Without thinking, Donovan stormed through the door, face red with fury. There were no more thoughts in him than that of a dreamer thrashing his body to force himself awake. For this could only be a dream, a terribly irritating dream.
Startled by the commotion, the girl whose face he knew turned, and said, unperturbed. “Ah, you’re here at last!”
It was a casual remark you would expect from someone greeting a friend who had just arrived five minutes late.
As though she had been waiting.
He could see her face in full now. And again there could be no mistake. Not that he could ever mistake that face out of all people.
The image of his late little sister--tacked on a real, living person.
A small face framed by fluffy locks, eyes greener than anyone in the family. Even the way she blinked twice in astonishment bore a bizarre resemblance.
And yet it was impossible.
How could it be?
It could not--was the obvious answer.
“Wait...you really come?!” the girl repeated, this time with a gaping mouth, as though her brain was still processing something really, really wrong.
There was nothing right in this situation to begin with.
Then, “Who are you?” she exclaimed, “were you hiding in there all this time?”
Hiding?
Donovan turned.
What he had thought was a door... no, there was no way it had not been a door. He was in a hallway, and had opened a door to this room--a room with a window on the opposite wall that had no business being there.
And behind him was in fact a door. But a door to a closet of sorts. He could see a row of clothes being hung within.
A closet.
He, an adult man, had jumped out of the closet of a young girl’s room, was what the situation looked like.
It was nothing adventurous or mysterious. No witch, nor lion.
Only a man hiding in a girl’s closet.
The girl, now in intense fright, began to crawl away, edging backward on her elbows, instead of climbing to her feet to escape the room. “No...you couldn’t be something I summoned...” she was muttering. Her pupils dilated.
Then, suddenly, “Help!” she cried, her upper half turned to the door--not the one led to the closet, but a real door, of the leading-in-and-out-of-a-room variant. “Guards, guards! Someone’s in my room!”
That door shot right open. The mentioned guards marched in, two of them, their faces ashen in panic and agitation.
Spears.
Glinting, sharp, piercing spears, brandished in the guards’ gauntleted hands.
This went without saying, but it decidedly didn’t look like they would be reading Donovan his Miranda rights before skewering him through.
Spears--metal head, long shaft--abundant in movies but rarely seen in the modern world. Swords, maybe, ceremonial swords, decorative swords, swords for cosplaying,... Not spears. Strictly a fighting weapon, effective in ancient warfare and single combat alike.
These spears were being leveled at him with unbridled hostility.
“Down!” one bellowed, thrusting his menacing weapon at Donovan.
“Whoa, easy,” Donovan raised his hands in a parley, “Clearly there’s some misunderstanding here.”
Not that he really expected the guards to buy it right away. But the way they looked at him was filled with doubt and caution as though Donovan was an alien, and not just a simple trespasser.
“Do you know this man, princess?” the guard who’d shouted at Donovan asked, turning his head only slightly to address the girl on the floor.
“N-no, not really,” she said.
Really, it was such an uncanny resemblance that even Donovan still couldn’t believe his eyes. She really did look like Estella. If moving his hands wasn’t such an ill-advised course of action right now he would have rubbed his eyes with them.
“How did you get in here?” the other guard demanded, his eyes scrutinizing Donovan for any signs of concealed arms.
It had been a good decision to hold up his hands, they definitely didn’t look like the sorts of bouncers who would only give you a beating then let go. Steel means malice--killing.
But why spears anyway?
Judging from the urgent gravity the “guards” had treated his trespassing, Donovan highly doubted he had simply wandered into a film set.
Very swiftly he assessed the situation. The curtained window, itself a mystery due to its location, offered little glimpse of the outside for him to ascertain the situation. The room seemed...girlish? Silky draping over the canopy bed, embroidered fabric over the tea table and the desk, a bouquet of seasonal flowers at a corner of the room.
