Lightningbreaker

by L. T. Thornhill

  Matteo wanted to snort, but held himself back. All he could do was look on in disbelief as someone was accused of escaping from what he could clearly see was slavery of some sort. He might be wrong. There could be a nuance to the way this world worked that he was not privy to. Though none of that mattered when it came to using a child.

  There was no way that this world could justify its rules by making someone so young as the boy work for people who were mostly in their early twenties. At least, that was the average age of the players of Axis Mundi, and Matteo assumed that if real players were indeed in this world, then the average age might not have changed all that much.

  Letting go of a sigh of disappointment, Olympus held his staff upright. Lysander gave a wide grin, which could only mean that whatever was about to happen might just be something unspeakable.

  “In that case,” said Olympus, leaning back on his throne and holding the staff upright, “do you have any last words? Speak now, but do not expect them to change your sentence.”

  The boy smirked. “I do, my Prince,” he said, straightening his back as much as he could. “I want you to take that rod, and shove it so high up your escape chute that every time you open your mouth, lightning shoots out.”

  Stunned silence.

  Matteo could see some of the Shockers looking at the boy with gaping mouths. He, on the other hand, had to bite the inside of his cheek to prevent the laughter from bursting out. The boy’s fate was sealed. Matteo wasn’t about to make it worse, as if such a thing was even possible at that point.

  IronMayden walked over to the boy and brought her palm against his cheek in a loud crack that seemed to reverberate around the hall. The boy fell to his side, his head barely missing the floor. His fists clenched, Matteo wanted to step forward, but a muzzle against his back stopped him. He half-expected another look of disdain, but, turning around, he saw something else in Emiri’s eyes. There was concern there—not for him, but for the boy. Something held her from doing anything. Matteo did not relax his fingers when he faced forward, but he noticed Olympus looking at him curiously.

  The young boy got to his knees and wiped the blood from his lips. The smirk returned to his face. This time, he was delivering it to IronMayden. “You have soft hands. Let me guess, you’re the one in charge of laundry.”

  Before IronMayden could deliver another blow, Olympus stopped her with a single word. “Enough.”

  When IronMayden returned to her post beside Olympus, the so-called ‘prince’ raised the staff slightly and brought its end down on the floor with a booming clang. “Kenji. For the crimes of withdrawing from your post as an NPC, I cast you into the wild for a game of Battle Royale. You shall fight the beasts that lay outside without help nor equipment. Survive, and you shall return to your post. Die and, well, you don’t have to worry about coming back, then, do you?”

  A Shocker bled out of the shadows and walked toward the young boy, whose name Matteo now knew to be Kenji. When the Shocker picked Kenji up, the boy did not resist. But there was fear in his eyes. He was basically a child who was going to be thrown out to the creatures that roamed the forests.

  Despite his fear, Kenji forced a smile on his face. “Well, good. I would rather hear the roar of a Minotaur than listen to your voices any day.”

  “Be careful what you wish for, young Kenji,” said Olympus, a playful smile forming on his lips.

  The Shocker holding onto Kenji yanked him hard, causing him to trip. A chorus of laughter spread throughout the hall.

  “Keep laughing,” shouted Kenji as he was taken toward a door set into the wall on one side of the throne. “Laughing at a kid is all you’re worth, anyway.”

  After the door closed behind the boy, there was a brief moment where murmurs spread throughout the crowd. Olympus brought the hall to a quiet with the raise of one hand.

  “We will have time for banter,” he said, bringing the hand down. “We have more guests to deal with.”

  Lysander smiled wide, like a man who was about to get what he wanted. Matteo looked at the young woman, a single tear making its way down the corner of one eye and dangling from the edge of her chin. Her nostrils flared in quick succession, a sign of repressed anger and expressed fear. Regardless, she continued to stare ahead.

  “My Prince,” said Lysander, offering a half-bow. “What I have here is an NPC who has thrown away almost a day’s worth of food.”

