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

by Arthur Stone

  Clown took a deep breath. “Okay—then, in the middle of said desert, you found not mana from heaven, but close enough: a backpack full of food and water. Between drinking and eating binges, you looted the private treasure store of a people most players hardly dare to speak of. You cleaned it out. Having packed up everything you could carry, you grew bored and set out in search of other lands. When the gray tribe caught you, you sent them packing without so much as a shot. Then, you reached those other lands. You had no idea which way to go. Zero. The first living soul you encountered was kind enough to inform you that certain nasty people were searching for you. Taking advantage of their ignorance, you calmly headed to the closest stable. Some mysterious types led you into a black swamp, where you gave a million in mods to some kind of pauper-turned-prophet in exchange for an unmodded bow, some arrows, a dumb bracer, and a quest with no description. They then directed you here, where you safely encountered me. No one else has even suspected your presence. They scan the whole land for you with searchlights, but none think you brash enough to be out in the open, so you can walk the city streets with impunity. Did I miss anything?”

  “Uh… I don’t think so.”

  “There’s nothing you’ve forgotten? Maybe a couple buckets of white pearls you bumped into along the way? How about the dire elite that was kind enough to lick your ass clean when you ran out of toilet paper? I’m sure you forgot something.”

  “I got pearls from Watershed,” Cheater confirmed, “but not many, and not white. But yes, there was no toilet paper. Nor water, most of the time.”

  “So you’re telling me you saw people in black coats and a black van, touching the mods in this treasure mound?”

  “They didn’t quite touch them. They had large batteries that—”

  “—I know how mod crystals are mined,” Clown interrupted. “Don’t you have any idea who they are?”

  Cheater shook his head. “Not the slightest. I know it’s taboo to speak of them.”

  “You’re right about that. Nobody likes to talk about shit—and they’re the shittiest shit. These ‘undertakers,’ as you called them, appear when someone has really, really screwed up. They’re sent directly by the System. If you see them near you, prepare to die, even to have all of your lives drained.”

  “But I’m alive, as you can see,” Cheater protested. “No deaths.”

  “Yes, you are,” Clown scoffed, “because you’re the luckiest mother-effing player on the damn Continent. The undertakers weren’t there for you. How do I explain this, when I hardly understand it myself? They’re… not really people. They’re the tools of the System. The System has certain rules that even it cannot break. Among those rules is this: nothing on the Continent comes out of nowhere, except for players and the basic items they spawn with—socks and underwear and so on. Everything else must be mined. So these intermediaries of the System went out to mine, but not on their own accord. They were helped. The System gives them knowledge that makes their lives easier. They knew where to go for modifications. That’s what they were after, not you! They didn’t even suspect your presence! After all, it was obvious that no players would be in the area. This was a rich source of modifications, placed for them in a remote location. Let me guess: you couldn’t even see the mods from a distance.”

  Cheater nodded. “Even through my sight, I couldn’t see them from a mile away. I understand now that the nodium made the crystals appear darker, and nodium doesn’t look any different from the black spots from a distance.”

  “There was so much nodium there that the earth was black?”

  “Yes. It covered every last stone. A thin layer, of course, but spread over a large area. Five or six tons of it, I’d guess, with mods growing all over it. There were more than ten thousand mods. Remember that the undertakers—or the intermediaries, as you call them—had managed to collect some.”

  “Holy hell.” Clown whistled.

  “I know. I flipped out when I saw the field for the first time.”

  “Did you grab a lot?” Clown asked eagerly. “You don’t have to answer that, if you don’t want to.”

  Cheater pointed to his backpack. “That’s about a third, by weight. I gave about a third to Watershed, and the last third I hid in the desert. I had no choice—I was overloaded. But there are still so many left on the mound. I just tore the ones facing up. Didn’t lift any of the rocks. Got some good stat points from it.”

  “Stat points? You farmed stat points on mods?”

  “Well, yeah. It wasn’t much for each, but there were so many of them.”

