Rise of the Grandmaster

by Bradford Bates

  Tim looked at the Innkeeper. “There’s something I need from you too.”

  “You mean besides a room, food, and my sparkling personality?” Ernie crossed his arms over his chest, knowing he had more work coming his way.

  “Yes.” Tim slammed his hand on the table. The man was still acting like this was a game, but those fuckers had stabbed him, and he wanted retribution. “I need you to track those bastards down, so I can make sure they don’t hurt anyone ever again.”

  Ernie’s frown grew deeper. “Excuse me for being the only one with the balls to say this, but doesn’t killing people kind of go against your code as a healer?”

  Tim's lips tightened into a thin line as a look of determination crossed his face. “The only code I have is the one that keeps me alive.” He tried to stare through the man. “I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure the people I care about are safe.”

  “Hear, hear,” shouted Gaston.

  “Fine. I’ll find your killers.” Ernie huffed. “Just don’t go dragging any trouble back to my inn.” He stood up from the table and headed to the kitchen. “I’ll get you some food. If you’re going to be training with Gaston, you’re going to need the extra energy.”

  The burly assassin chuckled. “He’s not kidding. You’re in for a real treat.” Gaston stood up, flipped his chair over his head, catching it by one leg on a single extended finger and balancing it there for a moment before setting the chair back on the floor.

  Gaston picked up his drink and polished it off in a single gulp. “Meet me inside the red door when you’re ready.” He pointed across the room at a door Tim never noticed before.

  Before he could say anything to Gaston, Ernie appeared with a flourish of his apron and began laying a feast on the table. Tim looked at the delicious food, thinking he might have just bitten off a little more than he could chew. Dexterity and hand-to-hand fighting, or his lack thereof, were exactly why he had chosen to play a healer.

  “One step at a time,” Tim mumbled, looking down at his grits. He took the first bite and felt his stomach began to settle. “You’ve got this.” By the time Tim was done with his bowl, he almost believed it.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Didn’t red mean murder?

  Or like they used to say in one of his favorite games, red meant dead.

  Tim had read in some shitty horror fan mag how colors were used in films. Red was never good in movies. Just think about The Sixth Sense. He was always seeing red and then dead people. Who wanted to deal with that shit?

  Of course, I’d much rather see dead people than be one.

  Tim grabbed the handle on the door. Any trace of hesitation he’d felt about going down a darker path was banished as he thought about Marvin standing over him and laughing as he died. The motherfucker had laughed at him.

  And those asshole guards weren’t much better. Sometimes it felt like the entire deck was stacked against him, and that he’d never succeed. All he had to do in those moments was dig a little deeper. Everyone had a reserve they could dip into when they really needed that last little push. He needed that push now like a baby bird needed help out of the nest.

  I mean, you never really know what you’re capable of until you're well outside your comfort zone.

  Going down a path that eventually led to killing another man was so far outside his comfort zone, it might as well have been Mars. Shit, they hadn’t even colonized it yet, but if that Musk dude had anything to say about it, a colony on Mars was in humanity’s future—not that landing a shuttle on the big red planet would make shoving his dagger into another person any easier.

  But it sure would be cool.

  The Mars thing, not the dagger. “Fuck.” He babbled when he was nervous. Walking down the dark, creepy stairs behind the red door to learn how to kill people definitely had him on edge, but he refused to spend the next twenty years looking over his shoulder for hints of orange.

  There was no doubt in his mind he’d picked the right teacher. That trick with the chair had been amazing. Gaston was huge, but he moved with the grace of a ballerina. A normal person couldn’t move and balance the way Gaston did. Tim knew he wasn’t on that level, but with the two extra points in dexterity, he wasn’t useless, either.

  Inside the door was a small landing that led to a rickety wooden staircase built into the wall. Of course, the steps go down. There weren’t any torches lighting the wall, but there was the barest hint of an orange flicker of light coming from somewhere below him. The door closed behind him, sealing him in total darkness.

