The Adventurers of Dan and Other Stories: A LitRPG Apocalypse Collection

by Wolfe Locke

  This sounded like a recipe for disaster.

  “Look, I’m not really good at that kind of thing. I’m more into ‘bluntly telling people exactly what I think of them’.” Look how well that’s worked out for me.

  “Well, that really sucks for you. You’ll have to change your ways,” Matt said, staring me down. His face was dead serious, and his voice changed, sounding older. He sounded kind of like an ancient wizard. “Do so, or your quest will certainly fail.”

  Not much of a choice there. “Okay.”

  He grinned. “Good, good. Then you’ll have to embark on your epic quest. The quest to find…” he trailed off for dramatic effect, his hands spreading wide as he continued, “the True John.”

  “The True John?” I asked, voice deadpan. “Is that supposed to be his name or some kind of joke?”

  “Yes.” His grin got wider.

  “What…? What kind of name is that?” There’s no way that’s a real name! “Did you just make it up? You totally did, right?”

  “I saw it with the eyes of prophecy, you see? It came to me in a dream,” he stated confidently.

  “You did not!” I shouted, standing up from the edge of the roof. I was tired of all the games. “It did not! You made it up just now! Admit it!”

  “I didn’t make it up, I saw it,” he persisted.

  “You’re lying!” I clenched my teeth, fed up beyond belief. “You just made it up on the spot. It’s a dumb name! Don’t worry, you can own it. I won’t make fun of you… too much.”

  “Disrespect,” Matt muttered, half-shrugging again. I got the feeling he was just messing with me at this point. “Disrespect to the Prophet!”

  “Okay,” I said, putting my hands up. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to disrespect you, Prophet.”

  “I accept your apology,” Matt said, raising his arms like he was some kind of magical ghost about to bless me. “But back to your quest for the True John. He’s a great warrior, so you’ll have to seek him out on the battlefield.”

  “Okay.”

  “But not just any battlefield.” I don’t like the sound of that. “He’ll be waiting at the biggest, baddest, deadliest battlefield in the history of this planet. A place where monsters, demi-humans, and the last scraps of surviving humanity meet to duke it out for whatever pathetic prizes they can get.” Oh, crap... “A place where the worst of the human race meets to consume the spectacle, braying for blood. A place where the crowd erupts in cheers at every horrific death and grievous bodily injury, shouting for more death and more destruction and more gore.”

  “Oh... Oh, boy,” I groaned, dropping my head into my hands. “I think I know the perfect place.”

  Chapter Twenty-One: Empty Hands

  * * *

  It was basically the last place on earth I wanted to go after my total humiliation in the Black Tournament. But I knew that Edgar wouldn’t let me return empty-handed. If I went back to the Republic with the kid’s prophecy but no True John, he’d just send me out again.

  “You really want to make me go there?” I asked.

  “I don’t want to make you do anything,” Matt said pompously. “I just tell you what I know. You make your own choices.”

  “Sure, kid,” I scoffed. I wasn’t really in the mood to argue.

  “If you had someplace you wanted to go,” he started, waving his hand, “I could open a portal to take you there. I’m not just a prophet, you know.”

  “I’m fully aware. You did all those cool traps, too.”

  He squinted at me, trying to tell if I was making fun of him. Honestly, I wasn’t. They were cool booby traps. Better than anything I could do, anyways.

  “I can’t go without my Mimic,” I said, and his face contorted with horror.

  “That… creature,” he said, voice acerbic.

  Watch it. “Yeah, let me go down and get him.”

  Matt backed up as far from the door as he could get, and I rolled my eyes. Napoleon was a little creepy, but this was a pretty dramatic reaction. After living through the apocalypse, surely the kid had seen worse.

  Napoleon met me at the door, looking accusatory.

  “I’m sorry, buddy,” I said, putting him in his usual spot on my shoulder. “I won’t leave you again, I promise.”

  He growled at me, and I hoped I wasn’t lying.

  “Okay!” Matt said from the other side of the roof. He glanced between me and Napoleon as though watching a horror movie live. “Are… are you ready?”

  Honestly, I wasn’t sure. I didn’t really want to go back to the Arena. But if I’d learned anything here, it was that what I wanted didn’t matter.

  “Sure,” I said finally. “Let’s get this over with. Can you put me in the stands, though? Not on the battlefield?”

  He nodded and raised his hands. A portal made of glowing blue flames appeared in the middle of the roof. I could hear the sound of wild cheering coming from the other side of it.

  “Ready, Napoleon?” I asked. I turned back to Matt, hoping to gain a bit more information before I left. “What does this True John guy look like? Any descriptors?”

  “He’s the greatest warrior in the game,” Matt said, looking at me like I was an idiot. “Just look for that.”

  Fine. If that was how the kid was going to be, that was how he was going to be. I stepped through the portal and the roof vanished around us.

  One second, we were on the roof. The next, we were in a crowded stadium full of every type of demi-human you could imagine, and they were all screaming at the top of their lungs.

