The War (Play to Live: Book #6)

by D. Rus

  The old man squinted his narrow eyes, taking a good look at me. Cussing under his breath, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of ancient glasses with muddy lenses and temples of different colors. Slipping on the antique item, he carefully looked around, frowning as he grew even more irritated.

  The old man felt the self-crafted breastplate of the warrior who had brought him here. It was made from the shell of a Relict Turtle. The aksakal shook his head in amazement. It was quite an original piece. Could’ve made the Ninja turtles jealous. And it had this particular smell…Rare artifact making techniques are not for the squeamish.

  "Allah has truly made Muscovites insane. My old lady was right, may her beauty forever shine upon Heaven’s groves!"

  "Um…Muscovites? Sir, do you have any idea where you are?"

  My head tilted to the side, I watched the real-world old man with curiosity. He had gotten torn out of reality along with a trashcan and a piece of litter-covered pavement from the Golden-domed city of Moscow itself.

  The system ran into a few glitches but managed to label him as a level 10 neutral player. His class was either hidden for real hardcore players or undefined for guest and demo ones respectively. The aksakal had health problems; as we talked, a red number one appeared three times over his head. Had he a disease? Fallen prey to DoT? Or had the overzealous warriors given him a good beating before they brought him here?

  My inquisitive mind begged for experiments. What if I buffed the gramps? Or slipped a bracelet on his skinny wrist with a neat +90 Strength bonus? What would that do to his stats? And what if I let him in the group and level him up? Did he have access to interfaces, or maybe even some kind of connection with the real world?

  Where was his respawn point? In Moscow? In a kishlak near Samarkand? Either would work, for we had so many letters we need to send to the real world! But if any of the Olders or other influential persons found out, they’d tattoo their reply right on the poor old man’s back, then chop his head off; go respawn! A small sacrifice for the sake of the billions stranded on Earth.

  The vendor finally stopped looking around and hesitantly answered my question: "I’m in Moscow, no? My grandchildren moved here Allah knows how many years ago. Now I have great-grandkids. I came to see them before I pass away. I’ve been dreaming of my wife lately. The hag won’t let me go and keeps calling me…But I can’t visit my grandkids without any gifts. So I harvested some melons and asked to join the caravan that passes through my neighborhood every month. They helped me out. Gave me and my melons a ride in the back of a truck, and the next day I was getting off at the market square. Sales went well…”

  The aksakal glanced at the Temple’s steeples, then at the 30-foot-long spider corpses. He looked suspiciously at the stocky dwarf mules. These guys were all built alike: 4.5 feet tall and 4.5 feet wide in the shoulders. They had faces rough as half-finished granite statues.

  The old man turned back to us. "Boys, where am I really?"

  I sighed and gently put my arm around his shoulders, then looked up his name again under his status. "Aybak, I’m afraid your family reunion is temporarily postponed. Allah has sent you to a faraway land. I don’t yet know if it’s possible to leave here…We’re trying, sir, we’re trying…"

  I was pretty sure the old man had figured it out already. He looked ancient but not dumb. He was just trying to hold on to reality up until now, refusing to believe his eyes and trying to trick himself into denial.

  But by the time I finished, the vendor looked like someone tore his spine out. Realizing what I just said, he sat down on the ground, clasped his hands over his head and began to rock monotonously, wailing and cussing.

  Thanks to my long elven ears, I overheard a part of the conversation between a cleric and an analyst who stood nearby:

  "I wonder, if he has a stroke, can he be resurrected?"

  "That would be a very interesting experiment, partner."

  Boy, were these guys far from reality. They weren’t cruel. They just had the new world mentality. For them, there was no perma death. The spilled enemy entrails smelled of loot and victory, and the process of extracting ingredients from the innards of the troll you had chopped up with your own hands was almost like a fishing trip: Will I catch something valuable today?

  "Aybak…" I sat down next to the distraught old man. "You hang in there now. We’re looking for a way back. With the help of gods, we’ll solve this, I promise. But for now…why don’t you join us for some rehabilitation? There’s an elven forest, clean velvet sheets, good food, and a magic services complex."

