Fair enough. “About the fire sword, are you exaggerating?”
“Slightly. A dragon’s hide would not vaporize on touch. You can also deflect weak magical projectiles with it.”
Rowan asked, “What’s the active skill?”
Zaine frowned, but didn’t press the subject of science fiction. “Static Step, similar to Mage’s Blink. It is a replacement for Swordsman’s Dash skill.”
“I wouldn’t keep Dash?”
“You lose all Swordsman skills if you choose Myrmidon.”
“Wow!” Gabrielle said dramatically, her arms wide. “Great class! Three passives and a blink-type skill. Ya should totally pick it, Row.” Lots of sarcasm there.
Rowan smirked. “It does sound underwhelming, I have to say. Are you planning to be one?”
Zaine smiled for once. “I am. I was born for it.” His tone was signaling some, as though as he were hiding something.
“You were born for it?”
“It has been my dream since I started schooling.”
Gabrielle’s eyebrow wagged. “Do ya have a hero ya look up to?”
“A few. Saevil Yllatris. She is one of the few Myrmidons in the world, one of the most beautiful too.”
“Awww. Someone has a crush!”
Zaine shrugged as his cheeks took on a very slight rosy color.
Rowan’s chin lifted. “Is there anything you’re not telling me? Regarding the Myrmidon class.”
Those silver eyes fidgeted toward the dead apple tree then back to Rowan. “Perhaps. I shall tell you upon receiving that Swordsman Tome which you promised.”
Conversations from the previous week echoed in Rowan’s ears. “Ah, I did promise you, didn’t I. Very well, I can wait. It is a level thirty ascension anyway. There’s plenty of time.”
Pointing with her stick, Gabrielle whistled a note. “So if those were just training stances, what do Myrmidons use?” She abruptly jumped into an Ox Guard stance and slashed a circle. “Hi-ya! Hehehe.”
Zaine’s arm moved with impossible speed and knocked the stick out of her hand. “You would be wise to not rely on that in battle—ever. There are four fighting schools. The first and simplest is called Keeva, and is based off Kendo, which I read you should be familiar in the old texts. The second is Feru; it is distantly similar to rapier dueling. The third and most difficult is Zantetze, a highly acrobatic form effective for dual-wielding short-swords or long-daggers.”
“Can ya show us?” Gabrielle interrupted.
“Not without the first Myrmidon passive and Static Step. I would fall on my face.”
“Kay. If ya say so.”
“I do.” Zaine glared. “With the first passive, I can easily skim across water or run across tree tops.”
The image of that was appealing, Rowan had to admit. The giddiness in his stomach boiled, but a gust of freezing wind came down from the mountains. He shivered and asked, “What’s the fourth fighting school?”
“Daetun, most practiced by the Lunar Elves, a highly defensive style which makes use of the third passive to evade and deflect incoming fire… or to protect someone or something.”
“Can ya show us that one?”
Those grayish-pink lips down-turned. “I’d rather not.”
“Hehehe. Cus ya can’t.”
Naturally, Zaine wasn’t going to bite. “Exactly, but…” In a split-second, his sword was drawn, and the drawing motion smoothly transitioned into a somersaulting back-flip where the blade flourished midair in a flowery pattern. It was very fancy, very over-the-top. He landed gracefully, sheathing the sword.
Gabrielle’s face lit up. “That was so pretty! Like Olympic gymnastics!”
Zaine’s head tilted. “I won’t ask what that is, but this maneuver allows for easy retreat if I were to be surprised or ambushed. Imagine that except several times faster, and much higher.”
Rowan’s eyebrow arched. “What’s the point of the somersaulting and the weird cutting pattern? You were exposed to arrows and magic attacks.”
“With the second passive, my blade would stir mana currents in the air, throwing off magic coming at me.” Zaine’s posture straighted. “These four schools have been developed over the course of centuries. Do not make presumptions.”
“Alright.” Rowan was slowly nodding. “I assume you’re going with… Daetun?”
“Why do you assume only one? Most practice at minimum two. It recommended to pair Daetun with Keeva.”
“I hear you. How long does it take to train to proficiency in one form?”
Zaine’s eyes focused in the distance. “Anywhere from a month to a decade. Saevil was said to have mastered Zantetsu in a year.”