  Tim froze. The last thing he wanted to do was walk into a trap. Maybe this was a test of some kind. He waited until his eyes adjusted to the dark as much as they could, then started down the stairs. The steps at his feet might as well have been black ice, and despite his hand touching the wall, he couldn’t see his fingers. One step at a time, he went down.

  Halfway down the stairs, he paused again. He could almost make out the faint trace of his hand against the wall. Was his eyesight getting better, or was the light coming from the bottom of the stairs helping more? As he tried to puzzle it out, a prompt flickered in the bottom right of his vision. He swatted it away, vowing to change his not-in-combat settings when he had the chance.

  The prompt appeared in his vision again. “That’s going to be annoying,” Tim muttered as he opened the system settings and changed his commands to only show him messages and prompts when he asked for them.

  Might as well see what was so important that it stopped me from becoming the guy killed before the opening credits of a slasher film.

  Skill Received: Night Vision

  Skill Rank: Novice rank one

  It is now one percent easier for you to see in low-light conditions.

  Not a bad little perk. Tim wondered if at the higher levels, you could see in total darkness. Imagine the fun you could have with that.

  The best part about his new skill was the only thing required to increase it was darkness and a willingness to stumble around blindly until you leveled up. Cheap and easy; it was just his kind of thing—unlike when you went to the grocery store and looked at two identical cuts of meat that were both step four organic, but one is three more dollars a pound.

  What the fuck was up with that shit?

  Sometimes you just had to realize you’d never find out the answer. The world wasn’t a logical place. People didn’t always make rational decisions. They knew cigarettes killed them—fuck, the Marlboro Man had died of lung cancer—but they still smoked. A good stiff drink might take the edge off, but a few too many, and your liver and kidneys were gone. Life was a wild, messy, endless clusterfuck.

  And he freaking loved it!

  Tim dismissed the prompt and continued down the steps until he reached a level surface. The tunnel in front of him extended for another fifteen feet, this time ending at a solid black door. No markings adorned the surface, and if he was in a George RR book, the room behind it would be full of human faces.

  Thankfully he was in The Etheric Coast, and while there might be secret assassins who could wear other people’s faces, he’d yet to encounter one. It didn’t make sense to be afraid of things he’d never run into. Tim was afraid of cobras, which was totally irrational, but ever since Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, he’d been terrified. That didn’t mean he got up in the morning looking for cobras everywhere. They weren’t an American problem.

  The philosophers of the world could spend a hundred years telling you what the color black meant. It was bad; it meant death. Witches wore black, and demons. Over the years, Tim had learned one thing about black and white: they were just colors on opposite sides of the spectrum. Neither was evil, and history was full of assholes wearing white while committing atrocities.

  “Fuck,” Tim grumbled. Why couldn’t he ever stop his mind from racing a mile a minute when he was nervous?

  Colors. Who gave a fuck about what color the door was? What he needed to focus on was getting to Gaston and maximizing the small window o
f time he had left before he had to try to complete his quest. When he left the Blue Dagger Inn, Tim needed to be skilled enough with a weapon to kill a man.

  Tim opened the black door and stepped into a well-lit training chamber. Not what I expected. He’d imagined some kind of underground fighting ring or a dirt-floored basement with bloodstains on the walls. He wasn’t sure what to expect from his training session, except that he’d probably leave with a few bruises and enough knowledge to be mildly dangerous.

  The room he was standing in now was nothing like what he’d been expecting. Wooden training dummies lined one wall. In another section were targets set up at ten, twenty, and forty feet for practice with a hand crossbow or a dagger.

  Speaking of weapons…

  One entire wall was filled with knives, short swords, and ranged weapons. It was an arsenal fit for an armory. Tim wouldn’t have been surprised if the weapons in this room were worth more than the entire block.

  A smile broke out on his face. “At least I’m in the right place.”

  “That you are.” Gaston stood up from a chair against the wall by the door. He finished his drink and flipped the cup so it landed on the seat of the chair he just vacated, not moving so much as an inch after hitting the seat.

