by Arthur Stone
At any rate, he planned to pass for a battle mage with necromancer abilities, so he didn't intend to advertise the fact that he could provide serious support if needed. That was why he refrained from using some of the buffs he had, and now that the two of them got attacked all of a sudden, he didn't put a lot of effort into healing Macho Strongman.
He only bothered to do something once the situation got critical, which meant the player's HP stayed dangerously low.
He was already sick to his guts of these creatures. One or two of them would attack every twenty minutes or so. They looked like enormous greenish-gray newts and ambushed them from the tall grass that grew on the half-steppe, half-forest terrain, attacking them unexpectedly from the distance of just a few paces. There were a few times Ros might easily have died. The mobs' levels could get as high as 165, and they would initially attack the first target they' d see. Once Macho Strongman started dealing them damage, they would switch their attention to him, but it would still take an effort to survive that long.
Ros would most likely have managed a single "newt" without much effort. His total stats could make a few level 200 players jealous. However, the level itself wasn't a mere number, but a certain coefficient that, among other things, amplified and diminished damage when the level gap was wide enough. It also affected the chances of hitting and missing, as well as whether or not a negative magical effect would work. Those monsters were high-level, which gave them a good chance of defeating Ros.
Of course, he refrained from showcasing his abilities to a random stranger and diligently played the part of a none-too-bright noob who ended up in a place that very few players had managed to reach due to an outrageously strange set of circumstances. Fortunately, Macho Strongman did not seem too curious, so he was spared the need to invent elaborate details.
"You kill the Steppe Drung. XP received: 343. You gain a level. Points left until the next level: 899912."
One of the newts croaked plaintively and fell down to the ground lifeless. Ros's high-level partner could dispatch the remaining one without any help, but he still healed him once again while he kept hacking at the last "newt" with his curved and jagged dagger, oblivious of everything. The mob's HP bar started to blink bloody red, and then disappeared. Victory at last.
Macho Strongman put his dagger back into his scabbard, sat down wearily, crossing his legs, and complained,
"These croakers have no good eating on them at all. I could really do with some meat. It restores your health faster, too."
"I could cook us some."
"So could I. We'll end up with inedible crap, anyway."
"I wouldn't be so sure about that. My Cooking skill is leveled up pretty well—I could probably make something decent even out of those."
"Word? Well, might as well get on with it. A snack would be nice—I'm really tired of fighting them. What's your Cooking stat?"
Ros had Cooking leveled up to 13, which may not seem like much when you think about it. However, for an auxiliary stat that few players bother with, it was pretty high. A level 200 player would be likely to have fewer points to some of the skills that would come in a lot handier than Cooking, let alone a level 66 noob who isn't supposed to have any stats remotely resembling that.
Ros cursed himself mentally for having mentioned his culinary skill in the first place. He had to fib,
"I've gotten it up to six only recently."
"Six?! Way cool, especially at your level! Thinking of becoming a cook?"
"Well, there are worse ways to make a living. At least, you'll always have food and warmth, and you can still earn some money."
"You'd need to level up to fifteen at least to make any money off it—or, better still, up to twenty. At least that's what I heard when I tried to level up my Cooking."
"So, why didn't you?"
"Duh… too boring. I just quit. Hey! You've leveled up to 67! Congratulations, you're leveling up! By the way, why aren't we in a party? Let me join. You'll get more XP that way—a healer who's a stranger hardly gets anything at all."
A party was a whole different kettle of fish. Ros had to disguise himself and mask his abilities, after all. Something like that is much easier to do when you play on your own. It wasn't that hard to stay inconspicuous as a party member, either, but he'd have to use certain disguise skills and remember about them all the time. Another reason to worry, in other words. Apart from that, Macho Strongman might notice the odd behavior of Ros's HP bar—and especially his mana bar. His regeneration levels were insanely high—even the highest-level players would envy him.
And yet, declining a group invitation in a situation like this wouldn't just be suspicious… it would be completely unthinkable.
He drew a mental sigh and accepted the request.
"Hey, Bubble! What are those herbs that you gather all the time?"
"They'll do us for seasonings."
"Cool—so we might be in for a tasty meal, after all. And here I was thinking you were leveling up your Alchemist skill."
"I plan to do that as well."
"Why would you? It's so boring."
"You have to level up every skill you have. When I pick up an herb, I get a few points to my Herbalism skill. Whenever I roast a piece of meat, I level up my Cooking. So you keep on growing in all sorts of directions."
"I've seen a player with three auxiliary stats up to twenty. The Tuna Cahuna. Ever heard of him?"
"Can't say I have."
"He plays in such a boring way. He's been here longer than me, but the likes of these," he pointed to the "newt" carcasses, would make short work of him. He spends a lot of time on silly stuff, and he still isn't much of a fighter."
Ros had five auxiliary stats leveled up above 20—some of them, considerably so. A few more were almost at that level, but he had no intention to confide in Macho Strongman.