What a fanboy. Rowan held off on the teasing for now. “Nice. And you’re not going to budge on whatever you’re leaving out?”
“Unless you are hiding a Swordsman Tome, I have naught to say.” Zaine put on a haughty face. He turned on his heel. “I do have gold to mine.” He gave a polite nod. “Lord LeMort.”
Wind howled overhead as Rowan watched Zaine sprint down the meadow with blurry speed. Something about him was off, different. Not in a bad way, no. Something that Rowan couldn’t quite wrap his head around, like an air about Zaine that wasn’t quite Elven. But what did Rowan know about Elves?
Gabrielle’s fingers waved in front of his eyes. “Watcha thinking?”
“That was a really high backflip he did. How many points in Agility do you think he has?”
“Ah… Twenty-four times three times two-thirds is… forty-eight!”
“So he’s around two-hundred percent times stronger and more agile than a normal human.” Rowan’s tongue rolled left and right. “Hmmm. Seems about right.”
“Yup. He’s runs as fast as a car.” Her mouth popped. “Anywho. Are ya gonna be a Myrmidon or a Blademaster?”
“Honestly, my gut’s demanding that I go with Mrym, and I kind of think the class names should be flipped around.”
“Hehehe.” She nudged his rib. “Same here! Both counts.”
An invisible fist punched his chest. He nearly choked on saliva. “I though you were going Priest. We need a support.”
“Meh. Maybe, maybe not. We’ll see. I’ll have my options open… for now.”
Options open. Typical Gab.
He said gruffly, “I don’t want to invest too much in the Elves when they can’t respawn.”
“Are ya saying my pretties are gonna die under your watch?” Her tone was venomously sharp. She leaned in to him.
He stepped back. “No. Uh, nevermind. We’ll figure something out.” As usual.
“Kay!” She embraced him with a quick hug, her lovely, gooey warmth oozing into him. “By the way, Tasha got executed and banished. We better hurry with that Town Hall.”
A cough ripped through his airways. “What?! What did she do?” Not Tasha! His sister-in-law. She mattered to Gabrielle.
“Look on the forums. Top trending thread of the hour. Hehehehehe.”
He couldn’t headbutt the web browser icon faster. The forums loaded in exactly three and a half seconds, and the top thread was total mayhem about walking dead and mass murder. A MyTube link was asking to be mentally clicked. He did so, inviting Gabrielle to watch with him.
She accepted, and the world faded out to fuzzy white. The fuzz was falling snow.
“Whoah,” Gabrielle said. “3D video is way better in VR.”
“Yeah, it’s almost—”
“G’day, mates! Doggo the Gamer here bringing you one heck of a fiasco going down in Sortis Online!”
The commentary came from no direction in particular, superimposed over abated background noise coming from below the watchtower. Doggo, his in-game character, was ready in a typical archery stance. An ivory-colored recurve bow rested in his hands with a loose grip. He was donned in a set of green scaly leather, which Rowan did not recognize, which his invisible fingers could not touch.
There was no sense of smell or temperature or touch here—a three dimensional
video recording.
“Take a look down there!” Doggo’s voice exclaimed. “Ye, crikey! Undead. And lots of em. I dunno who did what, or what magic reacted with whom, but it is happening. This is the happening! Not your everyday going-ons in Sortis Online, folks!”
Below, a landscape of snow stretched to each horizon, everything bleached white apart from gray smoke rising from chimneys attached to terraced roofs. Not far from here, up a gentle slope, a gargantuan mountain range clawed the skies, and atop a low cliff, from an impressive castle structure, hundreds of Undead flooded into the town like a polluted avalanche.
Doggo said, “Gargoyles, Stitched Maulers, Skeleton Mages—and look! An Undead Dragon! This is the big one, boys!”
His character nocked an arrow headed with a peculiar metal in the color of washed-out bread mold, likely adamantite. With a grunt, Doggo pulled the string to his cheek, the arrow glowing with magical power, and released. Bow limbs vibrated for a second, and a rune engraved near the grip shined.
