Respawn: Blade of the Ancients (Respawn LitRPG series Book 5)

by Arthur Stone

  That being said, the weapon was excellent. Cheater was thrilled by the bonuses it provided; whenever he squeezed its handle, he felt like a new man. He was stronger and nimbler, speedier and sturdier. If only the sword wasn’t so awkward and frustrating, whether wielded with two hands or one. He had a feeling that the races’ anatomical differences weren’t the only reason for this discomfort. Of course he was helpless—the blade was half his weight! Should he buy or find a new, more suitable sword? Not at all, Cheater realized. He’d lose his stat boosts, and they were the whole point of his struggles.

  Perhaps there was a way to bring the beast to heel: modifications. This was a unique weapon of the Former, after all, so it could handle many mods. If he was lucky to receive a weight-reduction mod, the weapon would finally become comfortable. Not only could Cheater maintain its excellent perks, he would also end up with a superb functional alternative to a wood axe and pickaxe. Well, in theory at least. Weapon modifications were prohibitively expensive, so he’d have to sell some of the wealth he’d acquired from the Unnamed One in order to afford one. He could also sell his axe, also a rare weapon of the Former. It could take up to three mods, so it was of considerable worth even in its empty state. If it were enough, he wouldn’t have to split the fortress loot with March. To be frank, however, he was in over his head when it came to appraising Former weapons. Would the axe go for a few days’ wages or a king’s ransom? He couldn’t begin to guess.

  Five days had passed since his incredible ten-second battle with the Unnamed One, yet March’s chat window remained dead. Not a peep? Judging by his icon, he was definitely alive, meaning he knew full well that Cheater was alive, too. He could also access the party loot logs, where the System catalogued every last piece they’d collected from monsters. With other information, however, the System remained selective. For example, if you were to find a gun on the street and picked it up, the System might not mention a thing. However, it had chosen to post five messages regarding Cheater’s grave robbery. The first was unclear, describing Cheater’s new ability in an inscrutable language; the rest were explicit, revealing he’d obtained a sword, an axe, a bracelet and a necklace. March would clearly see that Cheater was alive and well enough to seize a significant set of prizes. He’d also realize that Cheater had no intention of dumping him from the party—had he planned to, he would have already done so. The mystery remained: why hadn’t March reached out?

  Cheater knew that March should have had enough time to travel to Cheater and back twice over by now. Since the detailed loot logs were accessible, the man had to have known what was at stake. How long would March keep him waiting? He would not survive in this wilderness forever. The backpack was a fortunate find, its supplies completely refilling his Health meter. No penalties remained to afflict any of his meters, either. Even his Pleasure was up, and that said a lot. He wasn’t “high”—or “buzzed,” as players called it—but he was far past the penalty point for each meter. In short, he was ready to go, and most opponents would agree. His map finally worked again, clearly delineating the path from the border to the Unnamed One and beyond. . He could spot his cave shelter, the fortress, its surroundings—even several bright spots mysteriously imprinted on his memory during his mindless, brain-fried flight.

  Where could he go now, with such riches in his inventory? The tomb loot meant he now had more valuables than ever, which he’d have to drag along…including the dratted sword. Neither that blade nor the axe could be hidden in secret inventory cells, leaving them vulnerable to collection if he died. At least he could hold onto the bracelet and necklace! Cheater had also taken advantage of two inventory and cache upgrades. The interval between safe uses of these items spanned five full days, so he’d only just completed the second round.

  His bonus personal inventory could now hold 1.61 kilograms—about three and a half pounds. Anything could go inside except for loot from monsters, which included everything gifted to him by the Unnamed One. The necklace and bracelet could fit, however, with plenty of space to spare. If his situation became utterly hopeless, he would un-equip those items and stow them. There’d be no need to return for them upon respawn; he’d already have them safe in his possession. Meanwhile, his main personal inventory wasn’t growing quickly enough. He now had 32 cells there, enough to stash the pearls and both kinds of crystals. Essentially everything else would go to whomever finished him off. Cheater could no longer reduce those items, nor could he currently use any of them to strengthen his character. He’d also already taken nearly everything stat-boosting that he’d claimed from the Unnamed One, and anything more would disrespect March. For a player named “Cheater”, he refused to stoop to that level. Proud of his integrity, Cheater took a moment to admire his character stats.