Nor did he intend to tell him he hasn't been bored once since he'd started playing. There just wasn't any time for that, ever.
Macho Strongman kept on talking nineteen to the dozen, but he switched to a more pertinent topic.
"We'll snuff two of these crawling croakers easily, even top-level ones. But three would be a pain in the ass—you're not much of a healer."
"I'm a battle mage, as a matter of fact. Not a first-aid kit."
"That's a pity. No point wasting your time on one of those. Mages are two a penny, and a good healer is always sought after. There are lots of campaigns where folks can't find a healer, so they cannot get anything done as a result. It's a real pity when you spend so much time gathering everyone together only to cancel everything. Healers always get good loot, and everyone protects them. Mobs don't even come close to their armor, so you don't have to repair anything. It's a pretty cool class."
"Why don't you become one yourself, then?"
"Nah. Too boring. Hey! Smells nice. Can I have a taste?"
"Once it's ready. Leave it alone for the time being."
"All right, then. The farther we go, the more croakers we meet. And they're all pretty strong. We'll probably get to the battlefield soon enough. They all have insanely high levels there. I guess we'll get killed."
"Why are you coming along, then?"
"Oh, it's so boring to be on your own. There may be no one there, after all, and we might survive. Tell you what, I won't mind if three croakers attack us at once. Let them."
"Are you that anxious to die?"
"I hate dying. But we can handle three now."
"You said it'd be tough."
"Well, there'll be three of us, you know? We'll manage."
"Three of us? Have you forgotten how to count to three, all of a sudden?"
"Well, someone's coming this way. It must be the meat. Smells so good."
"Who could it be?"
"No idea. Someone. It'll be a lot more fun once there's three of us. You'll see."
* * *
Ros wasn't having much fun. Macho Strongman and Nail-in-the-Head were devouring the freshly-roas
ted seasoned meat ravenously, but he had no appetite at all. He had every reason to be nervous.
In general, there was nothing surprising about their encounter with a lone player on a territory invaded by new and unknown monsters. Thousands of adventurers would hurry to such an area, so there'd be nothing improbable about this fact, as one might have thought. The fact that the new player wasn't aggressive and didn't try to prove his superior skills by attacking the first people he met wasn't all that strange, either. People tend to try to get along in general, and although there's always a certain risk of running into some sadistic freak, it's not that great.
The suspicious thing was that this player could have been Macho Strongman's twin. His appearance had nothing to do with it—the newcomer was slightly above average height, rosy-cheeked and somewhat effeminate, but with bulging muscles. Another incongruous combination, in other words.
And his name was just as stupid.
The way both players leveled up was equally odd. Macho Strongman used his bow at every opportunity—sometimes even in a battle at close quarters. If he didn't, he'd rely on his dagger—but he used magic, too, spending all of his mana points at one go. He referred to himself as an excellent DPS character, yet failed to deal any solid damage—it took him an unnaturally long time to dispatch even a relatively low-level monster.
That was unsurprising—players usually develop a cohesive set of skills, investing all of their points into class-related stats. Those in favor of going in every direction at once never rose above the average level. Such characters were usually referred to as "botched." In such cases, it was recommended to get a new character or to reset one's primary stats—a complicated process, and costly to boot.
Players usually abandoned "botched" characters on low levels, once they'd fully realize they'd made a mistake. One would normally waste a minimum of time by that point, and it would be a lot easier to start over with a new character than to try fixing the botched one.
To see a "botched" player with the level of 170 was near-impossible. One could only find them among clan players. They would normally specialize in a specific craft and do nothing else, thus confining them to a single non-combative skill. Something of that sort could require all sorts of stats, and they wouldn't necessarily pertain to a single battle-oriented set.
And yet Macho Strongman had no clan icon next to his name. He also kept emphasizing the fact that he found everything unrelated to actual fighting too boring." And yet, his character was almost a cripple. Ros didn't know any details, but he harbored a strong suspicion that the player had distributed his stats on a whim. He wished to be a fire mage after one level-up, an archer after another, and a swordsman after yet another one. Hence the varied weaponry and the barely effective skills that he had never managed to level up properly, opting for new ones instead.
In other words, Macho Strongman was as weird as they got.
Ros could bear with a single weirdo in a small company. But two of them at once…
Nail-in-the-Head had the level of 192, but he was hardly of any more use than Macho Strongman. They'd had three run-ins with the "newts," and so far all Ros could see was two "botched" characters bumbling clumsily around monsters that any damager worth their salt could finish them off in less than a dozen simple attacks. Even a tank character would dispatch them quicker.
These two were utterly hopeless, though. Even though their levels were higher than those of the monsters, they were still inferior in every other respect. That included such things as basic skill and competence.
And those were most conspicuously lacking. How those two giggly chatterbox lummoxes managed to reach those levels must be one of the Second World's greatest secrets.