The arrow cut into falling snow, pierced a Gargoyle through the skull, and exploded. Broken rotting flesh bone rained onto roofs, onto retreating townsfolk and adventurers clad in vibrant armor. An old man’s face was the picture of horror as he was crushed under the Gargoyle’s torso. Dead.
A deranged thrill of carnage pumped in Rowan’s blood, total ecstasy, total chaos upon this town. These Humans had the faces of real world Humans. Seeing them suffer was guilty delight. Splayed bodies littered the streets in the wake of the Undead, frozen blood painting the white canvas with blotches of crimson. Beautiful.
Only to be ruined by Doggo’s commentary: “Ah! Get stuffed! What was that, mate?! What. Was. That! Dogshit aiming.” He was yelling at his own character.
“Hehehehe,” Gabrielle giggled at his side. “Crikey.”
“Don’t you start saying that,” Rowan mumbled.
“Oi. I’ll say whateva I wanna say. Dun’ make me send my pet roos and dingos on ya.” Good Australian accent.
“Nice one!” Doggo clapped. “Put that one on the barbie even if I don’t recommend eating these buggas. But on a serious note, we are having major food shortages. So for those of you who love farming and cooking games, Light’s Justice is recruiting! Hit the link below for my referral code and a whopping three percent discount on Synaptic’s latest VR helmets at your local—”
Gabrielle muted Doggo’s casting. “Heh. Thought he was talkin’ to me for a second. Thought I was special. Then he had to tag on an ad.”
A reluctant smile pinched Rowan’s cheeks. He said coyly, “If no one else, at least you’re special to me.”
“Psssh.”
The background audio intensified, screams and roars and skill sound effects a cacophony in the blizzard.
The Undead Dragon’s spiked wings furled around its misty ribcage. It rolled to dodge hundreds—no, thousands—of arrows and magical projectiles swarming into the sky. Mages and Archers were everywhere, literally everywhere now that Rowan’s eyes were adjusted to blizzard. They stood on roofs, on the town high-walls, battling down the cobblestone streets.
But out of all the defenders, Swordsmen made up a vast majority. They held against the tide with impressive might. They spammed Crescent Slashes and Twinpoint Thrusts—white and blue firecracker lights on the streets—and melted Undead in droves. Light magic was potent against the dark constructs.
There, by the Town Square, a party of Knights in mithril armor held the line against Skeleton Mages. Their bodies flashed when bubbling tar-like death bolts splashed against their tower shields. The lead Knight, in a fancy helm trimmed with gold, brandished his warhammer. A crackling wave of golden mana washed over the skeletons and hulking stitched abominations, paralyzing everything Undead for thirty yards.
And there, at the slate steps before the crumbling keep, an icy skeletal being garbed in a fancy matte black robe floated toward the town. Animated chains whipped around its form like snakes, and a creeping aura of black miasma ate into all passing organic matter. Trees blackened in seconds, grass withered, and a stray arrow disintegrated to black dust.
It was an elite.
“It’s getting good,” Gabrielle said as though she were watching a movie.
“Yeah,” he breathed. “This is it.”
When the Lich’s frozen toes reached the bottom of the steps, its frail arms spread over its head, forming an upside-down bone arch. Its frosty jaws moved. Blackish-blue mana blossomed above its golden crown.
Then from an alley dashed a robed figure wielding a sword of pure mana. Faster than the eye could see, the figure somersaulted through the air, a shockwave of fiery-white mana tailing his form. Like a blade cutting through reality itself, he bisected the Lich shoulder to hip, then retreated toward a graveyard.
The Lich was dead before it knew what happened, the top half of its body falling backward.
Is that a Myrmidon?
Magic sparked. Iced ribs imploded. Pure white light brighter than a dozen suns blotted out the scene.
“Ugh.” Rowan covered his eyes with invisible fingers.
When the fallout dimmed, the Lich was gone, but where the keep had stood only a gargantuan crater now dented the land. A crescent chunk the town was rubble. A building that resembled an inn was hanging onto life at the edge, half erased. And at the mid-point of the crater, a jagged black portal snapped close. Ripples of darkness cascaded down down into the valley and frozen lakes.
Every last remaining Undead collapsed. Those Stitched Maulers fell apart into meaty hunks.
It was over.
