Volume 3 – The Return of The Cripple
Part I - Slumcripple Sextillionaire
Salamina, Greece, 3 a.m. in the morning, a two-bedroom villa overlooking the wine-dark seas of the Saronic Gulf.
Inside, a young Greek woman with seaweed-thick hair and olive skin was lying immobile on her couch, her head encased in a VR helmet.
Around her were the luxurious trimmings of a carefree lass who'd made the most of European post-work technocommunism. Deposited in random corners were sculptures and paintings that'd she'd crafted herself. Her shelves housed an array of pictures from her global travels - motorcycling with her parents across the Mongolian grasslands, zig-zagging down a snowy slope in the Swiss Alps.
Browsing through these photos, the careful observer would note that there were many gaps where some of them had been removed. In these missing pictures, one would have seen the reason the young woman was still playing Saana so late into the night - a fiancé of hers who'd deserted for the most ludicrous of reasons.
He'd accused her of being too insecure. Her refusal to leave him alone was wasting his time, he'd said. Because of her, he'd been unable to get a job in a video game.
A video game!
For this betrayal, the young woman had begun an odd path of revenge. She would get into this 'Company' herself before him and slap her ex in the face.
Already, she'd climbed to rank number 5 in Suchi. Her Bowman, Artemis8492, had become infamous for the unpredictable ferocity of her bow and spear.
Revenge was about to be served!
In reality, though, the photos, the fiancé, the ethnicity, and even the sex of this 'woman' - all of it was fake.
This was merely the cover story of one of Saana's most meticulous spies, who was presently attempting to infiltrate The Company's Suchi branch through the recruitment tournament. Once inside, he would steal their secrets about The Trials of Nerin.
Usually, this spy maintained his personas 24/7 during a mission. Tonight, however, when he removed his VR helmet, his wig tilting ajar as it was snagged on the inside, his gaze lacked Artemis's feminine fury.
What was The Tyrant doing in Suchi?
Loki's eyelashes, lengthened with extensions, fluttered as his mind became an avalanche of potential answers.
"Ruff! Ruff!" A pink robot-terrier came scrambling across the room with a pair of bunny-slippers in its mouth.
"Power down," he commanded.
The robot dog froze mid-stride.
Throwing his feet onto the carpet, he ordered his e-assistant to connect with his boss. "Odin, are you safe to speak? Urgent news."
Loki needed to log out before delivering this message. The Peopleworker class had skills that could detect lies; however, the checks were based solely on the actions performed by one's character in-game. Spies circumvented this by only relaying intelligence in the real world.
His e-assistant buzzed. "Dungeon. Pack of Snowelves. A minute."
Due to the time dilation, the voice came out at quadruple the regular pace. It could be slowed down if one wanted, but Loki was quick-witted enough to follow along.
Feeling restless, he strolled out onto the villa's balcony, the doors sliding open at his approach and exposing him to a chilly November breeze.
"Display."
The glass panel of the balustrade was rotated for a better viewing angle, before becoming a functioning computer screen. With Loki in command, the display was swarmed by a fluctuating array of profiles on The Company's inner circle members and miscellaneous info about Suchi.
In the courtyard of a house below, a group of drunken tourists were slow-dancing to a thumping bassline. Loki, sinking ever deeper into his concentration, steadily filtered them out...their slovenly hedonism...their weakness...
The members of his guild, Asatru, had some interesting beliefs.
They thought that civilisation would soon collapse into barbarism, as it always did. And, this time, the effects would be cataclysmic for humanity, which had been made too soft by modern luxury. The worst struck would be themselves, the Europeans, who had become fat and lazy suckling on the teet of Technocommunism.
Asatru's mission was to preserve the warrior spirit of old Europe for the struggles ahead. To survive barbarism, one must not only be unafraid of bloodshed, one must revere it, one must love it. For this reason, they devoted their days to tempering their bodies in the gym and their minds in Saana's gore-strewn battlefields.
Their kookier members also believed that technology had stifled humankind's inner potential. When the collapse drove them by spearpoint to existence's edge, the best of them would reawaken the magic stored in their DNA and ascend to the power of their ancestors who history remembered as deities. Hence, they'd named themselves after the old gods.
A bit crazy.
"Safe," said Odin. "Lay it on me."
"I've spotted The Tyrant in Suchi levelling an Earthfriend."
