by Neven Iliev
She held a steel dagger in her right hand and a small round buckler in her left, although they seemed more like a short sword and a kite shield due to her small stature. A slightly too-large chainmail shirt covered her torso and hung down to her knees like a dress even after Boxxy had shortened it for her. Dark stains dotted the collar, though the gnome was too afraid to ask if they were blood. She had had to fashion her own undergarments using old rags and loose string and a set of old shoes covered her feet, though she had reinforced the toe area with some creative application of metal plates, nails and wire.
All the seemingly-random things inside Boxxy’s Storage were like a treasure trove to an Artificer. Fizzy had been understandably surprised when she’d learned of the Skill’s existence, but she had quickly grasped its function. It was widely known that high-Level Enchanters and Merchants had access to a similar Skill called Item Box, so the concept wasn’t foreign to her. As to why a dungeon mimic would have something like that, that seemed to be somehow related to its chesty heritage.
Regardless of its origin, the pocket dimension had allowed her to throw together some basic clothing, so she wasn’t about to complain. Her creations did little more than protect her modesty, but they were still better than walking around wearing an old potato sack. She would’ve obviously preferred real clothes, but there was a distinct absence of those within Boxxy’s hoard. It did contain quite a few Blacksmith-forged arms and armour though, and the ones it had given Fizzy had been chosen based on what it had learned of her Status.
[General Information]
Cornie Fizzlesprocket
Gnome, Female, 22 years old
Member of Erosa Craftsman’s Union
Level 56.38 Arclight Artificer
Level 13.85 Paladin
485/485 HP (+0.8/sec)
560/560 MP (+1.5/sec)
[Attributes]
STR 65, DEX 172, AGI 20, END 84, INT 112, WIS 154, PER 141, FTH 12, LCK 7
[Artificer Skills]
Clockwork Expertise – Lvl 10.00 (MAX)
Explosives Handling – Lvl 6.86
Deconstruction – Lvl 7.33
Optics Expertise – Lvl 4.76
Physics – Lvl 7.04
Component Forging – Lvl 6.63
Tick Counter – Lvl 5.22
Upgrade – Lvl 4.65
[Arclight Artificer Skills]
Electrical Expertise – Lvl 2.32
[Paladin Skills]
Champion of Chaos – Lvl 3.92
Toughness – Lvl 5.23
Strength of Faith – Lvl 2.74
[Other Skills]
Mentor – Lvl 2.43
Dagger Mastery – Lvl 4.15
Shield Mastery – Lvl 3.62
Since her primary Job was the Artisan type, that left most of her physical Attributes completely undeveloped for her apparent Level. Her maximum HP immediately after getting the Paladin Job had not even been two hundred. It really was no surprise her relatives had been taken out so easily if they were this frail. The upside was that her DEX Attribute was reasonably developed, so a piercing weapon like a dagger would do her the most good right now. She would probably transition to something more suitable, like swords or maybe maces, once her other parameters caught up, but the knife would suffice for the time being.
The shield was to make sure that she didn’t accidentally up and die. That wouldn’t be funny at all. Shield Mastery also provided her with the END and STR necessary to improve both her conditioning and her max HP, which for the moment was to be her top priority. Dagger Mastery, on the other hand, allowed even a self-proclaimed pacifist like her to rapidly become familiar with that class of weaponry. Both of these Skills were vital to an absolute beginner like her, which was why Boxxy and Fizzy had begun sparring almost immediately after their meeting with the God of Luck.
Well, ‘sparring’ was perhaps not quite the right word. It would be better to say that the Mimic willingly became the gnome’s pincushion for a while. Fizzy had been apprehensive at first, but by the end she had actually seemed to enjoy venting her frustration by stabbing the monster over and over. Boxxy had taken the abuse silently, as it had allowed her to raise her Dagger Mastery to about halfway past Level 2. But – frustratingly – it refused to go higher than that. Still, it was a promising start, in the chest’s opinion.
As for Shield Mastery, she simply practiced blocking the Mimic’s blows. It had been immensely difficult at first, but she had gotten the hang of it much quicker than Boxxy had expected.
