Warwick lost all sense of direction as he hurtled into the air. He banged into the tree he was hanging from on his way up, but he managed to stay conscious.
He hang suspended like the troll from a few days ago. The blood rushing to his head disoriented him – confusing him on where was up and down.
It was a strange sensation. He went still for a moment, trying to get a feel of what was happening to his body.
There was a slight dizziness that came from being upside down. The rope around his ankle was scraping skin and putting pressure on his foreleg as it bore his full weight. He could feel his heart beating slightly faster, and he sensed the coming onset of a rampage that he forcefully quelled.
He had mastered the intricacy of his current body over the past years. It used to be prone to sudden bouts of rampaging – brought about by simple emotions like anger and fear. Now, he could control his rampages – allowing him to use it only when needed.
With an explosion of movement, Warwick propelled his body upwards – cutting the rope with a knife strapped to his leather armor with a single slash.
He fell feet first, landing on a small platform of air that he used to spring forward to land on the ground more than a dozen steps away from what would be his previous landing spot. He felt that it was enough distance to escape from captors if ever he fell for a similar trap.
It was his fourth attempt at making the trap. He spent the past a couple of days in a bookshop, trading coneys for permission to read a few books. One book detailed several ways to set up traps, as well as useful plants and vegetation.
Warwick found knowledge of both the traps and the fauna quite useful. He didn’t remember making traps, only gathering the materials needed for them. The plants in the forest were also more diverse than he was used to – and most of the plants he was familiar with either didn’t exist or were found in some place other than the forest.
The two other books he happened to read were ones that dealt with Théna and Nur, the languages of the elves and fishfolk. He learned all he could through the written texts, but he needed to talk to someone familiar with the languages to ascertain the nuances of pronunciation and slang.
It would be two more days until he could meet Eda again. Last time he went to her home, he was told that she needed to recover from mana exhaustion as well as the rigors of their encounter with the trolls.
He took her family at their word and decided to spend the week learning the basic skills he had been putting aside such as languages and survival.
Smithing was put on hold indefinitely. Hammering a lump of iron a few dozen times did not instantly create a functioning sword – no matter the skill of the smith. Learning the skill would require hours in the forge, and he did not have such luxury.
It would be two more days until the month of Highgreen. Springpass and Dawning would follow, then two more weeks until the solstice of Highsun. There were fourteen more weeks until the tutorial’s end, and Warwick had an inkling the days would become livelier and more interesting when the time came.
He retrieved his equipment and made his way to his empty home. The store of venison was long gone. Hunting and foraging made up for the required nourishment he needed for maintenance – and the book on survival proved quite useful.
His diet was significantly expanded by various mushrooms, root crops, as well as nuts and berries that he used to think were toxic. Apparently, the proper preparation could make even the most poisonous and odious berries safe and palatable.
Arriving home, he hanged the coiled length of rope on a peg and put away the tree screws in a drawer. He grabbed an ant shell from the pile and headed to the fireplace.
A fire quickly started. Warwick was quite familiar with the use of flint and steel from his memories of old. It was disappointing that his first attempts required more than just a couple of strikes, but now he could create sparks with just one.
Kindling and logs were added to the fire, stoking the fire until it reached the proper temperature. The crackling sounds of wood and smell of pine and maple calmed him, clearing his mind as he began to work.
He placed the edge of a knife and a thin poker on the flames. The shell he carried was placed on a table and marked with lines using a piece of coal. Once the blade was hot enough, he started cutting through the chitin – first strips, then rectangular pieces that tapered to a point.
Underneath the table were two piles of the carved ant scales. The larger pile had scales with four holes driven into their sides while the smaller pile held damaged ones. Atop the table was a layered sheet of riveted scales,
Warwick discovered that even if chitin was hard and tough, larger portions tended to crack. Cutting them to smaller pieces reduced the chances of them cracking in battle, and the layering added more protection.
Riveting the scales was difficult. He lost more scales from wayward hammer strikes than the cutting and drilling of holes.
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
The day faded into night and the number of scales – both ruined and intact – grew significantly. Riveting was postponed for the morning and more scales would likely move to the smaller pile.
Satisfied with the work he had done, Warwick put away his tools and went to bed.
----------------------------------------
The forest stirred as a group of seven diminutive humanoids traveled across the forest. Their bickering voices, yelps, and laughter sent the denizens of the forest scurrying away and birds fleeing from the unfamiliar visitors.
Warwick crouched low from his higher vantage point. His attempt at hunting a boar to exchange for more rivets were halted by the appearance of the creatures. Fortunately, the goblins were following the trail towards the city and didn’t bother to check the rises and mounds around them.
He lamented his lack of bow and arrows. He was a swordsman, after all – though there was nothing preventing him from picking up a bow but routine and consistency. The world was nothing but flexible, crossing professions was rare but not unheard of.