Loki paused to allow his boss to digest the news. The Tyrant was a long-standing enemy of theirs. In the past, they'd lost several battles to him. Today, his peaceful reformations acted as a chokehold on their warrior aims.
"Continue."
Loki recounted his observations: The Tyrant's first known acquisition of a Martial Class, his hiring the spot in the stadium, the rumours Loki'd overheard from other duellists discussing his proficiency in several martial arts, and the uncharacteristic absence of a disguise.
"Given the timing of his arrival," said Loki, his fingers a blur across the display, "it's safe to assume that he footed the bill for the construction of the stadium. I suspect he was also involved in some or all of yesterday's anomalies. The appearance of the giant boar and wolf coincide with when he might have been powerlevelling, and the bodies of both were processed by The Company. The moths...the connection's hard to see. Karnon...same class..."
"According to Fenrir, The Company's craftsmen concocted the paint for the moon-erasing scheme."
"If that's the case, he's Karnon's protégé."
"The Tyrant and the Togavian trickster...that's an unlikely alliance."
"It might be part of a greater scheme to control the God. Karnon could also be useful to him in a different way. In light of the high rate of anomalous incidents, The Tyrant, now that he's chosen a Martial class, seems to be conducting a series of level-restricted Legendary quests that he'd been saving for himself. This would explain the stadium. His skills were quite rusty from my brief observation, so perhaps he's training to become strong enough to challenge a hyper-difficult quest before levelling on. Considering the number of martial arts, this could be a quest long in the making. Huge payoff."
"If that's the goal, The Company has plenty of prodigies for practice."
"They wouldn't be superior in all respects; the combat dynamic at Tier-0 is unique."
Loki, despite being a veteran, had capped out at 5th place. At higher tiers, none of the ants in Suchi could have stood up to him, but the Tier-0 toolkit lacked the complexity for the full expression of his talents.
Odin wasn't convinced. "Your analysis fails to account for one critical component: he's thrown off his disguise. An obvious trap."
Loki's pink-painted lips parted into a toothy smile. "It could be a trap, but exposing his face could also reflect a simpler motive. It could be a symbolic confirmation."
"Of what?"
"That The Tyrant is dead. Look, it's just me, I'm harmless. Disgusting, isn't it?"
Odin groaned. "How disgraceful. The lion should die with its throat in the mouth of its successor, not wasting away in some $&#*hole."
"Exactly. So why not remind our foe of what still prowls around him? Whatever quest he's attempting, I'll steal the prize, and if that doesn't work, I'll ruin it."
"Hahaha. Your spirit is respectable, Loki, but don't get distracted. Priority number one is The Trials."
"Am I a one-armed cretin? I can juggle multiple goals at once."
Indeed, during this discussion, he'd already brainstormed several plans that would combine both aims.
His boss paused again to deliberate.
Out on the sea, a passenger cruise was passing by heading from Piraeus to Alexandria in Egypt. Loki had memorised the local route timings while creating his persona's travels.
"Too many assumptions," answered Odin eventually. "Gather evidence in support of them. I'll read the report over lunch."
"In two hours."
His boss sighed. "When there's hunger in the hunter's stomach, tomorrow is indeed too late...fine. To Valhalla."
"To Valhalla."
The West Bank Autonomous Exclave. A groaning forest.
Amidst a scene of toppling trees, a player Scholar was interviewing a female NPC Landworker and her grey-haired Crusader husband. The Landworker, one hand supporting a pregnant belly, the other a twig, was happily chirping away about her past as a Delivery Roach.
"And then this geezer picked me up from the trash," she slapped her stick against the Crusader's armour. "Can't say there's been much of a story after that. Just been popping out one kid after the other like Ankapilu herself. That's why I signed up for work here in the WBAE; even a housewife needs the occasional adventure. Also, the pay doesn't hurt."
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Oliver Spears, disguised as this newbie Scholar unadjusted to the game world, pretended to almost trip on the branch of a fallen tree. "Ankapilu?"
"A goat in Nerin's flock," answered the Crusader, who was sticking within spell-touch range of his young bride; he'd advised her to refuse the job offer, believing The Church to be untrustworthy. "After the God slaughtered the Hungerhog of Poddalu, Anakapilu nibbled on its nose and started birthing 300 kids week."