  Base Stats

  1.46x Strength: 40

  1.49x Dexterity: 35

  1.29x Speed: 40

  1.49x Endurance: 35

  1.30x Willpower: 93

  Level 48 (243/5). 5880 distributable points.

  Bonus Stats

  1.40x Perception: 38

  1.47x Stealth: 35

  1.65x Reaction: 46

  2.95x Accuracy: 43 (+30 bonus levels which do not count towards overall Bonus Level)

  2.24x Luck: 70

  1.17x Ward of Styx: 64

  1.15x Talent Rank: 37

  Bonus Level 47 (333/7). 6633 distributable points.

  Experience: 33 (+66% base stat level experience)

  Cheater’s novice days were long gone. To this point, he’d been positive that such progress should take him years. He couldn’t understand why March’s allies betrayed him again and again. The man was the proverbial goose with the golden eggs: killing the goose might get you one egg quickly, but leaving it alive would pay off more in the long run. These traitors were clearly shortsighted fools. March had been right about Cheater, though—he was nothing like them, and he’d never betray his comrade. One reason was that lust for treasure never swayed him, for he felt honesty was the most rewarding policy; however, that wasn’t the essence of his loyalty. Cheater was reliable to the core. He vowed he’d cross countless regions to reach Kitty, obstacles be damned. March clearly recognized his merits: he was stubborn, honest, and predictable in all the best ways. The thought of stealing his comrade’s half of the loot disgusted him.

  Where the hell was that old drunk? Some booze spot or brothel? Perhaps March so counted on Cheater’s reliable nature that he felt no need to worry. No, that couldn’t be it—even a level 48 player could easily die from a beginner’s bullet, so March couldn’t possibly assume that Cheater was safe. This was the Continent, after all; anyone could be killed at any level. That newbie Rocky had killed Romeo, after all. Imagine that: a hopeless moron, instantly snuffing out one of the world’s top players. That was paramount proof that it was anyone’s game. The same went for monsters, the Unnamed One excepted. Even the most dangerous infected had an Achilles’ heel, so any weakling could drop one with enough calculation and luck.

  Cheater was in great danger at every moment. His choice to leave the relative safety of the fortress might turn into someone else’s payday, leaving him flat save his necklace, bracelet, bow and loot from the Unnamed One. This would make for an awfully awkward conversation with March. However, staying here was not an option, as the location was hardly friendly. The harsh climate was no picnic, but the inhabitants of the neighboring desert were worse. He had tangible evidence of this in the gruesome party of corpses he discovered—how much more proof did he need? Would the murderous creatures return?

  With every day, the backpack’s scads of supplies grew slimmer. While unappealing, Cheater could make do with the desert’s fruits, and Omniscience helped him locate lizards and snakes with relative ease. Food like that might not have boosted his Pleasure, but it would keep him strong. Water, however, was another matter. His makeshift moisture generator was proving woefully inefficient. It extracted virtually nothing from the dry soil and could only work with plants. O
ops. As it turned out, Cheater had stripped the fortress of pretty much every cactus with his failed swordsmanship exercises, leaving few if any for his contraption. He would have to expand his cactus culling beyond the fortress, a dangerous proposition. Yet his death would not come from thirst—at least not thirst for water.

  He needed lifejuice, stat. No matter how hard he tried to ration his flagon, his meter continued to creep downward. Since his meter maximum was high, he was still in the green…at least, until the next night. He could slow its fall by letting his saliva dissolve a spore in his mouth, an emergency measure that was known to work in a pinch. He couldn’t make a habit of it, however, as such a practice would gradually flood his system with poison. Alcohol could separate the poison, but there’d been none in the pack. The fortress’ liquor stores had been closed for…quite some time. He considered making tequila from the cacti but had no clue where to start. Was tequila drawn from any kind of cactus, or only certain types? As it turned out, Cheater was less of a bartender, more of a…life-ender. He knew he’d begin to die soon, and it would be slow and painful.