  “I want to show you something.” Gaston pulled a lever by the door, and a ball fell from the ceiling. The chain snapped tight, and the ball spun and swayed from side to side. Sticking out of it were sharpened blades. They emerged at multiple angles, so there didn’t seem to be any way to get close to the thing without risking being skewered like a kabob.

  Gaston rushed forward, pulling two daggers from behind his back as he lunged at the ball. He flowed around the sharpened blades like water over a rock. The man spun with the fluidity of a ballerina and bent with the dexterity of a yogi. He kept up the deadly dance until the ball stopped swinging.

  Moving forward, Tim peered at the chipped and dented wood. Somehow, Gaston had managed not to be hit by the ball’s blades, but he had also done significant damage to the target. If this had been a person, the assassin could have killed him a hundred times over. Gaston was even better with a blade than Tim had dared hope.

  “Don’t tell me I have to do that?” Tim touched one of the blades and yanked his hand back as blood welled from the cut on his finger.

  He quickly cast healing orb on his finger and looked at the assassin with more respect. Those blades weren’t just for show. Would he be able to do that one day? At some point, he’d have to make a choice. There was no way he’d have the time to focus on two classes, even if he was given the chance to learn a second one.

  Splitting his time between the two would be counterproductive at best, and at worst, it would leave him way behind his peers. Players paid the most for the best and newest items. To get those, and the kind of payday he needed to accomplish his goals, Tim would have to focus on healing, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t learn how to poke holes in someone when he had spare time.

  Gaston moved toward the door to pull the lever and raise the ball back up into the rafters. “Maybe we should focus on the basics first.” He motioned for Tim to follow him over to the dummies.

  “Since I can’t deal with the problem on your behalf, I want you to have these.” Gaston reached behind his back and pulled out a small bundle. In it were two daggers and a bandolier of throwing knives.

  Tim looked at his newly acquired weapons with awe. Jepsom had made him heal people for hours, and Gaston was just going to give him two daggers and some throwing knives. Leaving the temple might not have been such a bad thing after all.

  Simple Dagger of Dexterity: This was an average dagger before someone added a small weight to the back, improving the balance of the blade. +1 to dexterity.

  Basic Throwing Knives: There’s nothing special about these knives except that you have a lot of them.

  The daggers were a huge bonus. Tim equipped both knives, enjoying the feel of the soft leather grips against the palms of his hands. Of course, the best part was the bonus to his dexterity, bringing the stat up to sixteen. It might have just been his imagination, but Tim felt more flexible.

  Was that even a thing—feeling flexible?

  Shaking his head to clear it, he looked at the burly assassin. “Thank you.” He meant it. Tim had come down here not expecting much, and he’d already been given bounty beyond imagining. If he could use the daggers half as well as they deserved to be used, he might stand a chance in a real fight.

  “So, what do I do now?” He looked at the dummy and back at the daggers in his hands.

  “Try to stab the dummy.” Gaston hit the dummy with his fist. “Get used to the feel of the blades in your hands and the resistance of each strike against the wood.” He smiled as Tim took his first exploratory swing. “You’ll find there are times to stab and opportunities for slashing. Knowing which to use and when will save your life.”

  Tim started bobbing and weaving. As he moved, he’d either slash or stab with one of the daggers. He tried launching attacks with both hands, amazed by how well his left hand responded. He’d always been right-hand dominant and was in awe of ambidextrous people.

  Gaston moved around him as he worked. Each time Tim did something the assassin didn’t like, he corrected his form. Next he showed Tim how to reverse his grip on one of the daggers so the blade was pressed against his forearm. From there, he could slash or block with it. The burly assassin called a halt to their training and pointed for Tim to join him at the range.

  Gaston pulled one of the knives from Tim’s bandolier and showed him how to hold it. “Just remember, when you throw the blade, the end-over-end shit is just to catch the attention of the girls.” The assassin pulled one of his own knives free, and with a casual flick of the wrist, the blade slammed into the center of the target.