  The old man looked at me with unbearable anguish in his eyes. I realized that I needed to mention other things: "There are also kids, many of them without parents…And folks your age, desperately trying to go perma to be with their grandkids. About forty cheerful granddads and peppy sharp-tongued grannies. The others got ejected into the real world today. They’ll all run their heads into the noose…We all need you, even these tough guys in epic armor. They’ve gotten way outta hand without dads’ belts whacking their butts. So, will you come?"

  The aksakal nodded slowly, then rose with difficutly. He looked up at the sky, whispering something fierce, meant for his god alone.

  I turned to my warriors. "Gather all the melons. We’ll buy them from the man at a fair price. I think it’s about ten gold apiece. The analysts can check me on that. That’ll be his relocation allowance from the Children of the Night. Make sure we retain all of the product down to the last seed. The clan’s future monopoly on melon farming is at stake here. I’m dead serious! I declare this product strategic. It will be under the special control of Tamerlane’s department. Mess this up, and I’ll tear your heads off!"

  Having drummed the project’s importance into the young and often not so bright heads, I asked the old vendor: "I hope your melons are non-GMO, with germinable seeds?"

  The aksakal looked hurt. "Are you trying to insult me?! None of that GMO-MMO stuff. All natural, guaranteed! My melons taste like honey on the lips of your beloved!"

  I rubbed my hands together. This was another brick with which to lay the foundation of the clan’s prosperity. Plus doing good unto another made me warm inside.

  Sadly, this cost us a lot of time. And time was priceless like we were farmers who had to harvest before severe weather. Every hour, tons of ripe crops would pile on the ground while black clouds could already be seen on the horizon, promising to destroy everything the farmers had grown in a year.

  The operational reserve numbers plummeted, losing the zeroes on the ends just like during the worst moments of our battle for the First Temple. No, we didn’t physically lose anyone. The boys were just emotionally burned out. The exhausting marathon with the Chinese, the prolonged battle on the walls of the bone fortress, and the dreadful carnage at Fortress Yavanna – everything took its toll.

  Dozens of battles, the monotonous cycle of killing, dying, and getting reborn. Constant pain from evil magic and honorable yet very sharp steel. Seeing nothing but red all around. Your head filled with screams and the sound of weapons cutting flesh. The omnipresent slaughterhouse stench and the smell of blood-stained iron. Gravestones had become a necessary part of life. And blood, blood was everywhere…

  People just couldn’t take it anymore. They forgot that we were in a state of alert and left the ranks, hit the bottle, went on three-day fishing trips, or temporarily moved to the House of Pleasures.

  The Crypt, the comfort of its submarine-like interior being quite questionable, couldn’t relieve this kind of stress. Our self-trained psychologists weren’t much help either and got drunk with the patients the way only real doctors could. Plenty of rest, liquor, and warm female breasts in their toil-hardened hands – that was our crude yet effective therapy.

  Because this was happening on such a large scale for a very understandable reason, punishment was out of question. This process needed to be brought under control through wise leadership and initiative. Even steel has a break
ing point, let alone the fragile psyches of the permas. Plus our population wasn’t very stable: we had several escapists, romantics and dreamers. There were also fugitives, schoolchildren, cripples, and even suicide bombers of different origins. Not a very safe nor homogeneous population.

  Most had overtaxed their strength and were in a so-so condition. Our best personnel…Ninety-year-old explorers of the Arctic, who had looked over the edge and whose souls still partially resided there. Submariners who had gotten exposed to lethal radiation levels. Firefighters burned to the bone. Soldiers with shards lodged in their bodies...