  As spore starvation took over, he’d become unable to hunt reptiles, the situation snowballing from there. His meters would collapse, his penalties would pile up, and the agony would erode his sanity before he was released into the sweet embrace of death. Today or tomorrow at the latest, he had to figure out a way to survive. The sooner he left, the better, for more reasons than the sporejuice scarcity. To be honest, his period of rest had remained too quiet for too long; this close to the border, that was a seriously bad omen. Something scary would soon break this placidity—along with every bone in his body.

  * * *

  Cheater tossed the pebble in the air, swung…and missed by five inches. Good! Yes, he had missed, but this was the best so far of about fifty attempts. His progress was tangible, each swing incrementally closer than the last. He was no master quite yet, but the tortures in the tomb had apparently improved his flexibility. He could bend much farther on his legs than ever before, in any direction he chose. To be fair, all that meant from a practical standpoint was that he could scratch itches on his back, but that wasn’t bad at all. It was quite useful for someone with charred clothing, tender flesh and the prevailing stench of monster mucus about his person. He’d been unable to wash, of course, and his failed sand bath simply itched.

  Was this flexibility boost worth the torment he endured? He had dreamed of acquiring an actual ability from that dark nebula he had touched, but most of his dreams proved foolish—for one, his dream of slaying that traitor Tat. He could imagine the look on her face as she fell, the dread in her heart as she sped towards respawn. Of course, it would never happen. Cheater was an abominable swordsman, any potential mastery remaining latent—if it existed at all. Should he give up and find a lighter weapon? Should he source a teacher or sparring partner? He could test himself for a few bouts, ask questions and listen attentively to their valuable tips.

  If only March were here. His comrade was experienced, intelligent and likely to have input…but no, the chat window remained dead. As another pebble soared towards the heavens, Cheater tensed as he prepared his swipe. The pebble dropped…but the man froze in place. Suddenly, he heard a sound, one he’d never before heard in this place. It was barely audible, but there was no mistaking it: it was an engine. Someone was coming. What was that in the distance…a ship? Cheater—once the sole inhabitant of this deserted treasure island—was soon to have company.

  Chapter 10

  Life Nine. The Undertakers

  The ship wasn’t quite a ship, per se. For one, there wasn’t a drop of water around, besides in the cursed cacti carcasses. You could perhaps put some wheels on a ship and push it along, but there would be no wind to assist you, your vessel would be far too conspicuous, and the off-road conditions wouldn’t help, either. Cheater discovered that the noisy engine belonged to a hefty black minivan, which scattered stones and squashed cacti as it plowed through the desert. It wasn’t barreling down on him, thankfully, instead heading to a point north of the ruins. Cheater’s heart still hammered, however, so he activated Chameleon. In theory, this ability—combined with his necklace and utter stillness—should render him invisible. Even if the van riders weren’t likely to spot him, he figured he’d play it safe.

  As the van roared by three hundred yards away, Cheater was able to make out more details. He could safely say he’d never seen a vehicle like it on the Continent: it was nearly as large as a tractor-trailer and appeared combat-ready, despite lacking any visible defenses. A hefty bivalve hatch of unknown purpose jutted from the rear of the roof. Neither the van’s driver nor its passengers could be seen, as its glass was tinted darker than a moonless night. In addition, the car was moving around thirty miles per hour, hardly slowed by the rough terrain. Once past Cheater, it sped away into the distance. As the engine’s roar subsided, several minutes passed. Cheater kept expecting the van would vanish from sight beyond some distant hill, but it did not; instead, it froze.