  I looked behind me, but the portal was already gone. Matt worked quickly. Figuring that we were stuck here until we decided what to do, I found an empty seat and sat down in it.

  A chubby goat-man was standing next to us, waving his arms back and forth in a wild dance. His face was red as a tomato.

  “Hey,” I said. He didn’t hear me, so I raised the volume a couple of levels. “HEY!”

  The goat-man turned. Goat-men are different from Satyrs in a way that’s a little hard to explain. A Satyr is lean and mean, and it’ll stop at nothing to bite your face off. Goat-men are kind of lovable, in a hideous sort of way. They seem like they might be related to the friendly goats you’d find at a petting zoo.

  This guy had a flagon of beer in one hand and a giant container of popcorn in the other. I could feel Napoleon shift on my shoulder, looking hungrily at the snacks.

  “Easy, buddy,” I said. I didn’t want to piss off our new friend already.

  “What’s up?” the goat-man asked.

  “What tournament is this? What’s going on?”

  He gave me a funny look. “Didn’t you buy a ticket?”

  “Uhh….” I tried to think of a response. He smiled knowingly and nudged me in the side with a beefy elbow.

  “One of those, eh?” he asked, shrugging. “I remember those days.”

  “Uh, what days?” I asked, not expecting a real response, but he surprised me with his willingness to open up.

  “I used to have an entry level job, too,” he bleated, taking a large swig of his flagon. He belched, giving me another large smile. “It sucked! I couldn’t afford anything. Had to break into the Games using intra-dimensional portals. Nice work, by the way. Didn’t see you show up at all.”

  “Thanks,” I said, deciding not to mention that the portal was the Prophet’s doing. “Uh, data entry is the worst.”

  The goat gave me a funny look. “Wouldn’t have thought an orc would work in software.”

  He thought I was an orc?! I was trying hard not to be offended. Okay, sure, I’m not the best-looking guy. But an orc? Whatever, goat.

  “I’m full of surprises,” I said, looking around for a popcorn vendor. Napoleon was hungry again.

  “I’m Blackthorn,” he said. “And this is the Yellow Tournament. Were you around for the Black Tournament?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay, this one is even better. It’s mostly demi-humans left now since the rest of the hum
ans are dead. But the ones that are left are seriously hardcore. I wouldn’t have thought humans could do stuff like that. I always thought they were kind of soft. You know what I mean, right?”

  I grunted, trying to sound orc-like. Seemed like I was better off playing into the stereotypes.

  “I’ve got some money down on this one guy. Human as they get, but hear me out. He’s the toughest dude I’ve ever seen. Missing an eye, scars everywhere, but he can take down three demons without breaking a sweat.”

  “Damn,” I muttered, blinking twice. “Maybe I’ll go and place a bet then.”

  “You’d be wise to.” He took another deep gulp, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “What’s your name again?”

  “I didn’t say.” He raised a brow, staring me down. “I’m Dan.”

  “Weird name for an orc,” he said, frowning.

  “Yeah,” I said, quickly trying to cover myself. “My parents were unconventional. Hey, can you help me flag down the hot dog guy?”

  I bought four hot dogs for Napoleon and one for myself using the Sols I’d earned by fighting the Satyrs downtown. Blackthorn looked at my Mimic, impressed, as he swallowed down hot dog after hot dog.

  “It’s not everyone who’s able to get a Mimic for a pet,” he noted. “You must be a talented monster trainer.”

  “Huh,” I grunted. “Maybe.”

  I’d never really thought about it, but maybe Blackthorn had a point. Napoleon did seem to be pretty loyal to me, after all.

  “Seriously. Those guys don’t bond with just anyone. You must be doing something right.”

  I shrugged and tried to look modest. “It was all luck.”

  A war horn blared suddenly, and the lights started to go down in the stands. The crowd roared as the announcer bellowed into the mic.

  “Are! You! Ready?!” The crowd went absolutely wild, the stands exploding into fervent hype. The announcer looked around, beckoning them louder before continuing, “For the YELLOW TOURNAMENT?!”

  That was it. Everyone watching totally lost their minds. Seriously, that’s the only way I can think of to describe it. They all leaped to their feet and started screeching. Blackthorn was jumping up and down next to me, whooping some kind of goat-man war cry. He was spraying foamy spittle everywhere.

  Yuck.

  He looked over at me expectantly, and I stood up. “I’m ready!” I halfheartedly shouted, trying to sound enthusiastic.

  “As you in the stands know,” the announcer said, waving toward said people, “we’re already on to the semi-final round. We’re about to see some brutal, bloody fighting here. In one corner, the Demon Squad, led by Beelzebub the Reaver!”

  Lights flashed, and a group of black-clad demons stomped into the Arena. All their helmets had horns, and their eyes glowed red in the darkness. I pitied whoever had to face off against them.

