by Ryan DeBruyn
Most importantly, is this why Leah wouldn’t let me advance? Was her Dantian’s destruction caused by the Church perhaps?
I feel the tenth drop of liquid from the Sun form, and I allow my thoughts to drift away as I try to relax. I mentally shake my head, knowing that doubts about the Church are a proverbial rabbit hole.
Just as I feel a bit of relaxation, I reach the fifteenth drop and stand up to leave.
“Finished for the day so soon?” an all too familiar voice calls from where I know the cage in the garden stands. I turn and look into the emerald green eyes again. I swallow and choose to face my fear—or whatever it is.
“Yes. I’m. . .” I pause, trying to think of a way not to reveal my low cultivation level. “I’ve got many more things to do today. . .” That was a stupid choice. What other important things could I have after choosing to sneak onto a roof to cultivate?
“I see. Important things, huh? Does the friendly trespasser have a name?” she responds with a growing smile. I feel my stomach churn in response. Is she laughing at me?
“I do have a name, Veronica.” I pause as her smile vanishes, and her head tilts ever so slightly. Oh shoot, she never told me her name. “But I need to—people are waiting—umm, I’ve got to go!”
I blurt out a litany of nonsensical reasons and mount the ladder. I try to do it with a bit of grace, but I can feel the abruptness of my leaving like a stab to the stomach. My cheeks start flushing hotter than the sun when I hear a confused grunt followed by a few half-hearted chuckles from above me. I begin jogging down the stairs.
Chapter 26
September 1st, 151 AR
Jeff Turle
I rush into the training room, sweating from my jog out of the city. It took a few blocks of self-talk to stop running because of embarrassment, and by then I was near the guard post. So it would have looked strange to stop. Still, that was an overreaction. It would have been easy to explain away my use of her name. Simply tell her that I was told it by someone. . . It wouldn’t be surprising for me to ask about the strange woman I met on the roof.
It was her look of confusion and avid interest that spooked me, though. Regardless, as I pass through the portal to the Training Room, I am just relieved to be away from people again. I’m just glad she chose amusement instead of shouting for guards. Admittedly that could have gone far worse.
“How did it go, Master?” Crash asks as I glance around the space looking for Mur.
“Not well. I got accused of committing a crime and was even found guilty. I now owe a thousand dollars to Ride or Die,” I rant. The silence that follows makes my heartbeat thumping in my ears sound loud, so I clarify. “They claimed I stole their loot and a dagger.”
Mur walks out of the green-tiled door and runs over to stand in front of me. I smile at him, but Crash interrupts anything either of us might have said.
“We cannot recall the value of a dollar, Master. Can you please explain?” Crash says, and Mur changes the target of his eyes. I watch them narrow and know that Mur isn’t yet over the soap stunt of my AI.
I quote the denominations from memory offhandedly. “One thousand ounces of mithril, one hundred ounces of true-silver, ten ounces of sun-carbon, or one ounce of qi-ridium.”
“Thank you, Master. We forgot that your race chose to value weapons and armor and so use the metals as a currency system. Is there any value in monster cores?”
My head tilts. I have been suspecting Crash of losing some of its memories, but this is the first clear confirmation. “Well, I can’t say the exact value, Crash, but people will certainly buy them. Why did you gesture toward Mur, though?”
“Master, we believe that the Gartusk chose to use what they call Spirit Stones as the primary currency during their ascension, and the quality of the stone itself was the denomination. Still, the Gartusk race had a barter economy before the system arrived.”
Mur stood there looking between us as we spoke, and I can’t help but feel bad about the language barrier and leaving him out of the conversation. Perhaps he would have something to add, but trying to convey my day in the foreign and frustrating language doesn’t appeal to me. Living through the arrest and then having to think about it again has already taken most of my energy.
