The Monolith

by Stephen Roark

  Anger and fear boiled within me like a toxic stew. My eyes focused on the monstrous creature as it spun to face me, its eyes rabid and wild, intent on my destruction.

  “Feel it!” Rathborne repeated, his voice commanding like a preacher’s. My mind fought against it, but something moved within me, and as I glared at the dreadful dog, I felt a shift within me.

  Time seemed to slow. Of course, it didn’t really, but a heightened awareness came over me as I fought to heed Rathborne’s words. My chest rose with a breath that flowed through me like a cool river. The sounds of the rain seemed to fade into a distant hum as I focused inward.

  There was something there—a pearl of awareness calling out to me that I could access—something that hadn’t been there before. I knew it. I knew it like I knew how to walk, and as the beast charged, I felt it.

  The Shadowstep morphed my body into a mist-like cloud and a surge of strength burst in the muscles of my legs. I barely even had to try. I dashed forward, and like a wraith, passed straight through the body of the beast. My body solidified behind him, and I spun around to see the hapless dog with his back to me.

  “Atta boy!” I heard Rathborne shout. I didn’t hesitate.

  Everything I had went into my axe as I brought it down on the savage dog’s back.

  Doooommmmm!

  I scored a massive hit that drove the animal’s legs out on all sides like the ground beneath him was ice. Blood shot into the air.

  98

  My Rally meter bloomed—almost to full. The strike had left him open to an immediate follow up attack, which I delivered with total menace. The beast yelped as even more of his health peeled away and my Rally meter maxed out.

  That satisfying fleshy sound rang out as my axe sparked with red light, and as the dog spun around to face me, fighting to get his legs under him, I unleashed, chopping away at him with as much speed as I could muster. My weapon was slower than Rey’s Mortician’s Scalpel, but I had the advantage.

  75—88—91—69

  “That’s it!” Rathborne’s voice was filled with pride, like a father cheering on a son as he rounded third base and headed for home. The dog’s health dropped like a rock, passing the halfway mark before he had a chance to fight back. He snarled, spit foam in my direction as I cleaved his hind and streaked the leaves with his blood. He raised a claw to attack, but I was ready for him.

  My Blunderbuss cracked and spit in his face and a glorious riposte brought the monster to his knees.

  “Finish him!” Rathborne hollered, and with a victorious battle cry, I drove my blade home. The last of the beast’s screams caught in its throat as my axe sank into his flesh. His legs wobbled like wet spaghetti and he hit the ground. His body faded as I stepped forward into a glowing pool of Quintessence.

  I saw a blinking icon in the corner of my vision—a billowing black cape, obviously indicating my use of Shadowstep. It was ticking down with a small 5 beneath it.

  Five seconds, I thought. Probably more like 8. I was fighting for some time after using it.

  A breeze swept up my body with a satisfying sound like rustling leaves.

  I know what that means! I thought, quickly opening my character sheet. Sure enough—Level 3, and about a quarter of the way through it as well. I had a little over 1400 unassigned Quintessence, and was absolutely drooling as I looked over my stats and decided how to spend it.

  I gave myself 5 Strength right off the bat, as I was ready to start really kicking ass, put 3 into Viletaint, hoping it would add damage to my ripostes, and then added another 2 to Vitality to increase my HP even more. With the 20% bonus from my cape cloak, I was getting to the point where I wasn’t quite as squishy.

  Rand—Level 3

  Vitality: 11 HP = 277

  Toughness: 5

  Strength: 10

  Skill: 5

  Viletaint: 8

  Intellect: 5

  For the time being, I made the decision, perhaps unwise, to completely ignore Toughness. Rathborne’s cape-cloak had my mind swimming with where I was going to take my character. I was a swift Seeker that melted into the shadows, armed with Blunderbuss and blade, blindingly fast—untouchable! Dodge—riposte. Dodge—riposte! Who needs Toughness when you don’t get hit?

  “Brilliant, boy! Brilliant!” Rathborne said, placing an approving hand on my shoulder.

  “You could have warned me more about what was coming,” I replied.

