The Gene of the Ancients (Rogue Merchant Book #2): LitRPG Series

by Roman Prokofiev

  As I rummaged through the clan mail and read the battle reports on the forums, I slowly put the picture together. Of course, the Northerners’ territory was occasionally attacked. Usually, the invaders arrived from the south, the border of the endless Wild Field, or came by sea or by air from the west, the shores of Farsids. Some of them were in small groups, but sometimes it was big raids, too. If carebears were unable to fend off the attack, they started writing into secure channels that they were being killed, blocked at resp points, that their forts were burned... The Watchers always acted the same way: alerted everyone, called to arms, gathered a raid, and fought. In case of a mass invasion, allied combat clans — the Varangians, Enemy, and Sworn Brothers — came to help. Going by the forums, the latest large-scale war in the region had ended half a year ago and had been caused by Japanese clans trying to bite off a piece of the western coast. They had created a dozen outposts, even trying to destroy Enemy’s castle. After a month of constant battles, the warriors of the Northern Alliance had finally driven the Asians back to their continent.

  Smaller groups, like raiders from the Wild Field, were hunted only up to a point, thanks to the enthusiasm of some raid leaders. Usually, less than a hundred players teams up and went on the offensive; the entire clan only rose up in case of a serious threat. I had managed to take part in one of such events — the battle at Old Crossroads.

  Why did I spend time on studying all of that? My goal was simple. I wanted to take control of all trade in the region, becoming the link in the chain and the narrow bottleneck through which all commercial traffic of the tenants of my clan would flow — and ideally, the tenants of the entire alliance. Yes, I was going to become the intermediary between the population of the clan lands and the Bazaar market, and the only one at that.

  The problem was, the locals didn’t need any intermediary. They handled everything themselves, sending mined resources to Eyre by caravans and to the Bazaar, by flying ships. Their cargo was impressive: ore and gems, crafted items, ingredients, and dungeon loot. I estimated its monthly value to be around one and a half or two million gold.

  I needed to create a situation that would help me wedge into this scheme, and I saw only one option — a cruel, cynical, and violent one.

  I wanted to seize control of the trade routes.

  Shown on the map as blue dotted lines, they went through the yellow borderlands to merge in Dan-na-Eyre. There were three of such zones, forming a semi-circle around the kingdom from the east and separating it from the clan lands. That’s where I wanted to create controlled chaos. PK clans recruited by me — Black Don’s Nonames, Panther’s Gentlemen Bastards, and Artist’s Elven Patrol who joined them later — were to block all trade traffic in two of them.

  The third one, located far to the south, long and stretched, like a sausage, presented a problem. That territory held the majority of trading routes, and flying ships usually made their short haul runs through there. It needed someone able to crush a well-guarded caravan and shoot down an astral cargo ship. I decided to entrust this job to Tao, who was in my debt, and his elite warriors. I was aware that the risks were high, but so were the bets. If things panned out, I would get a stable income of half a million per month. It would be less after deducting the fees of all participants, but still. I would also carve a place in the world, earning reputation and making a name for myself. Of course, all of it was supposed to look completely natural: an influx of PKers, mayhem on the border, and a solution able to deal with all the problems at once. If I failed...well, it was worth it. I would find another way to profit, especially seeing as I had already gotten the hang of the game, even securing the initial capital.

  The hardest thing in the whole affair was to cover my guys from the Watchers and avoid getting busted at the same time. That was something I had to do myself.

  As for the ethics of it, I didn’t care one bit. Generally speaking, I was starting a new event, entertaining everyone, bringing PvP right to their doorstep, so nobody would be bored. Some would find their fun robbing caravans, while others would hunt them. And I — I would make money. Not much; just a little bit.

  The carebears? I had no concern for their pain over their lost cargo. Sphere was a cruel world. They were my allies only on a technicality. They had mines, dungeons, locations full of respawning mobs — soon, they would reimburse all their losses, and more. Some of them may even take a liking to PvP, fueled by anger and a desire to pay back their attackers. Win-win!

  * * *

  The road twisted and turned among hills, overgrown with lush green groves. Far on the horizon loomed the grey fangs of North Belt, covered in a misty haze. Three provinces behind them was Eyre, the capital of the kingdom; the way there was familiar and safe.

  That’s exactly why Klian, the head wagoner, was so surprised when around the corner, two figures appeared out of the blue and blocked the road. They were players, Klian realized. They often hunted around those parts, asking for some tasks. He winced, thinking of a polite method to send the strangers on their way. Or should he make them fetch fodder for the caravan’s draught horses?

  The idiots didn’t seem to flinch.

  “Whoa!” Klian pulled in the reins, stopping his wagon. Behind them, the other wagoners stopped in turn, cursing.

  “What do you want, kind sirs? Clear the road, don’t you see a caravan going through?” Klian yelled to the players. Nope, no quests for them today, none at all!

  “We’re Elven Patrol,” one of the players said. “Senior inspector Artist. Let me see your papers!”

  With that, both players in unison threw their hoods back, revealing bright red nicknames — the brand of criminals and murderers unfit for living in the good old kingdoms.