Oliver's quill scribbled down the useless information, 'Hungerhog. Many babies.' "Strange fairy-tale, that is."
"Your homeworld must be very boring..." The woman paused to imbue her twig with magic, a glowing axe-head forming on the tip. Approaching a mature tree, she tapped its trunk, causing the tree to be ejected out of the soil by a geyser of dirt. "...if a tale so ordinary seems fabricated."
"The hog's skeleton is on display in Central," added her husband.
SYSTEM WARNING: You've been online for an unhealthy length. You will be forcibly ejected in 10 minutes and barred from logging on for 24 hours. Rest well.
Already? thought Oliver with vexation.
He supposed he had been investigating non-stop after yesterday's epiphany about Ramiro's sadistic tendencies. Since then, he'd created a new character, joined a random Village, completed the Scholar initiation quests, and begun a quest to write a history of The Delivery Roaches.
With this as an excuse, he'd been interviewing current and ex-Roaches to compile a list of orphans who'd vanished over the years – potential candidates for Ramiro's victims. Although he would document Ramiro's other misdeeds, the murdered orphan angle would constitute the core of his expose as it would pack the greatest emotional punch.
Ideally, for a poetic tie-in with The Empire's corruption, he would track down the five preserved hands that'd been used to frame The Priest From Wanaagsan. Failing that, any female victim would suit - nothing moves the masses quite like cute little girls being butchered.
Or a pregnant woman.
He should finish up this interview. Closing an eye, he entered his Mental Library and pulled up a table of candidates.
"I have to reconnect with the universe. Before I leave, there are a few Roaches I've been struggling to contact. Could you point me in their direction?"
"I can try," said the Landworker. "You should know, though, that we Ibanmothe are not bound to any soil."
Her husband nodded. "We are the sand, we go wherever the wind blows..."
"...wherever the camel's hoof carries," the Landworker completed.
"Well," said Oliver, "Any help is appreciated. How about that Meggy girl's bully? Heena..."
"Eszik," answered the Landworker. "Got too cocky with The Trials. Now he's Hyena shit."
Oliver crossed out the name. "Sorry for the loss."
"Don't be."
Her husband spat.
"Elenko The Tower?"
The Landworker laughed. "A few days ago, you might have caught him, but now he's on a boat to Volefa. Something about the wolves scaring him."
"Could be some of the other more frightening monsters around here." Oliver crossed that name off, too.
"Beg your pardon?"
"Psychic Shadow Monkeys, they'll spook the soul out of a man. Meggy?"
Oliver had noticed this girl featuring prominently in the Landworker's childhood anecdotes while being absent in her teens. Based on the chronology that he'd mapped, she was a strong candidate for one of the preserved hands.
The Landworker, about to fell another tree, hesitated.
Unseen by both her husband and the Offworlder, her eyes fixed upon a thing far away. Although she had no trouble deep-down identifying it for what it was, she'd told herself that the obscuring-effect of the distance had made it indistinguishable.
"Many Roaches, when their parents find them, ditch without a word of goodbye. I guess they want to forget this part of their life as soon as possible."
But Meggy's parents were dead as well.
Charging up her twig, the Landworker smacked the tree. As it popped out of the soil, a flock of Mooncrows that'd been nesting in the canopy took flight. Their grey-black camouflage made them stick out awkwardly against the sunlit sky.
Behind her, Oliver, having detected all he needed in her hesitation, suppressed an elated grin.
1 out of 5.
Suchi, the Newbie Spawning Area, pillars of light crashing down in the plaza and depositing newbies for their first taste of Saana.
In contrast to when Henry'd visited this place 'yesterday', the new players now had room to breathe without being piled upon. As part of his scheming against The Empire, the Village recruiters had been arranged into orderly rows on the edge of one half of the plaza, while the other side was filled with stalls representing the Central City guilds. To prevent a conflict erupting between the two rival factions, guards from The Church had been stationed around the area.
Amongst the row of Village recruiters, a gold-clad Crusader was swinging his golden zweihander in an attempt to impress a newbie eating a bowl of Crystal Hippopotamus Cold Rice-Noodles - a recruitment incentive from another Village.
Justinian sundered the air with a slash. "With the world so tightly bound in His shadowy claws, it is not assured that we shall prevail in our defence of the light. But what is certain is this: divided, we continue to fall. Answer the call to arms, holy warrior! Join Byzantium in its righteous crusade!"