Which was good, because her training was just as difficult for her sparring partner. The murder train that was Boxxy T. Morningwood had only two speeds: walk and kill, and this was the first time in its life it had had to hold back. There was no way Fizzy would survive a full-force blow from the monster even if she could have blocked it. Though the exercises had helped the Mimic to learn a little something about controlling its strength, so it wasn’t as though it had gotten nothing from their sessions.
But, as with the weapon Skill, Shield Mastery refused to go more than halfway above Level 2. It appeared that there was a limit to what one could learn hitting the same target over and over and that actual combat would be necessary for both Mastery Skills to properly grow. That was going to be tricky, as it meant that the gnome would have to fight for her life for real. The knowledge within those passive abilities had taught her the basics of using her new equipment, but the monsters in this neck of the woods were still too much for a beginner like her to handle.
Boxxy disliked having to go to so much trouble for such a scrawny morsel, especially considering the part she had played in its imprisonment, but it didn’t have much choice. The humans had deprived it of its Warlock Job by force, so it could no longer rely on Snack and Arms for backup. The deal it had made with Rupert, the God of Coincidences, promised to see those Skills and Levels restored, but the lich that it had to kill in order to ‘prove its worth’ was unlikely to be easy prey. It wanted to do everything in its power to maximise its chances of victory, which meant mentally and physically conditioning Fizzy to become a fighter.
“Meeeeeh!”
A hoarse bleating sound cut through the wilderness, interrupting the pair’s aimless wandering.
“Oh no… not again!” Fizzy lamented.
That bleat meant two things: they were about to be attacked, and the gnome would have to be put in a ‘safe place.’ The latter was why the Mimic promptly wrapped the apprehensive gnome in its tongue-tentacles and tossed her into Storage, much to her dismay.
“Meeeeeh!”
Another bleat, this one subtly different from the first. It was followed by two more before four humanoid figures leapt from the shadows to surround the half-spider, half-box. These monsters had the horns and hooves of a ram or goat, with the torso and arms of a human. Their entire bodies were covered in thick brown fur, with most of their mass concentrated around their powerful legs. Unsettling yellow goat-eyes sized up the strange creature in their midst, their makeshift bone-tipped spears pointed threateningly at the bizarre abomination.
The monsters were officially known as satyrs, though adventurers and villagers alike preferred to call them goat-men. They moved in groups of three to six and mercilessly attacked anything that wasn’t their own kind, at times even fighting and killing each other over petty things like breeding rights. They were really quite violent for a bunch of herbivores.
As for their strength, Boxxy estimated it to be roughly equal to a Level 50 to 60 adventurer, based mostly on their apparent HP and the XP gained by killing them.
“Meeh!”
The one with the longest beard gave a sharp bleat and all four satyrs charged the Mimic at once, intending to skewer it with their weapons. This merciless and deadly strategy was what had allowed them to become the dominant monster species in this region of the Sawblade Mountains. Not only magical beasts, but even adventurers and soldiers would find their lives taken from them in an instant by the attack.
However, no
ne of the pack’s past victims had been anything like Boxxy T. Morningwood.
Rather than weather their combined attack, Boxxy launched one of its own and leapt into the air towards the one that appeared to be in charge. The satyr had apparently expected this and quickly adjusted the angle of his spear. The goat and the box collided in mid-air, the satyr’s weapon piercing the Mimic clean through its midsection.
[You have suffered a deep wound. HP -326.]
[Your flesh has been mended. HP +140.]
Ignoring the wound that would be gone in a few seconds, Boxxy bit deeply into the satyr’s shoulders and upper torso with its steel-coated teeth, trapping the beast’s horned head inside its maw. They fell to the ground, the toothed box refusing to release its victim.
The other three goat-men approached, attempting to stab the Mimic, but were forced back with a wide spray of corrosive acid. They could only watch in horror as Boxxy chewed mercilessly on their leader, his limbs flailing helplessly as he died.