  “What kind of — “ Klian wanted to say, but it was too late. A heavy crossbow bolt fired by Artist pierced his chest, knocking him from the driving seat. The last thing he saw was dark silhouettes rising on both sides of the road and a whooshing hail of arrows raining down on the caravan, drilling holes in the canvas roofs of the wagons.

  * * *

  Captain Panther: See that?

  Diareus: We do. A big escort, thirty wagons, fifty grandees. Twelve players, five of them on birdies.

  Diareus: They never head out without guards anymore...

  Svenn: All of them are Paradise. So, are we going to take them out?

  Diareus: What if the Watchers drop on us?

  Captain Panther: Nope, the Watchers are in Helt Akor, farming. Wait, there are too many of them, I’ll write Blackie.

  Captain Panther: Got it. Feint, Nail, Schwarz, Helga, get over here, quick. Svenn, can you kite them? Listen to me, that’s what you need to do...

  Svenn led his mount in a skilled and elegant manner, like an expert driver controlling a luxury car. No surprises there, as he had rank eight in Riding and a pretty great mount, an epic quality Misty Smilodon. Its speed was almost fifty percent higher compared to ordinary mounts, and it was able to perform a few riding tricks, too.

  Passing through a cloud of dust around the carriages, Svenn drove up the hillcrest and spent a few seconds peering into the lines of armor-clad NPC cavalry flanking the caravan and the dark triangle formations of birdies soaring above. He was positive that he had long been noticed and identified. Pulling out a longbow from his gorytus, he fired a dozen arrows into the shining ranks of NPC guards. His shots were well-aimed. One arrow even managed to remove a third of a grandee’s hit points, piercing the weak spot of his full plate.

  The birdies descended, closing in on him. The jerrids thrown by their riders from above shot past him with a booming sound and sunk into the soft soil half-way to the hilt. Svenn smirked derisively: they had missed a stationary target by several feet! Those newbies clearly hadn’t been taught by Hermione, and Liberty trainers had never made them practice throwing each day until it became second nature.

  Seeing the glistening snake of knights surrounding the caravan turn toward him, while the birdies continued their rapid d
escent, Svenn finally urged his mount to the side. He knew where to go.

  A free kill! Their enemy is fleeing, he’s alone with nobody from his gang around — that’s what the players guarding the caravan were supposed to think. They’re riding birdies, while he’s on the ground. Chase him, catch him, kill him!

  And it worked. The armor of grandees giving him chase sparkled in the dust behind him, and almost a dozen birdies spun around, going in for the kill. Arrows buzzed everywhere, like a stirred hornets’ nest, and one of them missed him by an inch, whooshing just past his cheek. Svenn threw his smilodon left and right, adjusting its speed and zig-zagging. It was as if he was enchanted, and no matter how they tried, none of the flying riders could hope to hit him.

  Grand Fire blazed ahead, and a ball of magic energy singed the grass just next to Svenn — they finally started to use magic on top of physical attacks. Activating “ghost” mode, Svenn transformed himself and his mount into a cloud of haze, in one leap crossing the fire-covered surface. He straightened in the saddle and immediately changed his riding stance, leaning on the smilodon’s neck. Trick Riding, his high level skill, allowed him to perform such techniques. Svenn focused, his bow in his hands, and aimed at the birdie rider wielding a wand, at the same time trying to get used to his mount’s wild bouncing.

  Fire! The arrow dipped in dragon venom went up, and the third birdie to his right, a grey-feathered windflyer, wavered in the air and started to lose altitude. One down! Even if the player survived the drop, he was out of the chase.

  Grey fangs of the cliffs already loomed in front of him — the agreed upon place. The enemies descended further. Having found their groove, they managed to hit the smilodon twice, with one of their arrows piercing Svenn’s shoulder straight through, making him bleed. Just a little bit. Come on... Astride a stumbling crippled mount, he rode into the dead end formed by the semi-circle of sharp grey rocks and disappeared in the pit of a cave entrance, leaving a trail of blood behind him.

  The players landed and dismounted, surrounding the dark hole hidden by the translucent screen of an instance. It was a small local dungeon called Lair that randomly appeared in the borderlands.

  A second later, the cliffs were teeming with grandees, flushed after the pursuit. The plate-clad guards flocked to the entrance, instantly filling all the space around them with people and horses.

  “What’s he hoping for?” one player asked another. “It’s a dead end, there’s no way out!”

  “I don’t know. He’s holed up like a rat! Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

  “Sometimes, I really wonder, why do people keep buying into the same old tricks?” a voice came from somewhere above. “What do you think, Blackie? Do you know why?”

  “I don’t, Thirteenth. Login trap is an old trick, true. Yet they get sucked in every time.”

  Two men were sitting and talking on the grey rocks, as if ignoring the players looking up at them: a dark elven assassin, hopping on the sharp peak, his two curved scimitars drawn, and another one, sitting motionless, wrapped in a dark cloak above chainmail armor and holding a heavy crossbow with the crease of his elbow.

  A host of armed figures emerged around the NPCs and players herded into the cliffs. Nonames, Elven Patrol, Gentlemen — those very same PKers were there. It was a trap!