  It seemed Lysander loved theatrics. He stepped away from the young woman, yet he kept his arm stretched out toward her, his fingertips brushing against her shoulder. It was as though she was his prize and he was afraid that someone might take her from him.

  “My fellow Shockers of all ages,” he said, sweeping his free arm around to indicate everyone in the room. He made it a point to move the arm over Matteo, Boran, and Emiri, giving them a mocking grin as he did so. “Did you know what I thought about when I woke up today?”

  Nobody responded. Matteo guessed that perhaps that was what Lysander wanted. He was about to start the show.

  “The Mongols.”

  A chuckle. Shifting of feet. Somewhere, a barely audible “the what?” was heard, the word stretched out to sound like “whaaaat?” in mock confusion. A few murmurs. Yet none of them fazed Lysander. He simply stood there, waiting for the crowd to exhaust their reactions. At no point did he seem annoyed or singled out anyone from the crowd for their behavior.

  When the chatter subsided, Lysander waited a moment longer. At one point, it seemed as though the silence was getting awkward, but before restlessness could sweep the crowd, his voice boomed once again.

  “Rule the world. That’s what everyone says. But what does it mean, really? I can tell you to rule the world and, for all we know, I am just asking you to dream big or aim bigger. An example to create motivation. An exaggerated statement for an exaggerated sense of confidence.”

  Looking at the crowd, Matteo realized that they were hanging on to his every word. By the gods, the man had them. He had allowed them to display their persona, not questioning or reacting to them. It was his way of showing that he couldn’t care less what they did, because he knew better than them.

  “Not for the Mongols. People might have scoffed at them, but what can you do against a force that was slowly taking over the world? Nearly nine million square miles of territory. That’s what they had, eventually. Think about that. No magic. No gods. No guns. Just sword, steel, and the single-minded determination to spread far and wide.”

  Lysander moved around the young woman, his fingertips trailing across her shoulder blades and eventually landing on the opposite shoulder. She flinched, but closed her eyes and pressed her lips tight. Lysander must have noticed that, for he smiled.

  “One man.” Lysander raised one finger. “Genghis Khan. It was him and his army who destroyed their enemies and struck fear in the hearts of anyone who dared oppose them. And when they eventually conquered the lands, guess what happened?”

  No one answered. Not because they didn’t want to, but because they were hanging onto his every word like ants skittering toward honey. “They created a land where people felt safe. You could step outside holding a bag of gold and nobody, and I mean nobody, would dare touch you. You were safe. There was no merchant who had to fear being robbed. Yet what do people remember him for?

  “A coward,” Lysander continued. A few nods in the crowd.

  “A tyrant,” Lysander spoke a little louder. This time, a few “yeahs” joined in, the audience ready to pour out their excitement.

  “A murderer,” Lysander yelled. He made a show of closing his eyes and bringing himself under control. When he opened his eyes, he appeared composed. “No one dared rise against him. No one dared overthrow him. Why? Because he and his army knew how to control the people under them. My dear Shockers, we are the Mongols. And he,” Lysander pointed at Olympus, “is Genghis Khan.”

  The outburst of cheer was sudden. There was a primal energy coursing through the crowd and because they all were
showing their support for the same thing, they felt united. Matteo did not show it on his face, but deep inside, his heart quaked in his chest. He saw Boran and Emiri looking on with what could only be described as raw fear.

  When Lysander whirled around to face Olympus, everyone in the room instantly quietened down. It was as though someone had hit a mute button on reality.

  “My Prince,” said Lysander, raising his chin in admiration, “let me teach this woman how to remain under control. Today, it’s food. Tomorrow, she might just be like that young boy, daring to defy us. And if that happens, we know every NPC out there might think they can do the same.”

  The crowd lost it. They became vocal about their support. Matteo heard a “let him have her” roll out from somewhere behind him.

  For his part, Lysander seemed to bask in the support. There was a sense of pride in his posture, as though he had just destroyed one of the most dangerous beasts in Midgard. The crowd also seemed to sway Olympus, for the prince, though he looked nonplussed, looked around the room. He brought down the uproar of the hall with a raise of his hand.