  “Had to test your mettle.” He grinned. “Make sure I hadn’t made a mistake giving you my cloak.”

  “You didn’t,” I told him firmly as I eyed the cape-cloak hanging from my shoulders. There was a weight to it—not physically—but I felt that by wearing it I had been inducted into something old and important. Rathborne had seen something in me. Potential. And I’d passed his test.

  “No, I did not,” he replied. A look appeared in his eyes that I didn’t fully understand. There was approval, but also a hint of sadness, as though he were remembering something that pained him. Something to do with his son? After a moment, he shook his head and looked away. “You probably want to get going now. Gain your strength—find your friend.”

  I did, but at the same time I didn’t. Rathborne was like a blazing torch against encroaching darkness. I felt like I could stay with him for a long time, but he was right; I had to find Rey.

  “You could come with me,” I spoke before I even realized what I was saying. The old man’s eyes flickered to mine but retreated quickly. He shook his head.

  “No, that is not my destiny. I have had my time. I will be here if you ever need me.”

  His despair pained me. I didn’t know what to do and was really terrible in such situations. All I could think to do was make a joke.

  “Okay, old man,” I said, making sure to have a smile on my face as he looked back at me. Thankfully, he smiled too.

  “Keep your wits about you, boy,” he chuckled, giving me a hearty pat on the back and a push to get me moving.

  “I’ll be sure to visit,” I told him, calling back over my shoulder. As I strode across the withered fields behind his hut, I passed a mound of broken earth, marked by a roughly chiseled stone slab. I looked away, gritted my teeth and pressed on, back into the woods.

  16

  Sluck and the Pale Man

  “The smithing of Scourge Steel is a feat unknown to most, which makes my skills most valuable. Others lack the discipline and work ethic required to take such a vile substance and mold it into something new.”

  —Wilhelm the Smithy

  I felt as though I’d crossed some sacred threshold as I moved through the shadows of the woods. With my cloak on, I was one of them, dark, secret and terrible, deadly to the unsuspecting. Despite being only Level 3, I felt ready to take on the world.

  I’m coming for you, Rey, I thought as I ducked beneath a low-hanging branch. A Corrupted Villager leapt out of nowhere, this one not carrying a torch. I Shadowstepped easily through him and his rusted shovel, then drove my axe into his back.

  MASSIVE!

  The sound rang out as blood heaved and the man fell to his knees, his health all but gone. Two more blows were all it took to finish him off. I looted two vials of Soothing Syrup and pressed on.

  A group of three tried to ambush me, hiding behind a gigantic meteor-like boulder embedded in the ground beside a fallen tree. But I wasn’t Level 1 Rand anymore. I was Rand, Level 3, Seeker of the Order of the Raven, and I chopped them down in seconds, smashing their faces in with a full Rally bar.

  “Easy,” I smirked as a twister of Quintessence spun around me.

  “So sure of yourself!” a voice cackled behind me. I spun around, axe at the ready, as a strange man, cloaked and badly hunched, lumbered toward me, bracing himself on one arm as though he had three legs. “P—p—pride comes before the fall, young Seeker!”

  Sluck—Level 13

  As he grew closer, I saw his face was badly deformed, his skin pocked and flaking like that of a leper. His skin was runneled wi
th keloid scars that twisted up his pallid dermis. Under his good arm, he was clutching what looked like a cannon—an actual cannon.

  I took a step back, putting a fallen tree between us. “Back off!”

  “P—peace! Peace, young master!” Sluck cried out, setting his cannon down and raising a hand before him. “I mean you no harm!”

  “What do you want then?” There was something suspicious about him that had me on edge. He was an NPC, but a very low-level one. Still, he could easily take me, and that cannon of his looked like it could pack a real wallop.

  “A warning!” he hissed, pulling himself forward. He moved far more quickly than he should have been able to.

  “A warning against what?”

  “The pale man!” he whispered as though conveying a secret. “You must beware the pale man!”

  “What pale man?” I asked, wondering for a moment if he was referring to Rathborne.

  “Ahead, ahead!” he stammered, pointing over my shoulder and deeper into the woods. “He wields a great hammer. C—can you hear it ring out?”