  “Holy shit! That was so fucking badass!” Tim blurted excitedly.

  Whirling, Gaston pulled blades from inside his leather armor and threw them at the targets so fast Tim couldn’t keep track of where all the knives were coming from, let alone where they were going. Finally, Gaston slowed, pulling what must have been his last blade free.

  Balancing the slim knife in his palm, he licked the index finger of his other hand and held it up to test the air for a breeze. Tim held his breath as Gaston pulled his arm back and snapped it forward. The knife sailed forty feet through the air to land dead center in the target, where it quivered.

  Smiling, Gaston turned back to Tim. “That’s how you do it.”

  “Showoff,” Tim groused as he helped Gaston pull the knives from the targets. “Let me guess: that’s not how I do this drill either.”

  “Not if you want to hit anything.” Gaston chuckled. “Now show me what you’ve got.”

  Tim pulled one of the knives out of his bandolier and held it out. Gaston clicked his tongue and adjusted his grip. When Tim looked at him for confirmation that his hold on the knife was right, Gaston nodded.

  “Just throw the damn thing,” Gaston growled, growing impatient.

  Tim didn’t want to overthink it, so he tried to mimic the motion the assassin had made when he threw his first dagger. The blade flew from his hand, and his heart rose in his throat as it neared the target. The knife dipped at the last second, catching the bottom edge of the target and spinning uselessly away.

  “Not bad.” Gaston clapped him on the back.

  At least I didn’t miss the entire target. So he either had to aim a little higher, compensating for the weight of the blade dropping as it slowed, or he had to throw it harder. His throw hadn’t been that far off the first time, so instead of trying to throw it harder, he’d just aim a wee bit higher.

  Tim slipped the next blade from his bandolier and focused on the target. His breath slowed, and his field of vision narrowed until he could only see the spot he was aiming for. With a quick motion, Tim’s arm extended, and the knife flew straight at the target. This time when the blade dipped, it struck the bullseye before bouncing har
mlessly away.

  “Maybe with a little more oomph!” Gaston chided, leaning against the railing. “While humans are rather soft, they tend to wear things that make them much harder to kill.”

  Gaston was right. Even if the blade hit the target, it wouldn’t matter if it didn’t penetrate their armor. Without power behind them, the blades might as well have been something he tossed out to try to distract someone. What was he worried about, anyway? It wasn’t like he was going to hurt or kill the target by hitting it harder.

  If he was going to throw the blade harder, he wouldn’t have to compensate for the fall. If he did this right, the knife would fly straight and sink into the target. All he had to do was concentrate. His breathing slowed as he adjusted his feet. Tim focused on the bullseye and let rip with everything he had behind it.

  Throwing so hard must have sent his aim off. The knife flew right past the target and sank into the boards behind it with a hearty thwack. He winced at the sound, already thinking about how he could make adjustments for his next throw.

  Gaston slapped him on the back. “Now with a little less gusto, my overeager young friend.”

  “No shit.” Tim quipped, giving the assassin a dirty look. Gaston laughed while casually plucking a knife from his own bandolier and tossing it at the target, looking Tim straight in the eyes. The blade sailed across the room and stuck perfectly in the center of the target. A bright smile lit Gaston’s features, and he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

  “Now you’re just showing off.” Tim chuckled at the assassin’s antics. Had Gaston always been this funny, or was training together bringing out a side of the man he’d never seen? Until now, Tim would have told you the assassin would be more likely to slit your throat than shake your hand. Apparently healing Freddy had changed Gaston’s attitude toward him dramatically.

  Tim wanted to hit the target this time. Not so he could avoid another round of humiliation at the feet of a master, but because he wanted to. Deep inside, he wanted to be able to do this; he needed to. He also didn’t want Gaston to think he was wasting his time. He was taking this very seriously. His life depended on how well he could use these skills.