“The dagger.” I groan in frustration, which causes Mur to jump. When I handed in the dagger to the church, I was so angry, I didn’t even realize that it was my only weapon. Now I need a new one, and I have severely limited funds. I take a deep breath and hold it in as I wait for my aggravation to subside.
“Chief still have goblin weapons,” Mur says with a point over at the pile. I look at Mur, shocked to have him answer my grumbling English and interpret the meaning of my mood. I look at the pile and see only sharpened rock axes and clubs. While they are better than nothing, I do have forty-three bitcoins left.
I approach the pile and take a look through it, but don’t find anything that I can see myself using effectively. Especially when you put it up against a spear from the shop.
“Take what want, Mur,” I grunt and wave at the pile when I am finished. “Jeff sell rest.” Mur hurriedly scampers to the mound and finds a club. He picks it up and cradles it in his arms, almost seeming to hold a child. The club isn’t anything special and seems to only be a broken branch rubbed on a rough surface until one side is thin enough to grip.
I head over to the shop and try to sell the remaining weapons, but they won’t register on the sales section. I sigh again; twenty-plus crude weapons but no money to be made. I guess it makes sense as I definitely didn’t see the option the last time either—I must have been too preoccupied with searching for cultivation manuals to notice.
I purchase the spear, and some sort of machine comes to life inside the cage. I didn’t notice it right away because it just looks like a black box with an accordioned tube hanging from it. But now, a loud sucking sound suddenly breaks the Training Room’s silence, and the black box lowers—wait, did the tube just go under the floor? I stretch up onto my tiptoes and see that the machine is still descending, right through what looks like solid concrete to me. With a glance at the entry portal, I wonder if this is what it looks like to others when I go inside the Training Room. It’s very strange and I can’t take my eyes off of it.
I follow every small motion of the contraption as it seems to move in all three dimensions while still lengthening some type of extending arm. Finally, the arm clunks to a stop, and the sucking noise changes. Instead of a whine, it becomes a bit of a roaring hum. The arm reverses direction, and the black box returns to the center of the cage. The tube becomes visible after an equal amount of time, and suddenly a spear pops out of the floor. The long brown wood looks polished and the triangular top catches the light as the tube vibrates slightly. The mechanism moves again, this time toward the half-in, half-out counter, and the sucking background hum disappears. With a clang, the long shaft and spearhead bounce onto the counter. Then the tube and box return to the center of the room.
“Crash, what just happened?” I say in awe, too caught up in the show to ask before now.
“Sire, that is the method of retrieval for the shop. The previous owner called it a vending machine. I can see by your expression that the nickname isn’t helpful. Its technical name is the Trans-Dimensional Suction Arm, and it was invented by—”
“Never mind, Crash. Never mind. . .” I interrupt as soon as I realize the AI is about to go into a history lesson. “Crash, can you store the rest of those weapons in the subspace? I can’t sell them but may need backups,” I state, pointing over to the pile that Mur has now left alone. I pick up the spear with a sigh. This feels like it should be a moment of excitement but instead, “How in the Seven am I supposed to make a thousand dollars?!” I complain.
“Master, may we suggest that you check for cheap weapons in the auction house? A thousand ounces of mithril is approximately sixty-two and a half pounds. If you let us consume the weapons, we can separate out the mithril for you.”
“How much mithril is there in the spear? What about the kitchen utensils, pots, and pans?”
“We’re sorry, Master. We cannot absorb items from the applications. They are, in a sense, foreign programs that are bound to the Creator and not owned by you or us.”
“All right. . .” I drawl, not understanding that explanation. It seems like the AI was saying that everything in the applications is on loan from someone else. That just doesn’t make sense, though, or does it? It takes a few moments for me to realize Crash didn’t answer the first question.
“And how much mithril is in this spear?” I repeat.
“Zero ounces, Master. That spearhead is made from steel.”
Well, it was too much to hope for. Instead of thinking too hard about it, I head to the shop and click on the auction house. Then I adjust the search parameters to find weapons and armor, then organize them from cheapest to most expensive.
