This Quest is Broken! (This Trilogy is Broken (A Comedy Litrpg Adventure) Book 1)

by J. P. Valentine

  Eight Hundred Silver Can Buy A Lot of Alcohol

  EVE COLLAPSED TO the loose sand and packed earth of the training yard, cackling madly as she sucked the cool night air into her lungs. Wes, less accustomed to such falls, rubbed the back of his head as he groaned through a crazed smile of his own.

  “Seventh hell, guys!” Preston cursed through the fit of shared laughter. “You seriously fought a hydra like that?”

  Eve’s abdomen ached from laughing as she sat up. “Bloody ridiculous, right?”

  Alex snorted. “Gods-damned brilliant is what it is. Who needs a tank when you have a Courier?”

  “At least until you fight something with a ranged attack,” Wes commented, wincing as Preston sent Ayla’s light through his sore back. “Or until the grass is wet and Eve pulls her famous ‘falling on her face’ maneuver.”

  Eve smirked, pushing herself to her feet. “He’s only saying that ‘cause he didn’t see me take out that goblin shaman. It was the slide tackle to end all slide tackles.”

  Alex stepped up, handing Eve back the tankard she’d been holding. The Striker took a gulp.

  Wes reclaimed his own beer from Preston. “Alright, alright. I’ll concede you do get points for beating it to death with its own staff.”

  “One point,” Eve corrected. “Of Int, remember?”

  “Right, right,” Wes chuckled, “because you weren’t smart enough to use the staff. The staff a goblin was wielding.”

  Eve took another swig of her ale. “If only Int worked like that, maybe you wouldn’t have needed a Courier to look after you.”

  “Girls, girls,” Preston interrupted, “stop fighting. You’re both pretty.”

  “Please.” Wes ran a hand through his hair in an over-exaggerated flourish. “I’m not pretty. I’m gorgeous.”

  Preston winked. Alex rolled her eyes. Eve snorted.

  For his part, Reginald nestled himself comfortably in the healer’s golden hair.

  “Wait, shit.” The seriousness of Alex’s tone put a sharp end to the banter. “We have a problem.”

  Three pairs of eyes turned to look askance at the tall warrior only for her to turn her tankard upside down. “I’ve run out of ale!”

  “A terrible fate, indeed!” Preston remarked with the most snobbishly noble accent Eve had ever heard.

  Wes raised his own mug to his mouth, downing its contents in a few massive gulps. He lowered it with a belch. “I appear to have the same problem.”

  Eve paused to finish her own beverage before adding a “me too!”

  “Alas, alack, how horrible!” Preston cried out. “This hellish affliction of alelessness is spreading!” He took a sip of his beer, leaving a line of foam across his upper lip. “My dear adventurers, I hereby charge you with the noble quest of curing this foul disease before it spreads further.”

  Wes kneeled before him. “My lord, I swear on my life that we shall complete this quest, so you may be spared the horrific pain we now endure.” He leapt to his feet, calling out as he strode away. “Onwards to glory!”

  Alex and Eve shared an exasperated look, chuckling to themselves for a moment before the Striker dashed after the errant mage. She grabbed his arm once she caught up.

  “Unhand me, wench! I am a master wizard on a noble quest!”

  Eve laughed. “Of course, wise spellweaver. It’s just…” She pointed back the way he’d come. “The guild hall is that way.”

  Wes lifted his left foot into the air, spinning on the other in a dramatic about-face. The maneuver sent him stumbling, careening forward for several feet before he caught himself.

  Eve doubled over laughing at the display, tears welling in her eyes as her entire body shook with mirth. After a quick recovery and a bit of power-walking to rejoin the others, the Striker and friends took to the streets of Lynthia.

  The city was alive. Not even the late hour could deter the denizens of the glass city from their goings-on. Instead of shops and smithies and market stalls, they flowed to and from the taverns and brothels and gambling houses, spreading such life and cheer that even the chill of a cloudless night couldn’t pierce their warmth.

  Eve reveled in it. She winked at the streetwalkers and laughed at the drunkards and swayed to the music pouring through the many open windows. Such music it was. Tunes of joy and adventure and love and melancholy stretched like so many tendrils into the starlit street, each tugging at the heartstrings of passersby with the singular message that this was the tavern for them.