  “No fricking way... And you gave a third of them to the NPC?”

  “By weight, a third. It was the weakest third by quality—mostly lesser mods and some binding spheres.”

  “You’ve gotten off the hook so far. If people around here knew how much you were carrying…if they knew you had more hidden away somewhere...! I can’t even begin to think how they’d torture you! People are truly greedy beyond your worst imagination.”

  “Watershed treated me decently.”

  “He’s an NPC. They’re all weird,” Clown responded, dismissively waving his hand.

  “It doesn’t look like you’re about to betray me.”

  “I’m not. I’m stupid, you see, which means that I’m also honest. But I need whiskey—lots of whiskey. Something to bring my brain out of its stupor. I’m dealing with some psychological issues here. One of my acquaintances just went from ordinary guy to porter of the greatest treasury in the land. First the sack of trophies from the Unnamed One, then the rare items from the tomb, then a whole bag of mods? I’m beside myself with envy! I’ve never had luck like that… never had luck even one hundredth as good as that. I’m not sure whiskey will help, actually. Maybe some vodka and cocaine, spiced up with spec...”

  “If you’re about to get into hard drugs, I’m out,” Cheater said firmly.

  “You’re leaving? When?” Clown moaned.

  “Right now! You found me, and that’s a bad omen. I have to leave before someone else shows up.”

  “Not without me! I was joking about the drugs. We’ll go together! I’m no junkie. It’s just that, after that bombshell of a tale you dropped... I thought there was nothing left to surprise me. Here, let me grab my pack.”

  Cheater held out his axe. “Take this.”

  “What’s that?” Clown asked.

  “An axe.”

  “I can see that. What do I need it for?”

  “If you’re going to be watching my back, I want you to have the best weapon available.”

  Clown snorted. “My weapon’s better.”

  “Take a closer look,” Cheater smirked, removing the Hidden trait.

  “What’s there to see? An axe is an...” Clown’s mouth went dry. “Holy hell. The hell did you do, Cheater? This was just an ordinary axe!”

  “I have to conceal both myself and my weapons,” Cheater explained. “Take it. I’ll bind it to you, too. I know how to do that, and I have binding spheres.”

  “It says it’s bound to you,” Clown responded, brow knit.

  “So? I’ll unbind it. A Greater Sphere of Binding can handle that task.”

  “I see. I don’t know how to thank you. I really owe you one. What are your plans? What now? Well, besides leaving this town.”

  “We’ll go look for March,” Cheater confirmed.

  Clown beamed. “Should be easy. We’ll just smash a bottle of beer into the road. You know what they say: all beer flows to March.”

  “Not a bad method,” Cheater laughed, “but I have a better idea: Watershed tells me March is somewhere here in the Cauldron, and I believe him. The Cauldron has three separate zones which cannot easily communicate with each other. Chat messages don’t usually make it across. I’ve checked this one; now, two remain. First, the central zone. It’s closer. Failing that, we move to the western zone—the final zone. If we can find transportation, we can cover both in one day. How’s the transportation here?”

/>   Clown shook his head. “It’s all about the roads, ya know? And the roads are shit. Covered with Devils. They keep very tight control of the highways. Any vehicle can be stopped, anywhere, at any time—then stripped down to its last bolt. That’s normal in Devil territory...plus, they’re searching for you like you’re the Continent’s greatest treasure.” Clown took one last glance at Cheater’s open backpack. “I’m beginning to suspect they’re right.”

  Chapter 26

  Life Nine. Searching for March

  Circus was guarded just as well at night as it was during the day—which is to say, it was a free-for-all. Cheater was almost offended. After all, he was entirely prepared to sneak through alleyways, slip past the checkpoints and dissolve into the darkness, noticed by no one along the way. However, Clown insisted on dragging him right through the middle of the streets, assuring him that only three or four people in all of Circus were sober after midnight. They were not to be feared, though; their duties were out of obligation, not of their own free will. Simply put, they were the targets of blackmail, indentured servants of the Devils. They were Servants of Hell. That was what some of the black-shirted young men called themselves. They ensured the rule of law in the stable, eager to prove themselves to the Devils.