The next problem is glaring. The first ten items on the list are Awl pikes, and a few scrolls show hundreds of others. Clicking on one, I am given no further information—
“Crash, this doesn’t have any further information other than the name and price? How am I supposed to know I am buying something with mithril in it?” Crash appears inside the shop, and I blink. How did he get behind the gate?
“We’ll adjust the search parameters, Master. There is a great deal of information that is in the items’ binary code listings.” The list begins to repopulate, and now the first ten items are arming swords, which start at fifteen bitcoins.
“Can you tell how much mithril is in each item?” I ask my AI, hoping he will be able to narrow it down further.
“No, Master, the binary simply states if it is a type of mithril alloy or not,” Crash responds. I watch the total number of items continue to climb.
Well, that still leaves the problem of how much mithril would be in an arming sword or if each one of these swords would be different. The starting bid for all of them is fifteen bitcoins, but I hesitate—why go through all this effort?
“Crash, search mithril ore first,” I say and watch the AI freeze for a moment before the list changes again.
Now the auction screen displays mithril ore, and an ounce costs one bitcoin. Would there be more than fifteen ounces of the metal in an arming sword?
“Crash, how much does an arming sword weigh?”
“Sire, on average, an arming sword weighs between three and four pounds or approximately forty-eight ounces.”
Forty-eight ounces? Then the amount of mithril in it could be quite a bit more than fifteen ounces. Still, it seems like a long shot. To hedge my bets, I bid on a single arming sword and start the twenty-four-hour timer. Hopefully, this will give me an idea, and it’s not like there is a rush—yet.
Regardless, the goal now is the same. Mur and I need to start raiding dungeons and collecting items to sell. If we continue to make bitcoins, then we may be able to pay off Ride or Die. Still, perhaps we can just hold on to all the money and move the Training Room.
One issue stands out, though. Even if we move to another location, the Church has become involved in the whole ordeal. No matter where we go, as long as we are in the Northern Territory’s civilized area, we will be outlaws. It’s probably best to settle the account before the move, if possible.
The cultivation journal won’t finish the sale until tomorrow morning, so it’s time to start planning for a dungeon run. Wait. No. Since Mur will be my party member, it’s time to start planning a dungeon dive for tonight. It wouldn’t do to be seen with a goblin in tow.
Chapter 27
September 1st, 151 AR
Jeff Turle
“Smell delicious hopper! This way!” Mur barks into the night and motions me to follow him.
Unsure what exactly a hopper is at this point, I follow. There are two things I can be sure of. First, Mur thinks of this creature as a food source. Second, if F-rank goblins can fight them, then so can we.
My spear is in the subspace, but Mur carries the club-cudgel he took from the goblin weapons. Both of our weapons are of low quality and contain no abilities. Still, they will be able to keep the monsters a bit farther away.
Leporid Dungeon
Rank: F-5
That’s the same creature the murdered party attacked. Since then, I have heard it called Leporid and hopper. . . Is this because each race has named the animals themselves, and the system has its own classifications?
Mur leads me into an area in the ruins, which seems to be entirely overgrown. High grass dominates the space, but the blue floating screen tells me that my tribesman isn’t mistaken. Still, F-5 is a bit strong—isn’t it?
“Mur, wait—” I begin before realizing that my companion is already disappearing into the high grass.
“By the Towers—wait! The grass is taller than you!” I call out, accidentally using English as I chase after the swaying foliage.
I arrive at the entrance in time to see a green shoulder dart under a patch of dead grass raised from the ground to form a sort of open soil sewer grate. I follow him and drop eight feet down to land on soft soil. I look up to see the grass manhole cover fall back into place. My eyes adjust to the new light source, white grass roots that glow with a pale luminescence.