  When they first joined, their endorphin levels soared. They had it all: excellent health and immortal bodies, potential partners of all sexes, the bliss of gluttony and eternal youth. Few can remember how colorful and exciting their life was at 16. And at 5? Look at children: they don’t walk, they always run. If only we had their passion! Just imagine, running around all day long with a smile on your face…

  But AlterWorld had its own sources of extreme stress. We could kill and get killed dozens of times in a single day. We endured pain, got burned by plasma, writhed with pain from alchemic solutions, and looked down with instinctual terror at our own entrails falling out into one slimy, steaming pile.

  The clan’s secret statistics were grim: our warrior numbers were inevitably shrinking. People left for the strategic reserve. It was getting harder and harder to get them to go to a lousy dungeon with lame fire imps, let alone an actual battlefield. They were just tired of pain and deaths. That was the rotten side of immortality. The stress undermined our sanity, paving the way for nervous breakdowns and hysterics and leaving players with neurasthenia.

  General Frag approached me. He was pale with exhaustion. He had numerous small wounds which were still bleeding. His regeneration speed had gone down. Reality was persistently reaching for us.

  "Max, I’m taking my men. Just got word from a well-wisher that the Ninja Looters’ Nova barely has 30 fighters left. They had very few permas, just a handful really. See, these boys weren’t very nice. They looted everyone they could and transferred their funds into the real world, which made them pretty well-off. It’s about time they paid for it. They need to be put in their place. Plus, we could use a base outside the Valley. Their castle is top-level, their armories are full, аnd their hangars are packed with top-of-the-line siege machinery. A sweet prize!"

  I nodded with a sign. An extra Nova was a good thing, especially if it was the Ninja Looters’ Nova. It had an excellent location as it was situated on a mountain ridge like Swallow's Nest in Crimea. It could be attacked and had portal coordinates on one side only. Besides, General Frag didn’t need to hang around me unless there was a direct threat to the Valley or the First Temple.

  "Take it," I said. "And be careful. Any other day I would’ve said that a castle with little guard is most likely a trap. But today, any miracle is possible. Take a look at the High City; mansions, villas, micro-castles with carvings in all towers. Most were abandoned. Even the city and the royal guards are gone. Wanna kick the ass of some conceited king? Just walk into his palace! A couple hundred NPCs with pots and pans – that’s all the guard he’s got."

  General Frag gave a weary smile. "My boys have already figured it out. Looting’s ahead of schedule. I even have farmers that left their fields to raid the warehouses on Trade Street. They’re whining and crying, but are still taking down defensive shields and busting safes that have millions of HP. They’re falling into traps, getting killed by the Place Guards, but some inevitably get to the loot."

  My greedy pig indignantly waved his paws covered with thick gold bracelets. It was an outrage: here we are, fighting pure Evil, saving the world you might say, while these guys are stuffing their own pockets?!

  General Frag instantly knew why my features darkened. He only shrugged. "So? Once in a blue moon the crafters and supporters get a chance to rake in some loot. I can’t hold them back. We’ve a gold rush on our hands. The people are willing to leave the clan to go and search for a fortune of millions. And the logistics officers are too powerful as they hadn’t fought. However, the first line warriors have only their will power to keep them on their feet. The staff is keeping track of the names of all the greedy ones."

  General Frag sighed angrily and smashed his armored fist into his open palm, obviously picturing himself breaking the muzzles of all the overzealous greedy pigs. The battered armor lost its last HP. Its strength hit zero, and the gauntlets crumbled into dust. Oops. Such was the admins’ legacy when it came to fighting economic glut.

  The general looked at his bare hands in surprise, then spat in disappointment. "I will surely manage a portion of the clan. I’ll also turn over one tenth of the Alliance to higher authority. But looting can be prevented only by the means of terror, which is really unsuitable at this time. We have no choice but to monitor the process from a safe distance and focus on more pressing issues."

  "Like that Nova filled with trophies to the roof," I added knowingly.

  "That’s right," smiled General Frag, firmly shaking my hand. "All right, we’re leaving. Keep the respawn point safe!"

  This was a standard way to say goodbye to a perma. In reply, I spat thrice over my shoulder and muttered: "Don’t count on it."