  Why hadn’t the locals smashed this charade to pieces? Cheater couldn’t resist grilling Clown about this. Clown told him, in short, that the town was considered a safe place—the whole Cauldron, in fact. It was like an enclave. There were simply no enemies here capable of causing chaos. All living things were strictly controlled by the ruling Devils. The fact that none of their leadership had a visible presence here meant little. If someone mistreated the Servants of Hell or any other minions of the Devils, the latter would immediately run crying to Daddy, who would brutally punish the culprits—as well as any bystanders who failed to flee the scene in time.

  There was a mighty stronghold somewhere in the area of the Drain. It not only covered the road to the Hole but also served as the organization’s headquarters. Many serious weapons were installed there, and a garrison of veteran thugs was on permanent duty. They were the dominant force in the Cauldron—and the whole region. They were a well-motivated, easily-mobilized force. In fifteen minutes, the Devils could have a couple hundred trained players deployed on whatever campaign they deemed necessary. By Continental standards, that was an army. No force in the region could stop them, and they knew it; their self-confidence was therefore total. After all, a warrior without fear or doubt is a terrifying foe.

  What’s more, the army could be quickly multiplied by recruiting players from the city patrols. That was somewhat improbable, as the Phantom Forest region was not known for high player density; its southern reaches were basically empty. The mighty Nolds ruled those lands, and no one wanted to mess with them. There were so many bots in those parts, too, that many local dealers lived rich lives from reselling trophies they’d looted from them. Even 50 well-armed bodies was considered a massive force in the Continent. An army of two hundred? Invincible—and the Devils could deploy it at any time. It was rumored that the organization had the very best arms and armament, as well; the very thought of such tools of war could instil terror. No one in their right mind would go up against players with such weaponry. Bugle was king of the Phantom Forests, and none dared challenge his throne.

  * * *

  They moved ten miles from Circus that night. Before dawn, they took a long break in the middle of a pine forest to catch a couple of hours’ sleep. It wasn’t sufficient to feel rested, but players could maintain such schedules for a few days without a noticeable drop in combat effectiveness. That is, as long as they weren’t novices.

  When they woke, they ate a small meal and proceeded on their way. The further they traveled west, the more Cheater understood the region’s name. The Hole and the western part of the Cauldron had no decent woods, but here, the land was verdant. Only black and gray clusters interrupted the trees with their open spaces. Even within them, one could see trees, mid-transformation to dead glass. The terrain rolled, alternating between lowlands and highlands. Lower thickets were more dense as a rule; others contained streams. It was easy to imagine how an impenetrable fog might fill these depressions in the morning, tricking paranoid players’ senses into seeing phantom silhouettes.

  Cheater was growing to like this region more and more. It reminded him of one to which he had traveled with Kitty, though it was far more even. No large cities were nearby, so encounters with infecteds were rare; plus, these clusters were mercilessly and regularly cleansed, preventing the ghouls’ numbers from growing. The pair only saw a few runners over their entire journey, and only two had to be killed. The endless war waged by players—against the world, against each other—seemed to be forgotten here. Until they reached the inhabited stable, these ideas dominated their thinking. If the stories from Circus were true, they could check the entire region from here with the chat system.

  The town was small, placed on an artificial island and surrounded by channels dug into the land. The players had set to work with diggers and bulldozers, making good use of their proximity to the river. It was one of the most effective and attractive perimeters that could be constructed. Infecteds hated getting wet, and the locals had likely prepared many deadly surprises for them in case they overcame their fears and take the plunge. All of these precautions, however, had failed to help; only ashes remained of the town. All around were the smoking skeletons of building, trees that had lost their crowns to the heat, boats sunken by the marina and a blown-up bridge, collapsed right into the moat. Not a single soul could be seen, nor any sign of attempts to rebuild.