  Cheater’s tension returned. Why did it stop? Had the players or NPCs within the van spotted him, somehow, despite all of the precautions he had taken? Cheater dove behind his makeshift table of stone slabs. Placing his rifle atop it, he took aim through one of the windows. At that very moment, all of the van’s doors swung open. Four figures stepped out. Cheater couldn’t believe his eyes—was he so short on lifejuice that he was hallucinating? These visitors seemed so out of place! It wasn’t their unremarkable builds that gave him pause; it was their intimidating uniforms. Military uniforms weren’t uncommon among Continental players, but these weren’t traditional camouflage. They wore long, double-breasted coats and wide-brimmed hats, feet clad in polished dress shoes…all in an inky black, of course. The heat in these lands could make Cheater sweat in light, tattered rags. How had these new arrivals not suffered instant heatstroke?

  The visitors didn’t seem too worried. As they calmly shifted away from the car in four different directions, he saw no wiping away of sweat, no fanning of themselves with their hats. They just watched their step, crouching to move some stones from time to time. Cheater couldn’t discern much in the desert haze, but what he could see caused him to utter a shocked sound. After fussing mysteriously with a rock, one of the four whirled sharply to stare straight at Cheater. Throat dry with fear, Cheater tried not to move, to shake, to breathe—even to sweat. After a tense beat, the man returned to his prior activities. He still kept the fortress in sight, however, ever so often sending a stern glance in its direction. Had the man noticed him, or was he just being cautious? Did he sense something? How should Cheater respond? Cheater didn’t want to respond. He wanted these visitors gone forever.

  He’d never seen people like this before, in all of his escapades. He’d encountered weirdoes and cultists before, roaming stable clusters in odd and impractical garments. These new arrivals barely came close. Relevant rumors rushed back to him, ones referencing men in black, suits, guys in big coats…even mafia. These topics were taboo amongst players, any mention of them followed by a muted curse and silent refusal to continue. It seemed absurd, but it was Cheater’s only explanation. What inspired them to come here, or to squat over these particular desert rocks? Rocks could be found anywhere. He could tell the man who kept squinting at his fortress was a nasty devil. Cheater had no doubt that he sensed something, meaning Cheater’s camouflage skill had little power over him. Could he have detected when he was being watched? Cheater had heard of similar sensor gifts; they were considered less useful, for they only came in handy in rare situations. This, however, was one of those situations.

  Suddenly, the figure turned away from Cheater’s ruins to point at something in the distance. His three accomplices stopped short to follow his gaze. All four then sped up, moving rocks with more haste than before. Cheater noticed another oddity. Did they have bags under their coats? If so, for what were they foraging? He doubted it was food. The group’s attentive member then straighte
ned up, drew a rifle from his coat, raised it and fired twice into the distance. The recoil was visible from the fortress, but the shots were inaudible—clearly its silencer was high-quality. Cheater peered through his scope towards the visitors’ target, but saw nothing but stones and cacti. It took him a moment to relocate the four, as they’d rushed back towards their vehicle. They moved with athletic ease, unencumbered by their ridiculous robes and without breaking a sweat. Their outfits’ heat protection was damn effective—Cheater was jealous.

  What had caused them to run? Before the shot, they moved like tortoises; now, they were skittish hares. He was tempted to risk another glance at the threat in the distance, but his field of view was narrow and he couldn’t monitor both. Through his scope, he watched the four scramble into their vehicle, slam the doors and peel out violently. As the van escaped in the direction from which it came, Cheater noticed it looked like a glossy, high-tech, first-class hearse. Riveted, Cheater wondered why the quartet had decided on such a quick exit. What had they even shot at?

  As the car accelerated to hit top speed…the very fabric of the desert erupted. It seemed as though a rift had opened in space and time itself. From the rift poured huge locust-like creatures—well, more humanoid than insect, but altogether indescribable. Were they mammalian? Reptilian? Cheater guessed that these were the humanoids whose tomb he’d just looted. His knees still quaked at the memory. These creatures’ limbs bent backward with ease, so Cheater’s torment would have hardly fazed them. After observation, he could see the benefits: they could leap over obstacles and accelerate powerfully in ways humans couldn’t. Their “running” seemed more like a series of long jumps, but they were fast.