpse abomination slithered into his imagination.
At the constructing watch tower, Liluth was shaping extruding wood into rungs for a ladder. Her eyes flicked toward Rowan. “Do you require something of me?” Her tone was friendly.
“Are there any runestone deposits nearby?”
Her lips pursed. “Unfortunately, no. Runestone is exclusively mined by the Lunar Elves in the Misty Highlands. It is rock of an ancient impact from the heavens.”
A frown pulled down his brows. “Luthias told me of an old scroll that—”
“I know of it, but the scribe was sadly mistaken. I would hope for a passing trader caravan or ship, if I were you.”
“What are the chances of that up here near the arctic?”
“Quite low,” she said in a rising tone.
“So almost zero in other words, but no matter. We have a courier.”
“Your wife’s sister, Tasha. Am I mistaken I have been wanting to ask whether she is also a Demon.”
“Nah, she’s a Human at a Human town.” Rowan’s eyes wandered as he recalled a tidbit. “We’re Humans in my world; I wasn’t lying. Out of all the races here, only Humans exist there.”
“We Elves… do not exist in your world?”
“Nope. You’re based off our fictional works.”
“That is…” Her face saddened. “Interesting, but I do not believe you, for I do indeed exist.”
“Suit yourself.” Rowan did not have anything more to say there, so he merely offered a gentle smile and turned on his heel. The fact that they knew almost nothing of the real world was a peculiar twist. What was going to happen when other players started running their mouths? It could be potential for chaos. Maybe local authorities warned adventurers from making grandiose claims of alternate realities.
“Oh, Lord LeMort,” Liluth called.
“Yes?”
“Can you hand this to Zaine?” She passed a box of wooden armor: helmet, shoulder pads, leg guards, and shield.
“Sure.” Rowan didn’t mind being their errand boy.
He skimmed through the forums while he jogged toward the mine. Threads were abuzz of news coming from around the world, stories of wondrous discoveries and bloody conflicts in constant supply. But trouble was brewing down south in the Human kingdoms.
Overpopulation.
The surging tide of new players was not diminishing even now, this technology truly revolutionary. What was Synaptic going to do? Rowan, if he were a game designer, would simply patch in a whole new continent with an existing Human civilization. Backstories and NPC memories would have to be retroactively altered.
Or perhaps another server, but a parallel world running along with this one felt… off in many ways.
Through the transparent background of the web browser, bulky corpses littered the ground.
Alarm jolted through Rowan’s nerves, Moonfyre drawn.
They were obese praying mantis bodies the size of giant pandas. All dead. Slimy goop leaked from stab and slash wounds. A watery, pungent musk hung in the air over the two busy Elves mining in the pit without a care in the world for the scene of slaughter around them.
“What happened here?” Rowan called, placing the box of armor on the ground. “And your armor is here. That’ll be ten silver for the delivery.”
Zaine grinned devilishly. “I am but a broke slave, and it was merely a small insect problem. I took care of it.”
But Faenin said in a colder voice, “He nearly lost his head.” He climbed out of the pit. “Excuse me, Lord LeMort.” He ran past toward the long drops in the forest.
Rowan was massaging pressure points under his eyes. “Maybe I’ll have to make you that coffin after all, Zaine.”
“Make it out of dragonsteel.”
Good to see his ego is fully healed. “About dragonsteel. Skylar did see a dragon the other day. I also saw one yesterday.”
Zaine huffed sarcastic amusement. “May Luck be with you.”
“I’m serious. Once I’m a high level Swordsman, I will be doing raids and dungeons. That roost will be one of our first great achievements.”
Zaine did a double-take. “You are serious.”
“I am.”
“You really are serious.” His eyes were wide.
“Why would I not be?”
“Not one fighters had returned alive from a dragon’s lair in many seasons. Powerful fighters with experience which you lack.”
Rowan showed open palms. “I am willing to learn.”
“Then… may Luck be with you.” Zaine resumed mining. He garbled a mystic word, and a chunk of yellow-flecked rock was cut out.
Gold Ore (1)
Purity: 512
Rowan said, “That’s about zero point five units of pure gold, correct?”
“More if Luthias were not scarred.”
