by Arthur Stone
"Don't even think about it."
"All right, all right. Well, I have a contact to arrange a bet with that guy. The Korean will have his noob fighter, and we'll have you."
"So, the Korean arranges fights between players?"
"No, he just never misses an opportunity to place a bet. Everyone's sick of him already. He does it all the time. And he knows where to find a noob that could tear any opponent to pieces. It's all about your connections, and his are only to be dreamed of. So, shall I arrange the fight?"
"I'll manage without the ring perfectly well. Being torn to pieces is something I could do without."
"That's ridiculous. Ros, there are no noobs like you anywhere in the Second World. You have nothing to fear. Even if the other fighter has ten levels on you, it won't be hard for you to tear him a new one."
"Actually, I'm in a bit of a hurry."
"You'd still have to wait. Some of the stuff you ordered still needs to be delivered. So it will be a perfect way to pass the time."
"You seem to be fired up about the whole thing. What's in it for you?"
"This Korean isn't just anyone. He's one of the pillars of local society. Whatever happens around him attracts everybody's interest. I, on the other hand, am but an obscure noob, so this battle could become a great advertisement for my business. And you can't do without it."
"All right, you have convinced me. I'll punish some noob for your sake; I don't care much about the ring. But please try to make things happen faster."
"I know just which buttons to push so that he would come running. People who love to gamble are like that."
"What do I do in the meantime?"
"There's a nice tavern around the corner. Why don't you spend a few hours there? And I really recommend the local beer. It's divine."
"Stout?"
"Stout."
"All right, then. I'm in."
* * *
The beer didn't even come close to what Ros tried an hour ago together with Half Pint, which meant the latter really knew a large number of obscure details. Anyone capable of finding a quiet place with good, yet inexpensive drinks in a city chock full of players, is more likely to possess other information unknown to the general public as well.
Ros was sitting in the corner of an open pavilion whose "walls" were but a few sparse shoots of creepers, watching the nearest street, which didn't see that much traffic, and occasionally studied the visitors, who were primarily poring over newspapers and magazines. Those were printed on excellent paper that looked perfectly real in one of the game's numerous publishing houses owned by NPCs and enterprising players. Everything was just like the real world, with the exception of moving pictures—there were short videos with sound activated by tapping your fingers.
Some of the articles were rather interesting. In general, new or little-known things are always of interest—after all, this was the first time since Ros had started the game that he was reading local press. Back then, he didn't have a single coin to his name and wouldn't be able to afford so much as the cheapest rag. He read the copy that was hung out on the square for the general public.
There were few people in the pavilion, so it would make no sense for anyone to join an already occupied table. Nevertheless, at some point one of the players approached Ros and asked him politely,
"Would you mind if I sat down at your table?"
Ros raised his head. The player's name was Marchikatidi. It sounded a bit like those silly noob names, but only contained a single component. He was tall and slim, with a typical elven face—although his ears weren't pointy. However, his hairstyle was so lavish that you hardly saw the ears at all. Neither the level, nor any of the other stats could be seen, and the character had that air of confidence that testified to his high social status in the Second World.
Ros drew a heavy sigh and said,
"I'm sure you really need to talk to me. But I've had too many people wishing to engage me in conversation lately. Therefore, you have exactly three minutes to state your case; then start looking for another table."
Marchikatidi sat down and shook his head in surprise.
"But I wasn't going to talk to you long. I have an offer. It's very simple, and I won't need a lot of words."
"All right, keep it short, then."
"I can pay you two thousand coins. Do you need money?"
"Who doesn't?"
"Well, there are all sorts of situations…"
"I'm all ears."
"You shall have to face a fighter of roughly your own level at the arena. Such battles are fought at the Obsidian Temple. They are perfectly legal—there's a whole series of related articles in one of your newspapers. You get the money whether you win or lose."
Ros leaned back on the chair and laughed heartily. Marchikatidi made a wrong conclusion, and asked him in a dispassionate voice,
"Is the price wrong? Make your own offer."
Ros shook his head, having calmed down a little, and replied,
"It's not that. I'm terribly sorry about what might sound as prying, but would you happen to be Korean?"
"Do you have any objections to working with Koreans?"
"I have no racial prejudice whatsoever. It's just that you could save us both a lot of time by answering."
"Well, yes, I am, in fact, Korean."
"In that case, I was laughing for a reason. It's a strange coincidence, you know. I have already agreed to participate in this battle."
"You mean, the person who had offered me this bet was going to send you to the arena as his champion?"
"Correct. He said you'd be able to find a fitting noob who would be able to beat most of his opponents without a sweat. But neither of us had thought you'd choose me for that purpose."
"That is, indeed, peculiar," Marchikatidi smiled coldly. "I take all my bets seriously. I'd been under the impression I wouldn't be able to find a better candidate than you. And you have a certain kind of reputation. You fit the bill, so it's perfectly natural that we should have met."
