Stars Awoken: A LitRPG Apocalypse (The System Apocalypse Book 7)

by Tao Wong

  Unlike the third group. These are the ones who are openly checking out Harry and me, eyeballing us and our Statuses. This group makes up the largest number, roughly two-thirds of those present. Of course, by the time everyone else streams in—most coming in on the dot or close to it—we’ve got a total of fifteen attendees.

  “Well. I guess that’s it,” I say, still slouched in my seat.

  I stand and walk up to the podium. Instead of getting behind it, I put my elbow on the side and lean, letting my gaze rake over the audience. They’re a diverse bunch—male and female and things in between or just weird enough I don’t even want to guess. Mostly non-Combat Classers, though a small group of four in a corner are fighters. Strong ties between each other, not much else otherwise. I see no Hakarta or Yerrick here, just a bunch of gnomes, Truinnar, Movanna, lizardmen, a Dullahan, and some other weirder species. The only person who seems out of place is the Kobold in a vest-and-suit ensemble, standing by the door. Still, I sense no hostility.

  “You’re all here because you want to know about Earth, the latest Dungeon World. My name is John Lee. I’m a human, a native of the Dungeon World. I’m also an Erethran Paladin. For those who don’t know, or can’t tell, that’s a Master Class. I achieved that in five years of fighting on Earth.” That last bit is a stretch, though most of my experience gains came from being on Earth. In fact, while in the Forbidden Zone, I never went up a single level.

  “If you’re looking for a change, for a chance to grow and Level, Earth offers a lot of opportunities. Even for those of you who aren’t Combat Classers.” I let my gaze sweep over the group, noting that I’ve gotten the interest of some of them. I relax my hold on my Aura, letting it turn on, and flash them all a smile. Then I mentally kick myself when I see one of the Galactics recoil at my brazen aggressive act. Oops. “Now, let’s talk specifics…”

  I talk about the changes on Earth, the numerous monsters and dungeons and wide-open lands. I talk about languages and cultures, of food and the various groups in the world. I try to keep the last bit broader since there’s so much variation, but even then, the talk takes longer than I expected. After that, the questions come, many of them targeting areas I’d forgotten. For the most part, the answers are easy to provide. Then there are other questions which at first seem easy but get complicated.

  “Which city do you think we should base ourselves from?” This question comes from the non-Combatant couple, an Alchemist and a Waste Processor.

  “Where to ship in?” I frown, drumming my fingers on my leg. “That depends—”

  “Actually, Redeemer, I think I should answer that. Wiza of the Third Pors Immigration Company. We’re the one who booked this room,” Wiza, the Kobold, says as he flashes a toothy smile at everyone. “If you sign up with the Third Pors, we’ll handle all transportation, language, and cultural purchases required for a safe and ultimately fruitful immigration. Of course, we’ll also help assign you to the most appropriate locations on Earth. We, in fact, have deals with numerous local governmental authorities…”

  “I thought Oria booked this. And what’s this about signing up?” I send to Ali as I half-listen to Wiza give his spiel.

  “Normal immigration policy for those who can’t afford it. They set up a Serf program for repayment, handle the employment and other skill purchases. Most of the people you’re going to talk to can’t afford the cost of flying themselves all the way to Earth,” Ali says.

  “No loans?”

  “For going to a Dungeon World? Har. No self-respecting loan company will give out Credits to someone who might be dead within an hour of walking onto the surface. The few who do use a very high interest rate,” Ali says. “At least with a Serf contract, they can dictate where and how their Serfs live. Keep their risks down.”

  I frown but don’t interrupt Wiza’s speech. I don’t like it, not at all, but it’s not as if he’s forcing anyone to sign on. Then again, when your choice is a slow, grinding existence with little hope of ever getting better, is the only choice offered a choice anymore?

  “For a group of Level 10s, how many Credits can we get per week? Safely, that is,” asks the leader of the Combat Classers. I feel weird for moment when the speaker doesn’t speak in broken English, considering he’s got big long ears, stands about three feet tall, and is green.