  Where Eve walked along the thoroughfare, the melodies twisted together into a dissonant symphony of emotion: conflicting, ugly, and eminently human. She treasured every second of it.

  The party continued on. Preston looked up with gentle eyes and a wide smile as he listened to Wes spout his drunken nonsense. Alex paused outside one particular barroom, swaying her head to the lilting soldier’s lament that played within until Eve tugged her along. Together they skirted around a drunkard pissing against the wall of a flower shop.

  It was in rather triumphant manner that they arrived at the guild hall. Wes was the first inside, bursting through the door before striking a clumsy pose and thunderously declaring he’d come on a noble quest to defeat the evil beast of sobriety. By Eve’s reckoning, said beast had died hours ago.

  True to his mission, Wes bought the next round, spilling more than a little of his hard-earned prize on the already sticky common room floor. Nobody particularly minded.

  Eve, having by then consumed more calories of ale than of food, ordered a meat pie for the table. She had silver to spend, after all, and this was a celebration. The others were more than happy to dig in. Even Reginald claimed a few scraps for himself before disappearing into Preston’s sleeve.

  “I thought,” Alex voiced through a mouthful of pie, “that familiars were only for witches.”

  “Maybe I am a witch,” he laughed. “An evil witch who’s tricked you all into thinking I’m an innocent Priestess.”

  “That would certainly explain all the swearing,” Eve said.

  “If you are a witch in disguise,” Wes slurred, “you’re doing a shit job of hiding it.”

  “Fair point,” Preston admitted. “No self-respecting witch would disguise themself as a male Priestess.”

  “So not only are you a witch—Alex pointed at him—“you’re a witch with no self respect.”

  Wes guffawed. “I like drunk Alex. We should hang out with her more often.”

  The warrior held up a finger as if making an elaborate point. “Drunk Alex is an elusive creature who only makes appearances on rare occasions. And on Fridays.”

  “I’ll toast to that.” Preston raised a tankard. “To Fridays!”

  “To Fridays!” Wes echoed.

  Eve furrowed her brow as they clinked glasses. “But it’s Tuesday.”

  Preston awkwardly held a finger to her lips. “Shhhhh. Don’t tell Alex that. She’ll disappear.”

  “Oh shi—” She clapped a hand over her mouth.

  The conversation once more devolved into a chorus of raucous laughter, only fading as a level 19 Bard whipped out his lute and strummed the opening chords of Emma’s Eve. The entire common room sang along to the bawdy lyrics, dragging the party into the aura of mirth.

  At some point during the fourth verse—Eve wasn’t exactly sure when—Wes excused himself. Preston soon followed, citing a need to visit the privy. By the time the music died down, neither had returned.

  Eve took the opportunity to speak freely with her remaining companion. “I’m glad you decided to join us. Really, I am.”

  “It’s nothing.” Alex swirled her half-empty tankard. “Just a few drinks with some friends.”

  “It’s not nothing. I know you wanted to keep your distance. Hells, if I’d been through what you have, I’d be the same. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost Wes, or any of you, really.”

  The Survivor sipped her drink. “I’m sure you’d live through it. You’ve got your Legendary quest to complete, af
ter all.”

  Eve exhaled. “Assuming it even can be completed. I’ve given up trying, to be honest. Whatever my quest wants from me, it certainly isn’t a loaf of bread.”

  “Maybe you’ve just gotta find the most badass loaf of bread ever made.”

  The Striker laughed. “Of course! Flour ground from Renth’s gilded wheat, water from the spring of eternal youth, kneaded by a horde of stampeding centaurs and baked in dragon fire.”

  Alex snapped her fingers. “Now you’re thinking like an adventurer.”

  Eve sighed, resting a hand on the side of her empty mug. “So you know pretty much all of my story. What about yours? How’d you end up at the guild?”

  “It was that or join the guard. There was no way Da was gonna let me join the army, not after…” She shook her head. “Anyway, the Stones made me a Cadet, so combat was really my only option. I even got the same generic Personal quest half the army has.”