  I listened, but all I heard was the wind in the trees. But then I remembered Alastor Cook’s words back at town.

  “I hear the sound of his hammer from the woods.”

  “You mean the Smithy?” I asked. Sluck nodded eagerly, pointing a wavy finger at my face.

  “Yes, yes, yes!” He nodded. “Beware the Smithy!”

  “Beware?” I replied, confused. “Why? Alastor Cook told me I should bring him back to town.”

  “Alastor Cook!” Sluck scoffed and hacked a ball of phlegm onto the scrub beneath him. “That barely-a-man isn’t as kind as you might think!”

  I frowned at the hunchback as he wiped sputum from his lips with the back of his hand. Finding the Smith and returning him to the Weeping Hills seemed perfectly logical. He was an upgrade NPC and Alastor was the quest giver. So, who was this Sluck guy telling me otherwise?

  “So, what are you telling me?” I asked skeptically. “That it’s a trap?”

  A gleam entered his eye and he pointed again. “A trap, a trap! Yes!” He inched forward again and a stink of vinegar and rot swept over me, causing me to take a step back. “But, a p—p—prize may be found if you have the stomach for it!”

  “A prize?”

  “Extremely valuable!” he cackled. “The Mortal Slab! He carries it on him. Kill him and claim it for yourself!”

  “Mortal Slab…” I repeated, thinking back to the Mortal Shard I’d found before that had granted me 350 Quintessence. “Quintessence?”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” he replied with delight, rubbing his hands together. I saw they were two different sizes. The one that held the cannon was massive and muscled, coated in calluses. The other was more like a claw, with great nails clogged with plugs of dirt and grass.

  “Fifteen thousand!” he cried out, his voice so shrill and cutting that I almost had to cover my ears. “Make a great warrior out of you! Great, great!”

  He wasn’t wrong. Fifteen thousand Quintessence would be at least ten levels, a dramatic increase from the pace I’d been leveling. But something felt fishy. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but who was this guy and why was he telling me this?

  “Uh huh,” I replied, crossing my arms. “And what do you get out of this?”

  “Me?” he asked, as though he hadn’t anticipated such a question. “Why—why—Sluck just wants to help, young Seeker.”

  I nodded again, eyeing the cannon beside him. Something gleamed, and I saw the shine of a dagger hidden beneath a sash wrapped around his waist, barely concealed beneath his robe. Somewhere in the back of my mind I recalled the name Ephialtes.

  “Thank you, Sluck,” I replied, turning to go.

  “Wait, w—wait!” he cried out, leaping with incredible speed in front of me to block my path.

  “Move,” I told him firmly.

  “W—w—will you claim the slab?!” he asked. “Glory for yourself!”

  “We’ll see,” I replied. I lifted my axe and aimed the piercing tip towards him. Despite having ten levels on me, he cowered from the blade.

  “Okay, young Seeker. Okay!” One hand in the air, as if to stave off my aggression, he backed away to his cannon. It must have weighed a ton, but he lifted it easily under his arm like he was carrying a shovel. With another glance behind him, he tramped away from me, his waltz-like rhythm of his three “feet” slowly fading into the shadows. Once I was sure he was gone, I continued on my way.

  Decisions, decisions…

  Information in Blood Seekers was hard to come by, and even then, sometimes conflicting. There were still plenty of things I didn’t know—like what max-level was, or when I would be able to start learning skills—and now I was being pulled in all different directions by the world’s NPCs.

  Still, 15,000 Quintessence would be pretty sick…

  But if what Alastor had told me was true, the Smith would return to town and offer his services to everyone else. If I killed him, would he respawn? Seeing as how this was a Mizaguchi game, I seriously doubted it.

  It gave me something to think about as I pressed on, cutting down Corrupted Villagers like an old veteran. Two more groups went down with ease, not even landing a single hit on me. I sucked up their Quintessence and continued on, about a third of the way to Level 4.