"You can find another noob or decline the bet altogether."
"I don't mind losing occasionally. But I'd never bet on a side that would lose no matter what. I have no idea whether anyone of or around your level would have a single chance to win. You are a great warrior, after all, Mr., ah… Bubble."
"I shouldn't keep you, then. I'm sure there's already a queue outside with all kinds of questions and offers."
"You're wrong there. Few have the ability to find out that you're in the capital. Let alone your precise location. You are famous, but only among certain people, and too conspicuous to hide all the time. I won't make any bets with your friend. Or with you. I have a different suggestion. You need the Ring of Perfidy, don't you?"
"It would come in handy."
"You'll receive the ring if you simply agree to a single battle."
"I don't have that much time."
"I can set things up in some three or four hours."
"That sure is quick…"
"We value our own time, as well as other people's. You'll keep the ring whether you win or lose."
"So, what's the catch?"
"Your opponent's level will be much higher."
"In that case, it will be a short battle. I'm just a noob, after all."
"You're no simple noob."
"But I'm still mortal."
"Would you be able to handle someone at level 100?"
"It depends on their stats, class, equipment, and skills. But, in general, it shouldn't be that big a problem."
"How about 120?"
"The damage I'd deal would be nearly halved. Whereas the damage I'd receive would be doubled. That's without considering all the other bonuses they may have. It would be a real tough battle. I don't even know if I'd bet on myself, given the level gap. And I don't have that much experience fighting players. I mostly play around with mobs in sandboxes."
"Are you afraid of dying? The ring will be yours, regardless of the result."
> "This bet is rather risky for you."
"It gets boring when you don't take any risks."
"You are making it riskier by providing me with no motivation to win."
"Would you like an extra reward?"
"I get one ring if I lose. And two if I win. Those are my conditions."
"You are putting me in a tight spot here…"
"Oh, really?"
"I only have a single ring. You cannot just go to the marketplace and ask for another. Those items are quite special, as you surely understand."
"You found me less than an hour after I first heard of this Ring of Perfidy for the first time. I don't think someone like you would find it too hard to find another copy. Should I lose, you'll keep it in your collection, and it will suffer no losses."
"Three or four hours might not be enough."
"I'm leaving in the evening. And I'm unlikely to be able to return anytime soon. There may be certain problems with logistics. It seems to be my lot."
"All right, we'll arrange it before the evening. Is it a deal?"
"It's a deal."
* * *
No one would have recognized Eric Coleman now. He didn't look like much IRL, but there were no restrictions on how you shaped your character in Second World, provided you had enough money, and the Homeland Security Advisor spent a few hours perfecting his appearance. He used to dabble in fine arts a while ago, including sculpting; some of the old skills proved handy. The tall and comely hunk whose very body seemed to radiate charisma attracted the attention of nearly every female player. His face even got featured in a game-related magazine with thousands of subscribers.
Real life didn't leave much time to play, but that didn't affect the stats or the level of Coleman's character in any way. A very narrow inner circle of players had a number of pleasant privileges. Whole clans worked for them, looking for access to unique quests. All you needed to do was to be present when the quest was received or completed. Then the group would do all the actual work, and you would just turn up whenever necessary to enjoy your ill-gotten gains.
And finding quests wasn't much trouble. The very first database programmed by the developers initially was a mine of information. Those in the know had access to it, and thus knew of things that the majority of players hadn't even suspected could exist. The controlling AIs registered this unlikely awareness and reacted to it, shutting down access to newfound shortcuts, but that all happened after the deed had already been done. The top-tier network's disciplinary action occasionally affected related quests, much to the chagrin of regular players, who would flood the forums with their complaints about malfunctioning quests. But who cared about their discomfort?
Coleman hasn't killed a single mob with his own hands since the launch of the project, although he did occasionally take part in group hunts. Nevertheless, his character grew all the way up to 206, and managed to gather an impressive set of stats. It was a pity that his skills were completely undeveloped, but leveling those up would amount to spending days fighting strong foes in Second World. He had no time for that.
Anyway, even an ideal character will have its flaws, no matter how small.
He was the one and only Eric in all of Second World. All his other namesakes had a number trailing after their name, assigned by the game in order to avoid duplicate names. It gave him a warm, fuzzy feeling to have had dibs on the name he had wanted. Let all kinds of losers name themselves Eric2435 or some such. That was their lot in life.
It was time to pay another visit to the game. A group of high-level "torpedoes" whose characters belonged to the corporation's workers managed to reach another stage. And, as it often happens, ran into a situation that required his presence.
Eric Coleman had to take a look personally before he decided how to present it to the Old Man and the others.
The capsule lid closed. He was connected. Now he was in his room, right in the heart of their well-protected clan castle.
He opened a massive door carved out of a single piece of valuable hardwood and nodded to the welcoming committee. One of them informed him dispassionately,
"Borg's group has the boss under control. You might want to hurry—he's almost down."