  “And in the other corner,” the announcer gestured toward the other side, the crowd getting even louder. I didn’t think it was even possible, but it happened. “The Armored Brigade, led by the one, the only, True John!”

  The lights flashed again, and a group of burly men in golden armor came out. At the head of the squadron was a tall guy with an eye patch.

  “The True John?” I asked in total disbelief. So Matt the Prophet hadn’t been making the name up after all.

  “Yeah!” Blackthorn shouted over the noise of the crowd. “That’s my guy. I’ve got a lot of money riding on him, too, so he’d better pull this off.”

  “I don’t know.,” I said, skeptically. “Those demons don’t look like they mess around.”

  “Neither does the True John. Watch and see, my friend, watch and see.” The absolute conviction glimmering in the eyes of Blackthorn made me think that he absolutely believed what he said. For my sake, let’s hope so, Blackthorn.

  I sat down and ate my hot dog, watching the True John intently. He did look pretty badass. He had a giant sword that looked like it had seen real action. His armor seemed kind of ornamental.

  But not the weapon.

  It was raw, razor-sharp, deadly steel. I didn’t want to be on the other end of it, that was for sure. Somehow, I suspected that me and Lil’ Batty wouldn’t stand a chance. Like, not even a little bit of a chance.

  The rest of the Armored Brigade spread out around the Arena to fight the enemy, but the True John kept his attention fixed on Beelzebub the Reaver. He moved carefully and deliberately, barely breaking a sweat as the big demon got closer. It almost felt like he was taunting it, daring it to make a move.

  I could see the unease on Beelzebub’s skull-like face. It had clearly expected the True John to attack it, and it wasn’t sure what to do when he didn’t. It hesitantly moved closer, suspecting a trap. But still the True John did nothing but wait.

  “This is the greatest warrior in the games?” I asked.

  “Wait for it,” Blackthorn said through another mouthful of hotdog. He gulped down more swill to wash down the hotdogs, belched, then turned to me. “He’s like a cat with a mouse, likes to toy with his prey before killing it.”

  Napoleon swallowed the last of his hot dogs. Then, we watched and waited. And waited.

  Suddenly, Beelzebub the Reaver picked up speed. Like the Juggernaut, he started slow, accelerating across the distance like an unstoppable force of kinetic force, ready to leave the True John a blood splat on the arena floor. With its loudest battlecry, it raised its sword and charged even faster towards the True John.

  Its eyes were ablaze, and the ground shook with every step it took. It was almost twice the other man’s size, and I cringed, waiting for a bloodbath. Surely, there was no way he could defend himself against the attack.

  The True John waited until almost the last second. The demon’s sword was already descending toward him, ready to take his head off, when he brought his own weapon up to meet it. Sparks flew as the two blades met, and the noise… It left my ears ringing from as far back as I watched from.

  Beelzebub pushed, trying to force the True John’s sword down, but he failed. They were equally matched in strength.

  The crowd roared.

  “Here we go,” Blackthorn whispered, his eyes as wide as possible as if he would miss something if he were to blink. Then, the True John darted to the side and pulled his sword out from under the demon’s blade.

  Beelzebub staggered, off balance. But unfortunately for the demon, that was all the opening the True John needed. Blade moving fast as lightning, he whirled around and cut the tendons on the back of the demon’s thigh, slicing through its armor like butter. It roared and tried to turn to meet him, but it couldn’t put any weight on its wounded leg. It used its own sword to hold itself up as the True John bore down on it.

  His sword whirled as he sliced its arm off at the elbow, and it fell to the ground, groping for its weapon with its remaining hand. Too late. He stomped on its fingers with a metal boot and twisted, face impassive as the demon shrieked.

  “Damn,” I said, a little disturbed. It’s like Matt said, he’s hardcore. “This guy is something else.”

  “Just wait.”

  Calmly, with no apparent effort, the True John spun around and buried his sword in the back of Beelzebub’s neck. Its arm rose, groping for the blade... then fell. It twitched wildly, dying, as its head sank forward. The True John rolled his sleeves up and shoved his sword deeper.

  The other members of the Armored Brigade were still wrapping up their fights. They were showier, more exciting, but none of them had the unhurried ease that the True John showed. He’d defeated the demon leader without even breaking a sweat. Now, he sat on its back, cleaning his blade while idly watching the rest of the battle.

  “You see that?” Blackthorn asked excitedly. “He’ll only intervene now if he really has to. He wants to make sure everyone gets their experience.”

  “Sure,” I absently responded.

  I have to admit it. Part of me really, really didn’t want to bring the True John back to the Republic of Dan. I
can always tell a jerk when I see one, and this guy… well, he looked like a Grade-A asshole.

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Schism

  * * *

  The rest of the fight was mopped up pretty quickly, and the announcer named the True John and the Armored Brigade the winners of their semi-final. As a group of demi-human janitors jogged into the Arena to drag away the bodies and sweep up the blood-covered dirt, I stood up.