The goblins were armed with crude clubs and spears. Their leader, an elite a head taller and heavier than his smaller kin, wore plates of some kind and carried an old sword.
Seven against one. Warwick didn’t like the odds – especially since he had little knowledge of goblins aside from the ones in his memories. His mnemonic book was without their entries, and he preferred adding data to his book by facing one creature at a time – not seven all at once.
However, his sense of duty and conscience urged him to action. The goblins could probably take out a couple of the few visitors to the forest unaware – and he felt it would be partly his fault if they did so. The goblins most likely lived in an area beyond troll territory. Getting rid of two trolls might have sent their kin into a frenzy or created an opening for the goblins to pass.
Warwick steeled his resolve. He charged and activated rampage.
A surge of power entered his muscles and he could feel his lungs taking in more air. His peripheral vision narrowed to the space directly in front of him, blurring the figures to the side. The movements of his opponents seemed a bit more sluggish than before, but Warwick knew his own movements would seem slower as well.
He barreled into the trailing goblin, ramming it with his left shoulder just as it turned around. The creature was blasted backwards, sending it crashing to the goblin in front of it – and both of them tumbling to the ground.
Warwick’s sword flashed upward – rise catching a goblin in the jaw, blowing its head backwards and splitting part of its mouth. It staggered, still on its feet but the awkward angle of its head belied its state.
The sudden appearance of an enemy wielding a fiery blade sent the goblins fiddling for their weapons – as a second sword strike took another of their numbers.
The elite goblin roared, sending his men cowering behind him for protection. It drew its sword with a rattle as it stared at the lone attacker. It grabbed a nearby goblin, pushing it forward and urging its companions to rally and fight.
Warwick bashed the skull of a downed goblin with the hilt of his sword. Blood sprayed and sputtered, painting the ground red as he set his eyes on the amassed goblins.
To his amusement, one of them turned and ran.
Three.
The elite gave a defiant battlecry, goading the two remaining goblins to charge with him.
Warwick met their charge, his feet sending earth and stone flying as he ran. His eyes locked on the left-most goblin. It’s strides were more erratic, less sure and steady. Before they clashed, he jumped towards the goblins, the fingers on his left hand flashing in movement to cast a spell.
He leapt over the goblins with a second jump, enabled by a platform of solid air. He twisted in the air to land behind the goblins, their backs turned towards him. He closed the distance with rush – his figure leaving darting afterimages as he moved.
He used the first strike of infinity to take out his aforementioned target, sending it flying with a rising blow. The second strike glanced off the armor of the goblin elite, forcing it back but dealing little damage.
Warwick continued the figure eight of the attack and followed with a crash to the regular goblin’s head.
The elite goblin snarled at the loss of its companions. Its eyes flared in anger as it bared its teeth in challenge. It drew a knife from its belt and took a defensive stance. Warwick paused at the sudden change, wary of the knife the goblin wielded.
The blade was coated in viscous liquid – either a poison or debilitative. Such practices were not unfamiliar to him. Assassins and their ilk often used weapons and tools to stack their opponents with poisons, curses, and other problematic conditions to whittle away their health or limit their combat abilities.
Unfortunately for the goblin, his opponent had an affinity for water magic. And though his attack spells were quite disappointing, his skill at personal wards were quite formidable.
Warwick’s fingers lightly tapped the air, initializing subconscious routines that controlled the flow of mana in his body the same way Eda used words of power. Stoneheart activated, making his body repel most forms of incoming liquid and hence, immune to poisons.
He still took notice of the envenomed dagger – immunity to poison did not confer the same to the dagger that held it.
He started his attack with a few feints, trying to draw the goblin into attacking. The goblin maintained its defensive stance for a few heartbeats – then attacked with a downward slash of its sword.
Warwick inched his body to the right, avoiding the blow entirely. The goblin’s attack was too wide – which meant he was angling to attack with the envenomed dagger.
He held his sword low and waited for the dagger. He met the attack with his left forearm, the blade meeting the layered scales of his newly-made vambrace. The dagger slid to the side, leaving the goblin open to an attack.
Warwick attacked with a thrust of his sword. The tip of the sword struck the goblin’s sternum, pushing him back and knocking the wind from his lungs.
12 damage. Stunned.
Numbers and stats began to run again in his mind now that he was down to one opponent. He struck the reeling goblin with crash to its exposed shoulders and a sever to its sides.
The goblin crumpled and half spun from the attacks but stayed on its feet. Warwick unleashed an infinity, finally putting the goblin to rest on its second attack.
7, 9, 5, and 8.
The elite’s armor gave it a measure of protection from the wooden sword, but not enough to span the difference in skill.
With the fight at concluded, Warwick leaned on a nearby tree. The rampage was ending, and he could feel his body getting weaker. At least there were none of the shaking or heaving that used to follow its end.
He took out a dagger. He was pretty sure there was a standing bounty for goblins – he just wasn’t sure how much of the goblins was needed as proof.