  Eve cocked an eyebrow.

  “Prove Your Valor,” Alex explained. “It’s the kind of quest that infantrymen get before walking off to die in some nobleman’s border dispute. I wasn’t about to give my life for some rich fuck I’ve never met, so I joined the guild instead. Got paired up with a team, did some jobs, you know the rest.”

  Eve nodded, remembering their conversation in the Burendian ruins. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

  “Yeah, well, shit happens sometimes,” the warrior slurred. She blinked. “Speaking of shit happening, you’re glowing awfully bright right about now.”

  Eve shook her head, glancing down at her chest to see the white lines along her skin shining bright enough to appear through her shirt. It took her a few seconds to realize the burning sensation she felt was from the Mana and not the booze. “Oh hells.” She flicked open her status screen, shutting one eye to stop the numbers from moving around.

  Evelia Greene

  Human

  Level 33 Shatterfate Striker

  Exp: 5292/6817

  Health: 312/520

  Stamina: 1320/2100

  Mana: 581/0

  Constitution: 52

  Endurance: 210

  Intelligence: 12

  Dexterity: 60

  Strength: 78

  Spirit: 0

  She cursed as her health pool lost another three points as she watched. The burning grew hotter. “Gods below, that’s a lot of Mana.” Eve hands shot to the daggers at her waist, the energy scorching her veins as it ran through her. By the time her pool hit zero, her left dagger was already full. She lost another fifty health in the process.

  “You alright?”

  She nodded. “For now. I’m worried it’s getting worse. I hit five-eighty just now; that’s higher than even the serum put me.”

  “I figured that was part of the quest,” Alex said. “We’re supposed to adapt to the changes, right? Maybe that’s what this is.”

  “Sure,” Eve replied, “as long as the changes don’t kill me.”

  “I’ve been tracking it. Having consistent regeneration rather than your weird food-eating system makes it easier. It’s definitely getting worse. I’m lucky my health regen ability makes up for the damage the Mana deals.”

  “Yeah,” Eve echoed, “lucky.”

  “Hey, think of it this way, you got hit with more of the serum, and you got a harder secondary quest, so you’ll get a bigger reward at the end.”

  Eve laughed. “Knowing my luck, I’ll end up replacing it with a quest to buy a magical tea cake.”

  “Great, after discovering the only Burendian alchemy lab I’ve ever heard of, we need to find a Burendian bakery too?”

  “Maybe that’ll be the quest. Build the first ever Burendian bakery. Instead of dumping excess Mana into our weapons, we can bake it into the pastries.”

  “Now that’s the kind of venture I could get behind,” Alex chuckled. “Once we’re done with all this adventuring business we’ll use the money to start a—” She cut off with a curse. “Gods damnit. Preston forgot his pet.”

  Sure enough, Reginald scampered across the wooden table for the remains of the meat pie, happily chomping away at a piece of burnt crust.

  Eve sighed, reaching out to scoop up the scaly hatchling. It wrapped its tail around her thumb. “I should probably get to bed anyway. I’ll bring Preston’s new familiar up to Wes’s room; he can deal with it until morning.”

  The two adventurers pushed to their feet at once, each stepping away from their shared table. Alex was the first to bid goodnight.

  “You too,” Eve replied. “I am glad you came. We should do this again sometime.”

  The warrior nodded, her eyes unfocused as her mind wandered elsewhere. She shook her head as she returned to the present moment. “Right. Another time.” With a thin smile, the Survivor unceremoniously turned and half walked half stumbled her way out of the common room.

  Eve exhaled, watching Alex leave before making her own path around the few remaining revelers and passed-out guildsmen towards the stairs. It had been a truly marvelous night, one she’d sorely needed after the stresses of adventuring.

  So it was that with a tense grip on the handrail to overcome her unsteady footing that Evelia Greene set out first to return a certain baby drake to its reluctant ‘mommy’ and then to find the welcoming comfort of her bed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The Kneads of the Many

  THE STAIRWAY SWAYED as Eve climbed it, taking care to plant both feet on any given step before moving on to the next one. It was slow going, but Eve’s spinning mind needed all the stability it could get. When she finally reached the top, she steadied herself against the wall for a brief moment of breath and celebration of her triumph before the drakeling wrapped around her arm reminded her of her task.