Mur is standing just in front of me and pointing down the six-foot-tall tunnel, indicating some sort of brown-furred creature. Its back is to us, but based on its height compared to Mur’s, it’s approximately four feet tall at the shoulders and has powerfully built hind legs. Its tail is a ball of fur, and above its back are two fleshy horns—wait, are those ears? Hold on, is this a rabbit? I have seen mercenaries bring those back to eat on numerous occasions and even heard them argue about the best hunting method. According to them, the F-ranked rabbits only have a hard bone protrusion on their foreheads and two overdeveloped front teeth for weapons. I make a note and catalog what a Leporid and Rodentia are. I’ll need to make sure to keep them straight in the future.
As for rabbit enemies, if you can avoid their first charge and strike them from the sides or back, they are easy to defeat. Fortunately, the thing’s rear end is facing us, and we shouldn’t have to take on its charge.
After deliberating, I charge forward, my spear appearing from the subspace into my hands. Mur is faster to react, and he is out in front of me, his smaller legs blurring beneath him as he barks, “For Basement Tribe!”
What tribe now? It’s a strange enough battle cry that I stutter a step before catching myself and refocusing. I shake off my confusion as the fluffy tail pops out of view, revealing more of the side profile of the Leporid. It’s clearly heard the battle cry and our approach and is turning to fight. Mur puts on a burst of speed and brings his club down on the creature’s ribs. The blow causes the Leporid to push with its back legs, propelling its head into the wall in front of it. The soft dirt compresses and gives its powerful back legs a bit of room to move.
The rabbit pumps those legs, and I watch as its head arcs off the wall and sideswipes Mur, who is quick to react and interposes his weapon between himself and the side of the Leporid head. Still, the beast’s muscles are backed by hundreds of pounds of weight. Mur is flung back toward me, and I hurriedly abandon my thrust and dodge, trying not to impale the four-foot-tall goblin turned projectile.
His back clips my right shoulder, knocking me back and spinning me enough that I am forced to step behind my left foot with my right. My balance teeters, and I barely manage to keep my feet under me. The Leporid is about ten feet from me and continues to turn as I get my feet set again. I can hear Mur moving behind me and am glad he’s alive, but I don’t think it prudent to spare him a glance.
The Leporid is facing straight down the tunnel by the time I get semi-reset. Its head is built like a battering ram, wide and reinforced by thick bones. The protrusion I’d heard about is simply a rounded lump of bone jutting out of
the skin that makes a perfect impact zone. Looking at it now, I know that getting hit by any part of the wide, heavy head would be devastating. Even the teeth seem to be too thick and large. Rabbits never seemed this intimidating when mercenaries brought their corpses back to camp.
In that instant, qi floods from my Dantian, and I shove it into my arms and legs, panicking. I have nowhere to go! I hear the dirt scrabbling before my eyes realize that the Leporid is closing in. I pull my spear down, attempting to level it at the encroaching bulk. The ten feet becomes five in a blink, and I know I won’t have time to brace the spear in the dirt like I originally hoped. The butt of the weapon is still out in front of me from my botched thrust, and I can’t retract it in time. I can angle it down, though, and try to hit a soft place on that armored head.
My point rises only slightly before the cheek of the Leporid collides with it. The fur parts beneath the steel spearhead, and then the point skitters on the bone forcing itself higher. As the spearhead jerks off course, I simultaneously feel the force transfer down the shaft to my hands, which are jerked horizontally toward my legs. My eyes are as wide as they can go already as I stare down my encroaching death. Pain, worse than when Markus stabbed me, blossoms from my thigh, and I scream. My clenched fist, still on the shaft of the spear, collides with my leg as well, and that acts as enough of an aid that the spearhead jumps up again.
The rabbit shrieks as the point punctures an eye and digs straight up, almost seeming to sink deeper than the socket can account for. The Leporid twitches once, and its momentum continues to move me backward. Thanks to the spear, my feet slide on the soil with little purchase. I try to dig in my toes on reflex, but the pain in my thigh screams at me.