  A third person appeared between the peacefully talking duo, dressed in a black surcoat with a red star. Crimson light burned bright in his right hand, raised high. He didn’t say anything — only threw down a Grand Fire spell on the gathering beneath.

  * * *

  Red dots of PvP activity studded the interactive map, cutting the northwest of Dorsa off in a semi-circle. Curt lines of kill rating demonstrated dozens of murders, plundered caravans, and NPC and player escorts attacked on the border of Eyre Nation. A few PK clans abruptly, out of the blue, started robbing this once peaceful region; day and night they plagued the merchants, all but crippling caravan movement. Nobody felt safe. Flying ships changed their routes, not risking entering the dangerous lands, and NPC transporters stopped accepting contracts.

  Dealing with all of that was impossible without outside assistance, as bandits turned out to be too numerous and fast-moving, clearly controlled from the same spot. If necessary, they joined together, destroying even large, player-escorted groups. Alliance chats and secure channels started getting bombarded with appeals for help, and more and more letters were sent by tenant clans to the leaders of their lenders.

  The situation went into overdrive, and warriors assembled raids, preparing to chase off the aggressive invaders. PK clans — Nonames, Gentlemen Bastards, Elven Patrol — got added to the alliance KOS list, and a hunt commenced.

  To everyone’s surprise, however, it didn’t bring anyone kills or glory. The combined raids of Watchers, Enemy, and Heroes only wasted their time. The PKers didn’t fall for their tricks and didn’t engage in battle. As soon as a hunting party marched out, the lowlifes simultaneously logged out or scattered to other regions, not letting their opponents have any fun. They only attacked weaklings, those they knew they could defeat, and robbed loners who found themselves in the borderlands. The most surprising fact, however, was that they somehow managed to avoid traps carefully laid out for them. If a Watcher’s raid stayed in Condor, preparing to drop on the PKers’ heads through a pentagram, the caravans used as bait were given a free pass. As soon as soldiers went to sleep, the bandits were once again on the war path. “Hit and run” tactics turned out to be devilishly effective, and the carebears cried tears of blood, while their goods piled up inside their outposts’ warehouses. Logistics stopped working, but not all options had been exhausted yet.

  Chapter 14

  KEITH BORLAND, also known as Octopus, the captain of an astral nave “Crabstrocity,” felt wonderful. He had a firm deck under his feet, wind in his hair, and a steering wheel of polished wood responding to each and every move of the veteran seaman. What could be better, really? Keith was smiling, and the anticipation of a forthcoming profitable deal warmed his heart.

  “It’s all clear here, Keith!” Impedimenta, a seeker and a scout who was the first to go into the Astral Portal, reported to him.

  “Only our...friends,” Impie continued. “You can pass!”

  In a familiar, confident manner Keith turned on the spelljumper and turned the engine up, steering the ship into the fluorescent rainbow vortex. Borland was an experienced captain, having spent more than six months flying his nave across various worlds, jumping through the Astral Plane. It was a risky venture, but the chance of bumping into somebody else right at the exit point from the endless Astral Sea was negligible.

  “Nobody will catch us!” Keith boasted while drinking beer with his crew: two players, six pawns, and ten NPC hirelings of proven worth. Generally, he had every reason to think so, as Octopus was careful and usually noticed if anyone was spying on him. He thought he knew all the tricks employed by wannabe raiders. Of course, the attackers could always prove to be smarter — but only people willing to take risks became captains of Astral vessels.

  The nave, a huge and clumsy overtonnaged cargo ship, mostly resembling an enormous raft wrapped in a pile of sails, grudgingly dropped into the Portal, transporting to another world.

  You are entering the world of Dorsa

  Class: B (Terrestrial)

  Location: Grey worlds

  Size: Gargantuan

  Following the lines of features running through the tray, Keith felt a bout of nostalgia: Dorsa was his home world, the one he had long since abandoned.

  It was night, and the sky was strewn with silver dots of stars. The late time wasn’t accidental, as Keith had decided to be on the safe side and avoid the prime time of Russian clans, so most players would be asleep. Impie circled around on a cloud wyrm. Three rows of stone walls with towers on the corners stood below; a standard rank three outpost. Just in case, Keith checked everything around with his Search — not as high-level as Impie’s, but still.


  Everything was clear.

  “Astr, Ellaria! Get to work!” Borland barked. “Nosquire, wake up, prepare the anchors. Impie, go back into the Portal and watch from the other side.”

  The job that awaited them wasn’t exactly challenging. Some local clan of miners and crafters, upon a recommendation, contacted Borland, asking him to move a large batch of valuable metals to the Bazaar. Word of mouth worked: Octopus had a reputation as a reliable transporter, and it was his contacts who gave him most of his orders. Keith checked the customers: no suspicious activity in the kill rating. Those guys were absolutely clean. Two hours of work, two jumps through the Astral Plane, and he’d get forty grand. The only problem was that the clients didn’t have a wharf for astral ships, especially of such class, as they were present only in the capitals of kingdoms or fully upgraded clan castles. Keith was to land Crabstrocity on its belly next to the outpost, so it could be loaded with cargo.