  The general had set a bad example. And bad examples are contagious. Other leaders of independent troops started coming up to me one after another to report their situation, inform me of the statistics and their future plans, and quickly leave in search of fortune. There was so much unclaimed loot that all the sentients put together couldn’t gather it and put it to good use.

  The Alliance had always been a powerful force. But now, after the entire world had gone perma and all the formalities were put aside, our army became one of the strongest formations of the Russian cluster.

  If we gathered all of our forces at that moment, we could’ve taken anything we wanted. However, there was practically no one to conquer. A single swing of the sword or a poke in the fat belly would’ve been enough to bring down the existing enemies.

  It seemed like most other clans retained but a few percent of the people on their payroll. The crowded castles that used to house thousands now became quiet and empty. They were filled with the foosteps of frightened warriors running to and fro. All were of different backgrounds and numbered a hundred per castle at best. Walk in, and the loot is yours.

  The Russian cluster had just under three million players. When the worlds got separated during the Russian prime-time evening hours, at least a third were logged in, including all the permas, obviously. So the question was, how many Russians had gotten digitized by force? How many turned out to be drawn to AlterWorld more than to Earth? A hundred thousand? Two hundred thousand? In any case, the alliance of the Guards of the First Temple in league with the NPCs and the dwarves who had accepted vassalage was now something massive and indestructible.

  Of course, when it came to the Asian clusters, I imagined they had at least twice as much manpower as we did. For them, there was nothing epic about twenty thousand warriors of the Alliance. Surely they realized that we had to be reckoned with, but nothing more.

  Portals kept opening all around. The detachments were leaving one by one. We soon found ourselves down to a dangerously low number of warriors in the city area. I figured it was time to beat it.

  One hour wasn’t enough to loot the nearby villas and boutiques. But it was enough to make the austere warriors look like retreating Petliurovites. Their bags resembled overinflated balloons, indicating that their inventories were overloaded. Those who had run out of inventory slots and were still able to walk had their arms full of bulky goodies.

  I was stupefied for a second when I saw a troll hurrying away so he could start building. He was carrying a grand piano incrusted with fretted bones under one arm, and a nine-foot jade statue of the Fairest One under the other arm.

  Many precious belongings drifted away upon the wind. Every time the warriors saw these a
nd found them to be more valuable than what they already had, they stopped and cleared out their inventory to make room.

  You could easily track one of the ogres: his trail started at the broken window of a restaurant, then moved ten paces to the side. Near Madam Rauzier’s Elven Silk shop was a mountain of fancy sandwiches – a few tons at least, worth around 50,000 gold altogether.

  The shop nextdoor, the Blacksmith Depot, had a huge hole in one of the walls. Inside was a multi-ton pile of bright hemstitched lace. It was difficult to say what it was worth.

  But what really took the cake was the mutilated armored door of the Imperial Crown boutique and jewelry store. Judging by the abandoned silver ingots and bundles of half-finished Damascus steel products, the loot had exceeded the boldest expectations. You didn’t have to guess the lucky winner of the jackpot as there were about fifty graves with the same name in that area. The magic protection of the shop had given a 140 percent defending the abandoned treasures down to the very last drop of mana.

  One of the staff officers passing by took a screenshot just in case:

  BelAZ. Level 211 ogre. The Children of the Night Clan.

  The loot now rightfully belonged to that ogre, but the clan tax was still in effect, and no one fully trusted the analysts’ reports. The secret services were competing with each other, submitting multiple copies of the same info in order to prevent falsification of the facts by one of the parties and help headquarters to make unbiased orders.

  And speaking of orders, I gave some orders of my own via the officer channel: "That’s it, boys, we’re going home. Set up a portal following protocol. Warriors get a two to one break schedule. Two hours of play for every one hour of work. Women and those with family responsibilities get a ten percent bonus. However, I will need everyone ready to fight by 8 p.m. sharp. We’ll seize our virtual fortune. We’ve been in the lead thus far, so let’s not get knocked over during the sweetest stage, the stage of rewards and freebies. Suck it up!"