"Not Borg, I hope?"
"Oh, of course not."
Well, that much was obvious. Borg's group had four tanks, two of which were in their class's top ten and wearing the best armor available. Such players can withstand the attacks of the strongest mobs for a long enough time, even without healing.
And healing wasn't a problem, either. The group had enough players specializing in just that, and they also were among the Second World's elite.
Eric took a step through the shimmering portal of a teleport. He was no longer in the castle—he found himself in a most peculiar dungeon. There were sharpest spikes of multifaceted crystals of all colors protruding from the walls and the ceiling, and their facets reflected flashes from healing and attack spells almost ceaselessly. All four tanks surrounded the boss the size of a haul truck, trying their best to attract its attention. As soon as the beast would focus on one of them, the player would stop attacking and wait for one of their colleagues to become the monster's next target. Nearly all this time, support characters keep casting shields over them, as well as spells for dispelling negative effects and restoring health.
The tactics were well familiar. They were used in particularly difficult cases when the damage from the boss was so serious that no tank could withstand it, no matter how much healing they received. Therefore, one had to keep the monster alternating between targets, healing those who had suffered damage while the boss was busy elsewhere.
Borg's team was experienced. They had brought the boss's HP bar almost all the way down to zero, and kept the monster occupied for the last forty minutes or so, waiting for Eric. The nature of his work was such that he didn't always manage to log in upon first notification. Their job was to wait for him.
He stood by the wall of the cave and waved his hand.
"It's fine, guys, I'm here already. Finish it off.
DPS players, who had stayed put so far, and trying to support the tanks as much as they could, raised their bows and staffs. The flashes from the spells lit up the cave. Warriors, assassins, berserks, and other characters specializing in melee battles rushed forward, trying to keep out of the tanks' way at the same time.
They were good at what they did. An elite group. And they were paid well enough to stay at the top.
Eric wondered if he could also hit the monster with his slender sword that had cost a mint, but decided to stay out of the fray. The group was used to working together, and everyone knew just how they had to move and position themselves so as not to get in their companions' way.
Eric, on the other hand, knew nothing about it.
"You kill the Last Guard of the White Hall. XP received: 94654. Points left until the next level: 2602795. Attention! You kill the Last Guard of the White Hall with a large party! Every member of your party receives one unassigned primary stat point. Congratulations! This is the first time in the history of Second World that this monster was defeated! Your group did it! No one has ever managed it before! You receive a bonus: the title of Monster Slayers, Sixth Degree. This is your sixth title, and you receive a bonus: +2 to Speed, +2 to Craftsman, and one unassigned primary stat point. Title bonus: +6 to all primary base stats. All the members of your guild, party, or raid group receive half the bonus. The bonus is permanent or lasts until you refuse the title."
That was how Eric kept leveling up his character. He didn't get much experience today, though. But that wasn't his purpose. What he was after was much more important than mere digits. If it hadn't been for the strictest instructions received from the Old Man and the others, he'd avoid leveling up any further, anyway. The quest requirements weren't likely to require a higher level than 200, anyway.
"We're ready, boss," said Borg in a gruff and weary voice, pointing to the far side of the crystal hall.
&
nbsp; There was an enormous gate there. If it had stood in the middle of the sea, a destroyer could have passed through, with enough clearance left for all of its topsides.
But Eric cared nothing about the size of anything in the virtual world. After all, everything here was an elaborate deceit of the players' minds. What concerned him was the inscription above the door. It was in a lettering used for a language that had long been forgotten. Actually, no one's ever remembered it. Second World never existed for twelve thousand years, yet the legend that served as the basis of this assignment specified precisely this period.
They didn't even look much like letters. More like sophisticated patterns. Yet they looked stylish; the designers did an excellent job.
Eric knew the language. His command of it was nowhere near perfect, but he would gather all kinds of information as he turned up during the most important moments of the quest. He recognized a few words, but decided to consult with Borg,
"What does it say?"
"The White Hall of Departed Gods. The gates will only open before the one who's worthy."
"This seems to be the place."
"It is, boss. We have arrived."
"No one is to approach the door. Assign extra guard detail to every entrance. We shall need more fighters."
"We'll call reinforcements from the castle right now."
"No one should approach the door, and I hold you personally responsible for guarding it."
"Roger that."
Borg didn't need to have things told to him twice. Nor did he ask any unnecessary questions. That must have been why he had managed to keep his position for such a long time, and it was as precarious as anything. There's no such thing as an ex-soldier, even if they had to go into disability retirement. An army doesn't have much use of a legless marine. But here he had a high status as the leader of an invincible squad, and knew that if he kept following orders without sticking his nose into any of the business that didn't concern him directly, he had a good chance of having his lost limbs grown back.
Modern medicine could do wonders. But they all cost money.