*KACHIN*
The sound of metal on metal rang out as the Mimic’s jaws snapped fully shut, separating the satyr’s head and torso from the rest of his body.
[Level up!]
[Congratulations, you are now a Level 43 Mimic! All Attributes +2.]
With their leader dead, the rest of the satyrs were clearly losing their nerve. Being splashed with burning acid hadn’t exactly helped morale, either. They didn’t quite turn tail and run, but they were visibly hesitant to approach Boxxy. Not that the Mimic had any intention of letting them go. They had made the incredibly poor decision to open the hurt-box, and now they would get what was coming to them.
“HISSHAAARGH!”
Boxxy let out a guttural, hissing roar and they shrank back, looking apprehensive. The Mimic brandished its mithril daggers and a steel sword, and proceeded to do educate them on the finer points of bladed weapon combat.
First, it sliced the second satyr’s hands clean off, its sword piercing the beast’s heart. Using another of its many legs, the Mimic threw the second satyr’s spear at the third. It was a poor throw that hit him in the knee with the shaft rather than the tip, but it was enough to make him fall over. Before he could recover, Boxxy swooped in and slashed several deep wounds into his other leg, effectively crippling the goat-man for what little was left of his life.
The Mimic wasn’t done with its victim quite yet, though. It proceeded to nail the beast in place, driving its sword straight through the wounded creature’s waist and into the soft ground underneath. The satyr struggled and cried, but couldn’t muster the strength to free himself from the painful position.
The last of the goat-men turned, presumably to fetch more of his friends, but the Mimic had already anticipated this. It threw a huge rock that caught the fleeing satyr right in the back of the head, knocking him face-first into the dirt. Boxxy leapt onto the creature’s back and wrapped a few more improvised limbs around the goat-man, subduing him completely.
All in all, it had taken less than thirty seconds to dismantle the would-be ambush. It was a textbook example of how monster-on-monster conflicts usually played themselves out – quick, merciless, and messy. Two of the satyrs lay dead, another was literally pinned to the ground, bleeding heavily, and the last was held in place under Boxxy’s weight.
Now that the situation was under control, the Mimic opened its maw and spat Fizzy out. The gnome fell to the ground with a small thud, gasping for breath.
“Gaah!” she panted, desperately trying to alleviate the tightness in her chest.
The Mimic’s pocket dimension was a horrible, claustrophobic space utterly devoid of light, gravity, and – most importantly – air circulation. Boxxy had to fill it with fresh air every time it threw the gnome in there, or else she’d suffocate. Even then, she only had enough air to last her a few minutes, at most.
“Meeh? Meeeeeeh!”
The goat-like bleating from the pinned – but mostly unharmed – satyr drew Fizzy’s attention. She glanced at the captive monster, her expression pained in apprehension of what would inevitably follow. And indeed, just as expected, a bald, pointy-eared head formed on the box’s surface, its tone demanding.
“Kill.”
The gnome picked herself up from the ground, approaching the restrained satyr warily. This was already a familiar pattern. She’d known full well that the command would come, but that never made it any easier. In fact, the anticipation before the act was almost the worst part. She screwed up her courage, gripped her dagger with both hands and thrust it into the satyr’s neck with a small yell.
[You have inflicted a shallow wound. Target HP -86.]
Unfortunately, it didn’t pierce very far. Just enough to cause the monster to wail and thrash, though it stood no chance of escaping Boxxy’s grasp.
Fizzy withdrew her weapon and struck again. And then again, and again, over and over. Black blood gushed, flowing freely from the wounds. The satyr howled and bleated in desperation at its growing Paladin-inflicted agony.
The kind-hearted gnome wasn’t torturing the creature on purpose, though. She fully understood Boxxy’s reasoning and held no real sympathy for the vile beasts, but she still wished that she could at least end the beast’s life without needless suffering. Unfortunately, her tiny body simply lacked the necessary strength to sever its life in one clean hit. The satyr’s thick hide and dense muscles were difficult to cut into, and it took almost two minutes of abuse before the monster finally died with one last, gurgling bleat.
[Level up!]