And that robed man—no, not a man. A female Sun Elf with shoulder-length blonde hair stood in front of the graveyard. Her sword was sheathed at her hip, deactivated. She was watching adventurers that were respawning among headstones in winks of gold mana. She wasn’t smiling. Was that anger? Or sadness? Her face was slightly too small.
“Is that Saevil?” Gabrielle asked.
Rowan let go of the breath he was holding. “Yeah. It has to be.”
“That was pretty bad ass. She one-hit the boss!”
His logical mind was telling him that the boss had been many levels lower, but the display won him over nevertheless. That was his fate. “I think I’m going to be a Myrmidon.”
“Same,” she chirped.
He couldn’t sigh. If this was what she wanted, then so it shall be. “Then Liluth or Faenin will have to be a Priest.”
“Why not both? Shaman and Priest.”
“Good idea.”
Gabrielle squeaked and yelped, “Tasha! Tasha! Tasha! By the Town Square! Look!”
Rowan’s eyes whipped to the right side horizon and doubled back to the grand ivory fountain and statues of horsemen. Among Knights and Mages, two men holding spears had a brunette woman seized by the arms. Though her body was the size of a beetle from up here, Rowan could make out her body shape and face well enough. Without a thread of doubt, that was Gabrielle’s sister.
An older man was saying something to her, and her head was shaking.
“What do you think they’re saying?” Gabrielle asked. “Do ya really think she did all this?”
“Of course not.” He huffed a breath.
But the Humans clearly thought otherwise. An old man in purple and gold clothing said something, then one of the Knights, which was an animated suit of armor, drew a blade of reddish metal. Gabrielle squeaked. In a single motion the armor ran Tasha through the throat. Blood sprayed. Her body fumbled onto the ground. Dead. Her corpse was consumed by golden-white light. Gone.
That certainly was brutal. No trial. Nothing. The savagery of this medieval world was unforgiving.
Gabrielle sniffed. “Look. The graveyard.”
Rowan’s eyes lashed back left. Between three monolithic tombs, Tasha respawned. A redhead girl was waiting for her, and before nearby players or guards could react, she invoked some kind of skill with a twirl of her daggers. The duo vanished from sight with a smoky blur.
And Saevil had been wat
ching the entire time. She could’ve intervened—but didn’t.
The recording ended with a fade-out to black. Rowan was sitting in the Workshop once more, waiting for Viola to cook dinner. The aroma of sizzling mushrooms, bear fat, turnips, and herbs made his mouth water. She asked, “Well, what did you two see? In your divine communication.”
“I’m going to be a Myrmidon,” Rowan and Gabrielle said together, their Demonic voices combining into a weird stereo effect. They laughed.
Zaine, lounging by the window, asked, “You saw one, didn’t you?”
Rowan nodded. “Sun Elf. Shoulder-length blonde hair. Saevil. Am I right?”
“Nah. She has waist-length auburn hair, a long scar running down the side of her face.”
“Oh. Well she was amazing either way.”
Gabrielle said, “She one-shot a Lich elite.”
Zaine shifted on his chair. His scraped ankle rested on his knee. “It couldn’t have been very powerful. What kind of blade did she have?”
“Mmmmm. Longsword, maybe. We were quite far.”
“Shortsword, definitely,” Rowan said.
“Vamir Shasatra. He likes to keep his hair longer as many Elves do. I think I will grow mine out.”
Gabrielle’s tongue popped. “I hope ya know how to make shampoo, and it doesn’t matter who it was either way.” Her eyes skipped to Rowan. “Do ya know that girl who saved Tasha?”
A quizzical frown carved into his face. “No. I thought she was one of your friends. Or Tasha’s.”
“Hmmm. I dun’ think we know her.”
This couldn’t be good. Tasha was supposed to keep her mouth shut. He refrained from groaning. “If we get raided because of this, I’m going to finish what the Lich started.”
“How threatening.”
“Right after I give that redhead fifty lashes.”
“How come?” Gabrielle asked.
“I have a feeling this might be her fault. We might have to discipline her.”
“Row, that sounds quite wrong.”
A dirty smirk slanted his lips. “That can be Skylar’s job.”
She giggled, “Dun’ make me slap ya. Both of ya.”
“You know I’m kidding.”
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