After the sudden departure of LIghtning Legolas and his Beast Tamer friend, Justinian was searching for one more recruit so that his arena roster could continue fielding 3 separate teams.
"Some of the details are unclear," said the newbie between a mouthful. "Who's He?"
Justinian clenched his fist, tucked his sword into his chest so he wouldn't smack the recruiters next to him, then span dramatically in the direction of Chayoka. "I've vowed never to utter His curse-ed name until the day it's etched upon His gravestone. But I do not need to identify Him, for if you've witnessed evil in any form, then already you know the shape of His wicked face. He is the lurker in the dark! His music is the wailing of the weak and innocent! His food is their stolen bread! His water is their bitter tears!"
The newbie scratched their head. Maybe they needed to grind more reputation with this NPC's faction before the big bad was revealed?
"Ok...but how does participating in a 6v6 tournament help to defeat 'Him'? There's no logical connection."
Justinian perked up at this inquiry.
In the six months that he'd been stuck in this zone, no one had bothered to ask him this follow-up question. At once, his veins surged with an energy that could only be known by the hardcore roleplayer – in that joyous moment when one could finally debut the material they'd prepared.
An ominous cloud setting over Justinian's features, he snapped back around to the newbie and presented them his golden zweihander. "Your impression of this weapon?"
"It's very shiny."
"Indeed, oh how the sunlight dances on the edge. However, this..." He discarded the sword, tossing it to the ground. "...this is merely a duplicate, the deformed child of a more magnificent blade, one with the Legendary might to devour the world. The real sword was once my master's, once mine, and now His. The story of its passage between us three is riddled with dark twists and tragic turns. I would watch my swordmaster fall for fabricated crimes of heresy. To retrieve him from Hell where he'd been falsely sent, I would enter the mouth of Death itself, crawl on my belly through its intestines, and, although I would ultimately fail in that endeavour, for the Lord did not will it, I would emerge from the other end with the power to rival the archangel Michael himself. And then, in my moment of glory, I would be struck down, my spine shattered on the knee of tyranny!
"Now, to begin. We start this tale in the Kirschrot Vale, the fifth year of Io, when I, a knight wandering in search of answers for my being transported to this strange world, happened upon a—"
"Stop holding up the line, Justinian!" shouted the recruiter beside him, before turning to the newbie. "Friend, what Martial Class are you planning to roll? The 912th Village has opened up a slot in our raid group for two main healers!"
The next recruiter along poked their head out. "Forget fighting, take the civilised path! Manicured Lawn Village is accepting all Farmers and Landworkers!"
The newbie, who'd been immersing himself in Justinian's tale, gave the recruiters who'd rudely interrupted it a look of irritation. "I'm going to check out the other side. Good luck, gold dude!" With that, they marched across the plaza and entered the queue for the Central City Adventurer's Guild.
The Village recruiters, watching another one go over to the other side, mumbled petulantly.
"Those ^$&#gobblers, man."
"They expect us to smile while their spit slides down our cheeks."
"Me hate, too!" said a Neanderthal roleplayer.
A neurotic-arsonist roleplayer picked at their shirt. "I s-say we b-b-burn their s-s-stalls."
"No way, ese," replied a gangster roleplayer. "Let's gather the homies and fill these fools with lead."
The presence of the Central City guilds had slashed their recruitment rates, ruining their ability to earn Slum Points for bringing newbies into The Empire. In the past, the Villagers would have killed them, but this wasn't possible with The Church's guards around.
Justinian felt compelled to add his own piece. "Behind these actions, I sense a dark hand, the sinister manipulations of His shadowy fingers."
He didn't actually believe this, but due to a grudge his character attributed most problems to Him.
Retrieving his sword and spotting no more potential recruits for now, he summoned a wooden sign that read 'Join the crusade!', then closed his eyes.
"Lord above, grant me a vision to guide me through this fog of evil."
His vision swapped to footage of high-ranking teams competing in the 6v6 tournament. As he returned to watching their matches, paying close attention to their strategies, his mouth mumbled a string of odd phrases.
"Five hammers...mace and sword...four hammers...."
Ever since Sir Henry's revelation during The Village Deathbrawl about the two hammer strategy, Justinian had been trying to translate other strategies into knightly metaphors that would be compatible with his roleplaying persona.