  Without preamble, Olympus spoke. “Your words hold true. We are indeed the ones who are going to create a system of order here in Midgard and, for that matter, the whole planet, if required.”

  Standing to his feet, Olympus continued. “However, the Mongols had a system of rules. One of them being that women cannot be abducted from their families.”

  The corner of Lysander’s mouth twitched, but that was all the indication Matteo could get on whether the man was displeased by the direction of his leader’s words.

  “The NPC world is her family. For that reason, we give her a fair trial. The Battle Royale.”

  A few conversations broke out, obviously among those in favor of Lysander’s idea. Matteo wondered if there was any opposition between the leader and the joker.

  “However,” said Olympus and the voices dimmed. “The woman, if she completes the trials, shall receive a month’s worth of freedom to return to NPC life. After that, she is all yours. If she dies, then, well, I believe there are other options awaiting you in the town of Valhalla.”

  Lysander’s chest swelled. Victory may not have come the way he’d wanted, but it was victory nonetheless.

  “Woman,” said Olympus, not bothering to ask her name. “Do you have any last words? Speak now, but do not expect them to change your sentence.”

  Matteo wondered how it was that the prince knew Kenji’s name. Perhaps he was someone notorious. That, or the boy was a repeat offender.

  The young woman finally faced the prince. For a while, they stared at each other, until she looked at Lysander who, unlike the prince, could not hold her gaze and chose to look away, stretching his hands behind his back to show he was merely tired of the proceedings and not intimidated by the woman.

  The woman then faced the audience on one side of the hall. “My name is Shaury.” Her accent placed her from one of the Eastern countries back home on Earth, but Matteo was not familiar enough with accents to decide a specific country. “I arrived in these lands much as all of you have. But I don’t live in these lands like most of you. You may think I am going to beg for my freedom.” She shook her head. “I won’t. I want you to remember my name as the one you failed to bring to her knees.”

  There was a scoff from Lysander. The word “no” had just escaped Matteo’s mouth, causing Shaury to look at him before Lysander’s boot struck her knee pit. The woman dropped down on one knee, a gasp of shock escaping her lips. Lysander took the opportunity to press down on her shoulder on the kneeling side. He repeated the movements with the other knee pit and shoulder. “There. Mission accomplished.”

  Laughter rang out around the room. Lysander slapped his hands, as though dusting them off, before looking at Matteo. “Looks like this dungmeat has something to say, amirite?.”

  Matteo could feel eyes boring into him. He looked over at the figure on the throne, whose impassive stare was difficult to read, and the two figures standing beside him, who looked at him like curious kids watching an ant move under a microscope.

  Without a second look, Matteo went up to the woman and lifted her to her knees. Shaury looked up in surprise, but did not say anything at first. She wrenched her arm away. “I can take care of myself.”

  Matteo ignored the snickers. “I never said you couldn’t.” He was ready for an attack. A strike on the head or perhaps a blow that would send waves of pain through his body. When none came, he was genuinely surprised.

  “What’s your name?” asked Olympus, leaning forward with his elbows expertly balanced on the staff, which was once again lying across his lap.

  Boran stepped forward. “This fool’s name is Matteo. I caught him running away from a Minotaur. My sister and I rescued him, winning this in the process.” He held up the Minotaur Horn. The audience looked impressed, and a couple of whistles rang out.

  “That is a fine kill, young Boran,” said Olympus. The only sign that he was even remotely impressed was a slight raise of his eyebrows.

  For his part, Boran bowed. “Thank you, Prince.” Lysander bit his lower lip as he looked at the boy with narrow eyes. He was smiling, but the smile did not reach his eyes.

  “He claims that he hasn’t met a God yet. I believe that he is an Agri. Why else would our lord, the great Zeus, not appear to him in the few hours that we spent with him?”

  “Is this true?” asked Olympus, his question directed at Matteo.