  “Uhh…” I try to figure out how to answer that. Considering I haven’t been at that Level since, well, ever, it’s not something I even considered.

  “Depends. How hard are you going to work? Which city are you in? You know, the usual things,” Harry says, stepping in. “But with a well-trained party of five, you could see two to three hundred Credits each.” As murmurs break out at that low amount, Harry continues, unperturbed. “But you have to remember, if you’re on Earth, your food cost is pretty close to nil. As for rent, it’d be maybe a hundred Credits each for a single detached house in a suburb.”

  That, of course, ends up starting a long discussion about what a single detached residence is. We even have to get Ali to show off pictures of Earth. I swear, those pictures of sprawling lands and houses that aren’t connected to one another are what interest two-thirds of the group. And almost lose us the other third.

  Conversations go on and on, and at the end, I spot Wiza passing on his contact information. Curiosity keeps me in the room until he’s done, as I answer a few more personal queries. Some of which I have to confess ignorance to. Like, how would I know if there are underscale cleaners yet?

  When Wiza is finally done with his conversations, I break off from mine by the simple expedient of shoving Harry and Ali into the spotlight.

  “You wished to speak with me, Redeemer?” Wiza says respectfully, inclining his doggy head to the side.

  “A bit. I’d love to see that Serf contract you’re passing around.”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s against company policy. Contracts are individualized for each contractee due to differences in Classes, Levels, and skills,” Wiza says with a lolling smile. “There’s no single contract to show, even if we were allowed to do so.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that one before.” The gods know, employees the universe over love spitting out how there’s no regular contract, how every applicant is different. And then when you push them, of course, there’s a standard form everyone signs—with some minor concessions and a tiny band of what they’re willing to pay and negotiate within. “Try again.”

  “It’s not possible, Redeemer,” Wiza says, straightening a little and meeting my gaze directly.

  “Okay.” Wiza relaxes a little, so I hit him with my next question. “Can you highlight on this schedule which talks you’ve sponsored?”

  “I have not sponsored anything directly, Redeemer. The Third Pors are the sponsors, but I can highlight our sponsorships,” Wiza says. A twitch of his fingers and the information is highlighted.

  “Thanks.” While the schedule is still shared, I send a mental command that wipes them all from my schedule.

  “Redeemer? What?”

  “I don’t work with people who don’t trust me,” I say flatly, turning to walk away.

  “Redeemer! Please. Wait. Let me talk to my supervisor…”

  “Send me the contract. Then we’ll talk,” I say over my shoulder, walking out with a little saunter.

  Yeah, it’s a bit nasty to do that to an employee. But they’re contracting Serfs. Even if it is the way things are done here, I still can’t bring myself to like or accept the entire voluntary slavery thing.

  Chapter 9

  By the end of that evening, the multi-page contract arrives. Truth be told, any contract that needs a damn legal degree to understand always makes me wary, but this one is just plain painful to read. I have to stop numerous times to do the System equivalent of hitting the search engines to understand out what everything means. Well, understanding based off a layman’s skill. It doesn’t help that I’m doing most of it while wandering the sixth and seventh ring. A quick stop at the Shop helped
solve the pressing issue of drawing too much attention.

  Isekai’s Mask of the Unknown (Tier V)

  A basic piece of equipment that provides a modicum of privacy for those looking to hide their actions. This is the most basic mask on offer and is not effective under intense scrutiny.

  Effect: Conceals status information from low-level Basic Class Skills.

  Cost: 500 Credits

  Of course I could have spent more money, but there’s really no point. I’m not going to spend a ton of Credits trying to play rogue or assassin. My enemies will all send people with the appropriate Skills to break a casual purchase, and my Shrunken Footsteps Skill is already making it hard for others to track me. Layering another Skill on top of that, even an active Skill, would be a waste of Credits and Mana.