“And a Forging Station?”
“Also that.”
“How much longer till we have enou—”
“A few days to a week at most.” Zaine sighed. “So you are serious about raiding dragons.”
“Why is it so hard to believe? I am an adventurer, an immortal being. Once we have a graveyard, I promise you I will be dying on a daily basis.”
“Then you should see Luthias for basic sword-fighting techniques.”
Rowan’s nose lifted. “Why can’t you teach me? I’ve seen you fight. You really are a prodigy for your age.”
“I’m busy here,” Zaine spat. “I want my arm restored first and foremost.”
“Is that a condition?”
Zaine shrugged.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“You can take it however you want.” His chin jerked toward a crate. “You can also take iron ore to Luthias.”
“Of course. It’s why I’m here.” Today, he was the Demon Lord of Delivery. Tomorrow? He hoped for continued peace. He very much appreciated this sorely needed reprieve. Maybe the gods rested on this day.
32
A blizzard had besieged the town and put an end to Tasha’s mining plans. Or anything outdoor for that matter.
Inside another back-room in this limestone and slate keep, three stacks of empty crates were gathering dust. The Humans in this game loved to store crates, and Tasha knew why: these crates all recently were full of grains, dried fruit, and salted meat. The unstoppable torrent of new players were a swarm of locusts.
Ayla motioned to follow back out into the hallway. She relocked the magical door with unique skills granted by her Thief Fate. That’s how she had nicked those four Swordsman Tomes, from a shop’s upstairs closet. She’d made a beeline for the stores upon log-in and somehow had evaded Royal Guard patrols unlike many others who’d been caught. Sneaky woman.
The metallic door locked with grainy chestnut magic running up and down runic symbols. Ayla’s face was blank, unreadable, maybe a touch bored.
Tasha exhaled hot minty air. The air in here was remarkably modulated to a constant twenty-three degrees Celsius. She recognized this exact temperature. She drawled, “I doubt they stored anything good here.” Everything of value was hiding inside storerooms next to the Royal Guard’s office.
Ayla’s eyes were unyielding. “You’d never know. I found this pouch in an attic.” Her magical pouch that doubled as the game’s inventory system.
“Fine. How many items does it hold, by the way?”
“Twelve slots,” Ayla said lightly, leading the way. �
��And most resources can be stacked to fifty.”
Wow. “You can put fifty blocks of limestone in there? In one slot?”
“I haven’t tried it, but a dude on the forums said stone and metal and wood stacks to ten instead, which isn’t much when you need like hundreds to build a small house.”
“I see.” Tasha didn’t really care per-say, but if sleeping was sometimes unavoidable sleep in this game, then she was going to sleep inside a house built of stone and not flammable wood. You’d never know if some deranged guy was moments away from going on a burning spree.
Ayla stopped at the next door, intoned a word in the magic language, and shot a globule of gray mana at engraved, glittering runes. Her magic fizzled. It took three more attempts before her magic reacted with a throbbing glow. The door swung open without a creak.
Tasha held her breath in anticipation for a thousand-credit treasure. Multiple treasures.
But only more crates sat stacked within.
“Ayla. I think other players probably might’ve already went through here. We’re wasting time.”
“What else is there to do? Have you seen the Blizzard outside?” Ayla locked the door and continued toward the next.
The rubber soles of Tasha’s boots squeaked on the floor as she said, “No, I was thinking let’s visit one of the other continents. Let’s go.” Go to the portal building.
“Oh, you got other friends around the world?”
Of course, that was the hitch. “Well, no. I was thinking to ask on the forums.”
“Haha. All you’ll get are horny guys.”
That was true—just like in real life. “Why did they have to make… intercourse a thing?”
“Probably because that’s how NPCs reproduce?” Ayla chuckled. “At least we don’t have to take craps, though we can turn that on in the settings. Don’t tell me you did.”
“I hope no one does something stupid and turns this into an R-rated game, and I didn’t turn on passing waste, F Y I.” These thoughts made her stomach squeeze.
Ayla stopped by a door that wasn’t magically locked. She peeked through the keyhole. Her head shook, and she continued onward. “Stupid’s already happening,” she remarked in tone too casual for the subject.
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