  Cheater studied the ugly sight from his place in the bushes. “The map says there should be a town here.”

  “Where’d you get the map?” Clown asked.

  “From Watershed, of course.”

  “What was the town called?”

  “‘Island.’ This must be it.”

  “Hmm. I should have guessed. You might as well discard that map.”

  “What for?” Cheater queried.

  “It’s a shitty map. The NPCs can’t come into this area, so they can’t update their map. The Devils’ Island was set ablaze a week ago. I don’t know the exact day. I was drunk, and in the arms of a beautiful woman. Drunk, I’m sure of—not so sure about the beautiful part. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen an ugly woman when I’ve been drunk. Anyway, whatever happened here is some serious shit.”

  “This is their land. Why would they burn their own town?” Cheater wondered.

  “It was probably a setup, an act of intimidation. See those pillars just in front of the bridge? They tied the lead perpetrators up there. Or perhaps not even the lead perpetrators—just those unlucky enough to be taken alive. Then, they piled up firewood, poured on the gasoline, and… whoosh. That’s what they do. After all, it’s important not just to punish the offenders, but to make sure everyone gets the message. A shitty business.”

  “But what could the whole town have done? Why burn it all?”

  Clown shrugged. “I didn’t really look into that. They say the town disrespected Bugle and his people. Some local force killed some Black Shirts posted there. To be honest, it sounds like they asked for it—became impudent, did whatever they wanted. I wasn’t interested in the details. There are lots of tiny stables around here that are formally under the control of the Devils, but that have their own power structures difficult to root out. Many of those dream of kicking the Devils out. Bugle occasionally chooses a scapegoat and makes an example of a town, to make sure that those dreams never materialize. This time, Island was the example. Either a whole area rushes to kiss Bugle’s ass, or they risk the same fate.”

  “If I were local, I’d get out of here,” Cheater frowned.

  “Sure, but where would you go? Sooner or later, Bugle’s people catch up to you. Either you stay on the run every day and night, or you submit to the Devils.”

  “But not everywhere’s
like that!”

  “Everywhere’s got its own shit,” Clown insisted. “In some places it doesn’t smell as bad, but everywhere has shit. Power and government are always shit.”

  “Anarchy, much?”

  “You could say that. I’d be happy with a reasonable government, though—but nothing in this world is reasonable.”

  Suddenly, Cheater’s eyes grew wide. “Look at that!”

  “At what?”

  “The map!”

  “Holy shit… March’s icon! You’re right—signal does get through to the center from here! Looks like we’ve found our favorite alcoholic! Let’s send a message.”

  “Already pinging him,” Cheater mumbled distantly.

  “And?”

  “Nothing yet. No answer.”

  “Maybe he’s in the midst of an alcohol-fueled nap,” Clown joked.

  “Maybe, but I don’t like it. Look closely at his chat window: something’s wrong with the message entry. The letters are... dim. Write him a message, then look at the party chat and compare. It’s a completely different shade.”

  “Huh… you’re right. Not nearly as bright. Let’s take a breather here. If this doesn’t change, we’ll try the next hill. It’s closer to the center and should stand a better chance of getting through.”

  * * *

  Half an hour later, there was no change. They crossed to the next hill, went down its other side, forded the river that passed by the ruined stable and climbed another hill. Even there, the chat letters were dim. Unlike with his missives to Kitty, their words seemed to make it through, but they clearly weren’t getting anywhere. March remained silent. Watershed’s map was not the most accurate, but as time passed, they could tell that their comrade’s icon didn’t stay in place. Sometimes, it moved a bit. He was clearly not asleep or unconscious. What, then, was the reason for this stubborn silence? Clown couldn’t explain it. This was the first time he’d encountered such an anomaly, so he continued to blame the poor communications in the region. There was nothing else either of them could think of.