  No, the mask is more a social convention. It’s a way of saying “I’m here to do private business” rather than to actually stop people who are truly interested. It also has the benefit of hiding my race—or at least my facial features. While I do attract a little attention with my mask, with Ali in invisible mode, most people just leave us alone. Which is all I want.

  “Harry, have you seen other contracts?” I ask. I mean, I know I sent others out to serve sentences while I ran my settlements, but most of our contracts are pretty straightforward. It’s not as if we’re actually trying to keep them as slaves forever. In fact, in some ways, giving them a job, a direction, and a goal in life might be better.

  Or maybe that’s my guilty conscience talking.

  Harry’s lips press together. “Yeah. This one’s not that different. A few corporations were trying this on Earth about three years ago. Came through a bunch of major cities. Most of them were shut down pretty hard.”

  “Shut down?” I say with a frown.

  “Taxes. A lot of the settlement owners didn’t like their population being taken, so they taxed or otherwise restricted their operations. These days, they’re still around but, well, you know. Dungeon World.”

  I nod, hating that Harry has a point. Earth being a Dungeon World means a lot of bad things happen. But one thing it provides that a world like Irvina doesn’t is a raft of opportunities. Combat Classers are actively encouraged to go out and fight, to raise their Levels as fast as they can. Non-Combat Classers—especially in the Basic Level—swim in the loot and other materials produced from non-stop combat. It only takes a little motivation to do well in a Dungeon World. But then, a little motivation is all that most people have. The final resting point might be higher, but most people end up stagnating in their Level gains after a while.

  Doesn’t help that constant combat is a burden on the mind.

  It’s why so many of the surviving humans are switching over to non-Combat Classes. Most people can only handle so much bloodshed and danger. It takes a toll emotionally, mentally, and yes, on one’s soul. With the slowly increasing number of Galactics, humanity has started offering quests and advice, guiding newcomers, and setting up stores. In many ways, I understand why they call us “NPCs”—Non-Participating Classers.

  Non-participating in the greater game. Non-participating in the sludge and drudge of Leveling up. There’s a point when growth becomes more hassle than it’s worth for most people, so while they might continue to climb, they do it slowly, gently. A slow grind rather than the mad dash of the motivated and desperate. When the choice is not to level.

  “So. This isn’t that uncommon, but it still seems pretty horrible. Best I can see, even if it’s not a non-stop circle of debt and penalties, it’s a damn spiral,” I say. “Am I wrong?”

  “Not really,” Ali answers. “These guys aren’t the worst, but they’re not great either. More reputable companies have better contracts, but because the contracts are better…”

  “They can pick and choose who they take,” I say. Of course, that meant that those who didn’t get in then went to the worse groups, so companies like Wiza’s had to acquire even higher costs to set up their new Serfs properly. That meant they had to get a higher return from any single Serf, resulting in stricter contracts and longer periods. It was a vicious cycle in a way, one that those at the bottom were forced to contend with.

  “They’re shady moneylenders. All we need is a pawn shop…” Harry shuts up when Ali flashes a new map, highlighting a half-dozen locations nearby. “The more things change…”

  “It’s not as if there are that many ways of working an economy,” Ali says. “Especially when the System imposes its rules.”

  I nod and finally discard the contract. At the end of the day, it’s not really something I can change. More importantly, the lack of audience today was a bit concerning. If we’re looking at fifteen people each meeting, that fifty thousand number will be a very, very long time in coming. “Hey, Ali, anything we can do to increase the number of people attending?”

  “Why ask me?” Ali says with a snort. “Do I look like an event organizer?”

  I look over my stalwart and sturdy companion, the linebacker with a beard in an orange suit. “Yeah, okay. Sorry. Harry?”

  The reporter smiles ruefully, making me sigh.

  Fine. In the end, we spend the rest of the day wandering, getting a feel for the sixth ring. I leave my Social Web on, drinking in the sights and sounds while letting a portion of my mind go over the question.