  She slammed on Wes’s door. There was no response. Eve contemplated shouting through the thin wooden barrier, but the late hour combined with the row of other doors along the hallway eliminated that idea. The last thing she needed was a bunch of angry adventurers.

  He’s probably passed out in there, she thought, reaching for the doorknob. It wasn’t locked. I could just leave Reginald insi—

  Her mind ground to a halt as the door swung open, revealing a very much not-passed-out Wes standing in the room’s center. It wasn’t shock at finding her friend still awake that so stunned the intruding Striker. It wasn’t his apparent toplessness or the exposure of his bare skin and rippling muscles that reddened Eve’s cheeks.

  It was the white-robed Priestess he held in his arms.

  “Eve…” Preston started. “What are yo—”

  “You forgot your lizard,” she blurted. Reginald leapt from her grasp, darting across the floor to hide under Wes’s discarded shirt.

  Wes blushed, stepping away from the lithe healer. “Eve, maybe you shou—”

  “I’m going to bed.” She cut him off, clumsily turning to stumble back into the hallway. Preston followed her out.

  “Wait—Eve.” He caught up to her, placing a comforting—and stabilizing—hand on her shoulder. “Look, I’m sorry that we—”

  “What do you have to be sorry for? You’re both adults; you can do whatever you want.”

  Preston shrank back at the sharpness of her tone. “You’re not going to tell Alex, are you?”

  “I’m not gonna—what? What does Alex have to do with this?”

  “She—uh—she has a thing for Wes.”

  Eve’s eyes widened. “No she doesn’t.”

  “Believe me, she does. It’s subtle, but it’s definitely there.”

  “Yeah, if her thing is that she resents him for getting a Rare class so easily.”

  Preston sighed. “Eve, as your spiritual advisor—”

  Eve snorted.

  “Okay, as your friend, I’m asking you: don’t tell Alex about us. It really should come from Wes, and he’s resisting but I’m working on that.”

  “Alright. Fine. Whatever.” Eve blinked. “I’m going to bed. You two have your
fun.”

  “Oh, wait, one last thing.” Preston held up a hand, sending a cascade of golden light through the intoxicated Striker. Though the fog of alcohol lingered in her mind, the churning of her stomach and the looming headache faded away. “In case I’m not here when you wake up. Drink some water.”

  “Hold on…” Eve’s sluggish brain worked through the man’s words. “The other morning, when you healed my hangover, I never figured out what you were doing still at the guild…”

  Preston winked. “Sleep well, Eve.” He turned, stepping away before disappearing back into Wes’s quarters.

  Eve lingered in the hallway, wondering how she’d missed the signs. The way Preston clung to the bulky mage for safety in combat, the fact Wes had never once looked at her in anything but a gentlemanly manner. Hells, she should’ve realized it the morning she saw Preston in the guild hall when his lodgings were at the cathedral.

  As far as Alex went, Eve suspected Preston might be full of shit. She sure as hells hadn’t seen any evidence of such. Either the Priestess wasn’t as good at reading people as he thought, or Eve herself was completely blind. Possibly both, given the evening’s other discovery.

  She shook her head, stumbling her way back to her own bedroom. Revelations aside, the day had been long and the hour was late. She could process the information and chastise herself for her obliviousness once she’d had a good night’s rest.

  Eve’s final thoughts as sleep took her were of the many jokes and japes and teasing comments that the discovery so conveniently laid out before her.

  * * *

  Eve awoke to a grumbling stomach and a blinding beam of sunlight through the shutters she’d forgotten to close. She rubbed her eyes, pushing herself out of bed to begin the process of cleaning off the dirt and sweat and spilled beer from the prior night in order to make herself somewhat presentable. At least her head didn’t hurt.

  She strapped her daggers to her waist before heading downstairs, well aware that the act of breakfast would necessitate access to the weapons. She smiled at the ridiculousness of the thought as she reached the common room.