  So far, the levels didn’t really seem to mean much, though. If anything, they were just an easy way for someone else to get a general sense of my strength, but that was about it. Even then, I could have been dumping Quintessence into the completely wrong stats for my build. For instance, pumping up my Intelligence wouldn’t do a damn thing for my build in particular (it was more for those using magic I’d imagine), but if I wanted to, I could do it.

  I knew there were skills to be had, and most games let you learn new ones every level, but so far that didn’t seem to be the case. Were they item specific or something you had to buy?

  Guess I’ll find out, I thought. I hopped a thin stream of dark water, its surface alive with drops of rain as it carved a deep path through the forest floor. A burst of pain flared through my leg and I instantly Shadowstepped away from whatever it was that had hit me.

  I spun around to face a Flesh Starved Dog, like the one I’d fought back at the old man’s hut, only this one had gotten the jump on me and cleaved off a quarter of my HP. I managed to gulp a Soothing Syrup as it leapt back at me, and although I really wasn’t prepared for it, blasted him with my Blunderbuss as it brought its claws down.

  The shot hit, but I’d mistimed it and missed my riposte and the damage from the gun was pitiful.

  12

  The damage from the beast on the other hand…

  67

  Maybe I should up my toughness a bit, I thought as I slashed back with an upward stroke that caught the beast in the jaw.

  45

  Two more strikes, 38—44, and my Rally bar was well on its way to filling. I pulled back to swing but the beast threw itself forward and drove its two back feet straight into my chest.

  68

  I was around half, which was dangerous; if a few swift attacks from the dog landed, I’d be dead. I feinted to the left, drawing an expected attack, then rolled to the right, popping a Soothing Syrup and tossing the vial before rising to my feet.

  The creature was quick, but I was ready for him. Swinging my axe like a baseball bat, I drove the blade home into the beast’s jaw as it snarled and aimed its bite at me.

  MASSIVE!

  135

  “Hah!” I cried out as the dog slashed the air towards me. I planted a foot and leapt into the air like something out of a movie. My axe found its mark, cutting deep into the dog’s neck, and my Rally bar bloomed. I hit the ground, planted a knee and swung hard. With a roar, the monstrous creature died.

  As I stood up, the whirlwind of Quintessence enveloped me and I couldn’t help but smile. With every monster I cut down, with every step I took, I was feeling less and less lost. The world was filled wi
th familiar aspects of other MMOs, but if Mizaguchi’s intention had been to set gamers off balance, then he’d succeeded completely. I was half way to level 4 now and eager to find the Smithy, so I continued on. Finally, after cutting down two more Corrupted Villagers like a lumberjack might cut down trees, I heard the faint sound of steel against steel.

  At first it was difficult to determine the source of the sound, as it echoed across the surrounding trees like a metallic ping pong ball. But after heading in one direction, then doubling back, I was able to trace the rhythmic high pitched ring to a sloped fall of horizontal stone that cut through the forest floor like a series of hammered down razors.

  The trees began to thin, opening into a corridor just wide enough for a man. As I walked, the sound of metal grew louder. With each blow, an orange light flared in the darkness and I saw the yawning mouth of a cave, barely visible beneath drippings of thick vines and leaves.

  Despite Sluck’s warnings, I slung my axe over my shoulder as I strode toward the hollow, my steps in time with the cry of the hammer. The glow grew brighter and I brushed aside a thick green tendril and peered inside.

  “Who goes there?” a gruff voice asked.

  “Rand,” I replied. “Alastor Cook sent me. Told me to tell you the plague was over.”

  17

  The Smithy

  “I have again spotted the strange man peering out at me through the trees. He obviously has no desire to be seen, but I fear my suspicions are correct and he is the same man I witnessed stabbing a young Seeker in the back beneath the shadows of an alley deep in Baneridge. What business does he have here? I must keep my guard up.”

  —from the private journals of J.P. Cornish

  I understood why Sluck had referred to the Smith as “the pale man.” He was an absolute brute of a fellow, with long hair and a beard as white as snow, and skin not much darker. His muscles were taut and massive amidst the glow from the forge that sweated beside him. In one hand he held a worn smith’s hammer—the other hand was gone.