[Congratulations, you are now a Level 14 Paladin! STR +2. END +2. INT +2.]
The mostly-unwilling executioner gasped for breath, a slightly dazed look in her eyes. The Mimic lifted itself off the dead satyr, going to fetch his crippled friend. It removed the sword from its fleshy sheath and wrapped its tentacles around the goat-man, ignoring the desperate cries of pain as it dragged him along the ground. The poor creature clawed furiously at the dirt in an attempt to get away, though it was a wasted effort – his arms had no strength left. But the satyr was far beyond rationality; after witnessing the murder of his kin, he was terrified that he would be next.
And he was right. Boxxy brought the struggling creature before the gnome, pinning him to the ground next to his dead friend.
“Kill.”
With a sigh, the weary gnome gritted her teeth and did as instructed. It was just as gruesome as the first had been. At least this time it was over quickly since the satyr had already been heavily injured.
Now that all hostiles in the immediate area were dead, Fizzy’s face broke into a huge smile. She threw back her head, raising her bloodied hands to the cloudy sky.
“Victory for CHAOSSS!”
[Level up!]
[Congratulations, you are now a Level 15 Paladin! STR +2. END +2. INT +2.]
[Proficiency level increased. Champion of Chaos is now Level 4. FTH +2. LCK +2.]
Her mad expression vanished in the next instant, returning to the exhaustion of moments ago. Her outburst had been completely beyond her control, a clear sign that the Goddess of Uncertainty had a firm hold over her new ‘follower.’ Though this sort of relationship between Paladin and patron deity certainly wasn’t unique.
Every Paladin started out with a Champion Skill of the divine being he or she had sworn allegiance to. Paladins of Teresa, for example, were Champions of Justice. Paladins serving Axel, patron deity of war and combat, would be Champions of War, while those who worshipped Solus the Sun God were Champions of Life. A Priest or a Monk would have a similar Skill, except that they were Apostles or Disciples instead of Champions.
And of course, each of the Skill variants came with its own set of effects, their main function being to keep the deity’s faithful servants from straying too far from their path. At least, that was the tactful way of putting it. A more cynical way would be to say that the gods used these Skills to enforce their worldview onto their mortal servants.
It wasn’t nearly as bad as it sounde
d, though. The divine influence manifested itself as hints and urges rather than overt mind control. It was the same even in Fizzy’s case, though she must have been the only Paladin ever to have their Job forced on them by a god or goddess.
Since the poor gnome had ultimately been strong-armed into serving a random, ominous – and supremely unreliable – god like Philip, it was only natural that she would try to reject his particular brand of faith. She desperately wanted the Champion of Chaos Skill gone, hopefully before it sent her stark raving mad. The Skill ever-so-slightly warped her perception of the world around her, sometimes giving her glimpses of things that would happen a split second or two in the future.
This was admittedly useful in combat as it allowed her to occasionally predict an opponent’s movements, but it also had its downsides. She often had trouble differentiating ‘now’ from the immediate future. Either that or her limited precognition would prove to be wrong, tricking her into taking actions she shouldn’t have. It wasn’t something she couldn’t get used to, but acclimating to it would take some time.
The real problem she had with the Skill was that it occasionally forced its holder to spout inane phrases, like she had just now. At least this time it had been fairly coherent, rather than drivel like, ‘Socks for the Sock God!’ or ‘Pickles are Yummy Yummy Yummy in my Tummy!’
She didn’t even like pickles!
Of course, there was a way that she could break free from the God of Chaos. All she had to do was voluntarily undergo a Job Removal. The potentially-traumatic procedure was something that only Royal Scribes of Level 60 and above could perform, and was heavily regulated by the government. Which, incidentally, was why a certain Spymaster had his own personal Scribe. Some Job Removals needed to be kept off the books, after all.
The majority, however, were performed as punishment for violent-yet-powerful criminals with no hope of redemption, though this wasn’t always possible. The Scribe performing the Job Removal needed to be at a higher Level than the Job they were trying to take away. Boxxy had been unlucky in that regard, as the two Jobs it had lost had only been at Levels 25 and 12.