Ros also failed to understand how he became saddled with those guys. But he was certain their encounter could not have been mere coincidence.
No one in their right mind would believe that. Even a single "botched" character of this level made no sense whatsoever. Two of them at once in the middle of what was technically a wasteland—well, that was clearly an unknown party interfering. Both were overjoyed to join the first noob they met, deciding they should come along of their own free will.
Yeah, right… That much was pretty suspicious by itself, not to mention the rest of it…
Could they have had their stats reset and redistributed in a silly way, and then sent towards the Locked Lands?
But why? To kidnap Ros? But why would they go to such lengths doing something that made no sense?
More likely, someone was trying to confuse him.
Why could it be? Why would they want him? He had no answers. He was following two doofuses who had seemed to be convinced about being among the greatest fighters known to humanity, watching their pathetic fights with monsters, and getting more and more clueless about what he might have gotten himself into this time.
But it was definitely something.
A hobby of his, as it were.
* * *
"Why did we head back?" Ros got wary.
Nail-in-the-Head shrugged.
"There's someone out there. We're best off doing a detour."
Ros looked in front of him. The steppe was lined with another strip of perfectly ordinarily-looking woodland, about a mile and a half away. In the distance lay some hills. Judging by the dark green color of the vegetation, they were covered in pines, and he had seen plenty of pine forests at the beginning of his career as a player. That was where familiar lands began—he even had a map, and he had paid to make it as detailed as possible. So that's where he'd been heading, but those two declined the straight path, for some reason.
"I don't see anyone."
"Neither do I," said Nail-in-the-Head, eager to agree.
"In that case, why did we head back if you saw nothing?"
"Well, I somehow know we shouldn't go there. We'll run into players. As I said, a detour is our best option. There are lots of real bad folks here. Why should we die? I don't see any reason why we should. And you don't want to die, either. So let's get away from here."
So, he couldn't see anything, but he still had some information. Why didn't they pull the other one? Did they intend to lead Ros around in circles before he got as bored as them? What was on those weirdos' minds, anyway? They both looked good-natured enough, but Ros didn't trust them one bit.
He should get away from them. He should run as fast as he could. And he shouldn't dally, lest more of these "botched" players appear.
* * *
Multinational corporations never appear out of nowhere and never disappear without a trace. You could call it the law of thermodynamics as applied to large businesses. Second World was no exception. When the project had been in its formative stages, the founders were faced by the problem of financing. They needed to invest too much, they were short of resources of their own, and they'd either have to curb their appetites considerably, which would ultimately result in loss of revenue (and have a few more important repercussions), or find extra sources of income.
Times were hard, and few were ready to invest so much as a dollar into a startup that the experts said would most likely stay afloat right after launch. And if it was a matter of playing on a field with all spheres of influence distributed between known players, and the amount of financing was of the order of launching a Jupiter moon probe, every old cent mattered. But that only concerned areas that had demonstrated no miraculous returns on investments previously.
People have been playing games since prehistoric times—even back in the days when they were not technically Homo Sapiens. This behavior would be easy to understand for anyone who'd ever observed the behavior of animals. In other words, games were important to human beings, and could be extremely lucrative in some of their aspects.
That included video games—in particularly, the one that involved online virtual reality immersion. Even before Second World there were projects that had made a lot of people very wealthy indeed. However, this one left all the others behind in terms of
scale, complexity, detail, and a variety of other factors, right from the start. It was the best. It differed from all the others. It heralded a new era—that of Second World.
Second World was unique. No other game remotely resembled it, nor was any project of comparable scale likely to emerge, for it suited everyone involved on a high enough level just fine, and those people were powerful enough to make sure no competition could survive—not just in the foreseeable future, but for years to come. Their very position dictated an outlook stretching beyond a single day. One would have to plan for decades ahead. They were much like skilled top-level politicians in that respect.
And it wasn't just a matter of enormous profits—although they were important enough, too. It wasn't even the fact that the project managed to attract a large number of users who had never been interested in online gaming previously. The main reason would never be known to the general public. Only a few people in the whole world were aware of it. And that was a secret that had to be guarded at any cost.
Michael Silber, or simply Old Man to those who knew him well enough, wasn't merely one of the people in the know. He was the first one to discover the secret, and also the first to make sure the masses would never find out about it. That was how Second World made such an impressive launch. Silber's capital became the first brick in the corporate edifice.
Michael Silber was an old man indeed. A very old one. So old that none of his children, born in and out of wedlock, were alive. The same concerned a few of his grandchildren, and even a couple of his great-grandchildren. At some point, some of the surviving ones decided he'd been alive for way too long and might as well be removed. The unwritten laws of the family implied that he should let the young and the daring have their chance. However, Silber was of a different opinion, and eventually he ended up with hardly any family at all. Some of his more remote relatives simply disappears, others fell prey to freak accidents, and others still changed their behavior drastically (or had maintained a low profile from the very start).