This process was proving challenging. Certain aspects of Saana's combat system, such as saving cooldowns, seemed impossible to pack within a heroic soundbite. Moreover, top-level team fighting involved constant strategical adjustment, as teammates were eliminated, as one responded to the opponent's responses. To keep pace, he would have to memorise his soundbites so well they could be recalled instantly on command. Then, there was the fact that his character always had to lead the charge, which was an atrocious position for reading the battlefield.
In short, he needed to ascend to a much higher level of roleplaying.
Otherwise, Justinian, his character, would not fulfil its life-or-death vow to win the 6v6 tournament that it'd made after that misfortunate duel half a year ago, He would not give him Worlddevourer back, and he, the kid roleplaying this stubborn character, would be stuck for eternity in this Tier-0 starting zone.
He was screwed!
Justinian, unable to withstand the pressure, fell down onto one knee.
The other recruiters didn't even glance at him, all of them being accustomed to his antics.
"The son, the father, and the holy ghost!" he prayed. "The night has ended yet your servant cannot see the sun! If my crusade reflects your will, then deliver unto me the strength of your song! Disarm me of this spirit of hopelessness! Arm me with a rod of anointed iron, that I might break my foes like..." he struggled for an appropriate simile, "...like the shell of the dragon's egg! If instead my crusade displeases you, then I beg that you smite me where I kneel!"
He looked up into the sky and waited.
But no miraculous, vow-ending explosion blew him apart.
He could replace 'smite' with 'remain silent'?
No.
His character would never accept such an easy out.
He was screwed...
Suddenly, in this moment of entirely self-imposed suffering, Justinian's prayer was finally answered by a higher power.
-Artemis8492: Justinian, are you on, sweetie? I think your arena squad could use a Bowman.
Suchi. Two moons in the sky. The Arts and Crafts Competition for The Kingdom of South-East Asia and Oceania, a bustling festival on the perimeter of The Slums.
Here, the Civilian-players from the Kingdom's Duchies were displaying their skills through hundreds of competitions, small and large. Festival-goers, acting as judges, roamed the dense streets, sampling novelty cakes, drinking dodgy potions, and admiring oversized fish that'd been plucked from the harbour that morning. The atmosphere, like any other of the daily events held in The Slums, blended casual, drunken liberty with an ever-present fear of being mugged.
Henry was browsing clothing racks in a Textileworker section. This mundane activity was a pleasant way to unwind after a gruelling day of practice at his stadium. Plus, his wardrobe could use an update after four decades of wearing the same stuff.
The day's team practice had been shifted for later in the evening to fit with this festival's schedule. However, he would meet up with the Byzantines and his friends soon enough. All Slum events, even the Civilian-focused ones, had arena side-competitions.
He'd come with Abigail along with Handsome Dan, Donkey Bro, and the Vampire Wolf, whom he'd picked up along the way. Those four were off exploring the Cooking section.
Crazy Rose was also here, staring at him wordlessly.
"What's this?" Henry gasped in fake astonishment, pulling an Indian-style long coat from one rack. "A sherwani or an achkan? Unfortunately, my South Asian sartorial gloss is somewhat lacking. Regardless, isn't it divine? The base colouring of Prussian Blue makes for an energising contrast with the Brick Red of the hand-woven embroidery. The embroidery...notice how it becomes denser as it transitions from the neck down to the flared bottom; combined with churidar pyjamas, the trousers, of the same reddish hue, the outfit gives one the impression of an alien sky being cooked over a dull fire. Opinions?"
His eyebrows raised mockingly, he glanced back.
These jerk-off sentences hadn't been directed at Silent Rose but rather at an even more troublesome 'newcomer', an azure-haired teenager with antler stubs, whose fingers were painfully clutching a scroll of unfulfilled pranks.
"Do you reckon it would be pretentious for me to wear it, Professor K.?"
Yes, Karnon was also here, having already escaped his marital imprisonment.
But Henry had good reason to no longer be concerned. "Professor K., hello, thoughts on the sherwani?"
The God spasmed with pain, these unnecessary descriptions of clothing giving him torturous PTSD flashbacks of curtain shopping with his bride. "A Doomreaver sleeps in a mine twenty miles north-east. You set the explosive potions; I'll take care of the rest. Imagine the fun!"
"Nope."