  Was there any point in lying? Would it really make any difference? Matteo might as well confess and face the charges. After all, the two NPCs before him had met their fates with grim determination.

  “No,” said Matteo. “That is not true. I barely made it out alive, if not for these two,” he added with a scowl on his face, as though he was loath to make such a confession. Boran looked genuinely surprised, but masked his emotion quickly. Emiri was definitely suspicious. “If I was an Agri, I would have done something.”

  “What can you do as an Agri? Throw an ear of corn?” This came from Lysander, supported by laughter from the hall.

  Recovering from his previous reaction, Boran shrugged, as though he couldn’t care about reasons. “I am telling you all what I fear. We definitely don’t want a damned Agri in our midst.”

  A chorus of “yeahs” and nodding of heads.

  “Do you know the punishment for being an Agri and lying about it?” asked Olympus, to which Matteo stayed silent, hoping that the prince didn’t know something about him. “It is worse than just being an Agri scum.”

  “I can’t confess to something I am not,” said Matteo, shrugging his shoulders.

  There was a quick nod from Olympus, as though he understood something that others didn’t. He seemed to ponder for a while, his gaze switching between Boran and Matteo. Eventually, his eyes settled on the younger brother.

  “Boran,” said Olympus, holding his staff out next to him, “you have brought a potential enemy into our midst and he does not seem to have a single scratch on him. Our enemies appear before us either harmed,” he looked at Matteo, “or dead.”

  The staff hit the floor and the clang followed.

  “However, you have shown much skill in battle and for that, you deserve an appropriate reward. You and your sister shall be promoted to Rank 2.”

  Surprised reactions from the audience. Even Lysander’s jaw dropped slightly, realizing that Boran and Emiri were officially declared his peers.

  “As for you,” said Olympus, turning to Matteo. “You shall be thrown into the Battle Royale to fight for your freedom. If you die, then we can rid you of your pitiful existence.”

  At first, it almost seemed as though Olympus’s judgment had passed. For some reason, Matteo held back on the celebration.

  Another clang of the staff. “Once you get your freedom, you will serve your time as an NPC for a period of one month before you shall join Shaury as Lysander’s slave.”

  A brief moment of stillness punctuated t
he hall, as though the very air refused to move after the shocking decision. At once, a cacophony of cheers, intense conversations, praise for both Olympus and Lysander, and a myriad of taunts broke out. Matteo felt as though his legs could not move. He stood frozen in his spot. Lysander turned to him, a devilish grin laying bare all his nefarious intentions on his face.

  The noise quietened down. When Matteo snapped out of his trance, he noticed that Olympus had raised his hand.

  “Normally, I would ask for your last words, a final moment to unburden your soul, throw an insult, scream your fury, wail, or whatever you want to do. Not that it would do you any good.” Olympus looked Matteo square in the eye. “You don’t get that. In fact, for trying to even think about helping an NPC, here is your reward.”

  There was no time to even register what was happening. One second, the staff was pointed at Matteo, and the next, he found himself on the floor in a fetal position. His entire body was convulsing, as though a giant hand had grabbed him and was shaking him like a ragdoll. He had no control over his limbs as they flailed about. Oddly enough, he could feel the line of saliva on his cheek and a cold, wet splotch on the floor where his face made contact.

  When the spasms subsided enough for Matteo to take stock of his surroundings, he noticed Shaury looking at him, her hand covering her mouth. He moved himself gradually, positioning himself better to be able to see Olympus.

  The prince was on his feet, looking down at Matteo with cold eyes.

  “And this is for being an Agri.”

  Olympus raised his staff and the world went black.

  Level 5

  The world swam into focus.

  It was an unpleasant feeling. Although nothing topped being struck by lightning.

  Matteo sat up suddenly, and he was instantly afraid that the sudden movement would cause pain to erupt all over his body. It didn’t. His body did, however, remember the shakes he had received from the lightning attack, like a phantom feeling that wouldn’t go away. One of his arms twitched, as if confirming his thoughts.