  “Dungeon?” Mikito asks the next morning, leg propped up on a chair as she stretches.

  “Definitely. Let’s try for deeper,” I say, rubbing my neck.

  Last night was… interesting. A night out with the boys ended up with us checking out the Galactic equivalent of a dive bar—not recommended—a pod-racing show—fun but expensive—and finally a Galactic strip joint at Ali’s insistence. And we only ended up in the strip joint because Harry and I firmly turned down the suggestion of the brothel right next door.

  “Okay,” Mikito says. “How was your day yesterday?”

  “Ummm…” I pause halfway standing and shake off the sudden bout of paranoia. And the rather vivid image of a cat-girl grinding on me while a pair of male Truinnar made out on stage. “Boring. I’ll tell you about the speech on the way.”

  “Okay.” Mikito sounds less than enthused but follows me out of the suite. “We leaving Harry?”

  I cough, glad I’m not prone to blushing. “Yeah. He said he had more… research to do last night.”

  “So. We repeating the same quests?”

  “Might as well.”

  Later that evening, we’re back at the guild with our haul of the day. The attendant is categorizing and working out our earnings, which really is only slowed down by the speed of me hauling everything out of my Altered Space. Strangely enough, Draco is here too.

  “A decent haul for a two-party team,” Draco says, eyeing the screen in front of him. “That extra-dimensional storage space of yours is quite convenient. A lot of newer teams forget to account for the amount of space they’ll need.”

  “Thank you. But I’m surprised to see the Vice-Guild Master on the floor personally,” I say, eyeing the lizardman carefully. Intuition tells me this isn’t a random visit.

  “You shouldn’t be. I’m here to offer you a quest.”

  Draco’s left eye blinks, and suddenly, I’m staring at a new notification window.

  Quest Offered: Train with the Devil’s Flute and the Immortal Joes

  The Devil’s Flute and the Immortal Joes have recently been formed from the remnants of four previous Adventuring teams. The Vice-Guild Master feels they require additional training to achieve a B-ranking. Your job is to beat the snot out of them till they learn how to work better together.

  Reward: +5,000 Credits per training session, battle experience

  Penalties: Loss in Reputation. Loss in Fame for declining Quest.

  “Interesting.” I stare at Draco as I look over the information. “But don’t you have other people who could do this?”

  “I do. But I also promised you training opportunities,” Draco says. “This is it. Both t
eams have very different makeups. It’s about time you trained against other sentients.”

  I grunt, still not convinced.

  “I’ll also authorize your use of guild housing,” he says.

  Mikito’s eyes widen, and she unsubtly elbows me in the side. “You’ve hit your limit training with me, John. A martial artist needs variety in their training partners to get the most from their training.”

  “I’m not a fighter,” I grumble.

  “Yes, you are, Paladin. Or shall I say, Duellist?” Draco says. “I’d also point out that while you might have won against many on Earth, they are, like you, specialized monster killers. On Irvina are many who specialize in killing sentients.”

  “You guys aren’t going to let up, are you?” I sigh, letting my shoulders slump in defeat. “Fine.”

  Draco smiles while a new schedule appears in front of me. “Those are our current open slots in the training room. And those other schedules are the teams’. That is their contact information. I recommend you begin training as soon as possible.”

  “As soon as possible, eh?” I say, eyeing the schedule. “Can you help?”

  “Ugh. You are so damn lazy. I really wish KIM was still here. This was his kind of thing,” Ali sends back.

  I can’t help but smirk. Within seconds, all three schedules and my own are lined up.

  “How often do you want to do this?” Ali asks.

  “How often do you want to hit the dungeon?” I ask Mikito instead.

  Draco leaves when he sees me taking the entire thing seriously, and the pair of us step away from the attendant’s table to allow others access.

  “I’m going in every day,” Mikito says. “Well, except when I’m scheduled for the Arena. But that’s very busy and I need to work my way up the rankings.”