While the girl’s dress wasn’t what he would call strange, the guards’ armor looked real, if primitive. The spears had initially captured all of Donovan’s attention, but they were also wearing mail over what seemed to be thick leather, steel caps over their head, and hands gauntleted with thick leather gloves. All of these appeared to be authentic articles, coordinated for combat, not just costumes put together for the cool look.
As Donovan hemmed and hawed, unsure as to how he might answer the guard’s question, the ruckus they had been making seemed to have drawn attention from outside. More guards showed up, armed and alerted. Whoever this girl of curious appearance was, she must be someone important, perhaps even as big as a McAeda.
At some point, another young girl had wedged herself through the ranks of men with frantic haste. Her long, flowy dress and white apron brushed against the elbow-to-elbow steel that had filled the room. Fussing, she crouched down beside the girl on the floor, who until then still hadn’t moved.
Couldn’t. Correction.
Only so much you could attribute to paralyzing fear.
That girl on the floor wasn’t capable of walking.
Crying “Princess!” and trembling slightly with agitation, this new girl searched for any possible injuries on the girl. Satisfied that there wasn’t any, she picked up this princess with practiced ease, flinging the girl’s arms over her shoulders and carrying her up like a baby. The held-up girl’s legs dangled uselessly.
As she rose, the girl gave Donavan a hostile look behind the fogged lenses of her glasses. All this happened in a few seconds, then promptly with frantic steps, she carried the helpless princess out of the room.
He couldn’t blame her.
If Donovan himself had been the caretaker of a young girl and some weird dude broke into her room without any obvious explanation he would be angry too.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t explain his sympathy with any effects to the guards.
The guards, who until then had maintained a line before him, to ensure that the girl would be carried out safely first, began to press him once more, inching forward with their spearheads. Their formation was so tightly packed not even a fly would get through.
Having concluded that Donovan had no weapon on him, one who looked like their captain ordered two of his men to apprehend the intruder.
Rude and forceful gauntleted hands grabbed at the former English Professor then wrestled him to the floor. Before he knew it, he was gazing up at the scowling captain like a condemned prisoner.
Perhaps he had been condemned already.
“Speak now,” said the guard captain, “Who the hell are you? How did you get here?”
“Just a guy alright?” he answered lamely, “I just happened to stumble my way into this room.”
Yeah, like that would fly.
He wouldn't have been able to cook up a worse excuse if he’d tried.
And yet it was the stone-cold truth.
“Don’t you be funny!” the guard exclaimed. And to emphasize his point, he struck the butt of his spear in Donovan’s face. “Answer properly, the king wouldn’t mind it if we brought you before him with a few missing fingers.”
“Damn you,” Donovan snarled, abandoning his attempt to appear nice and harmless. “Again with that and I shall snap you in half!”
His threat predictably fell on deaf ears. With both of his arms had been restrained, the only thing he could defy the guards with was his glaring eyes. Meanwhile, the spearheads hovered perilously close to his face. With a thrust from one of them his brain would be skewered before he could even cry bugger.
“You’re not from this land,” the captain observed. “Are you with the men camped on the outskirts? Speak!”
“Look at his eyes!” one of the guards chimed in, “Are those not like the king’s? Those are green as emeralds?”
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
“A Macaeda?” the captain said, wording it like a question.
The pronunciation was strange, but no mistake, he had just said Donovan’s last name. His family name. The family who owned the conglomerate of their namesake.
Donovan McAeda--his name, was what he was to answer the guard with. A name that had often acted like a talisman throughout his life to those in the know.
But he couldn’t.
His mouth opened, yet no sound came out, as though his vocal cord had been cut.
Just then.
Initializing registration protocols...
A voice--an unfamiliar, feminine voice--rang in his head.
The mortified look on his face was pronounced enough that the guard frowned at it.
“What is it?” the guard said, “You recognize the name, it seems. Are you one of the royal family? Why won’t you speak?”
Because his brain was reeling.
Static noise roared in his head as the cold, impersonal voice pierced through every thought. Very little of what was said, inside or outside his head, made any sense. He was going crazy, and that was the only thing that seemed certain in this situation.
General profile logged and validated.
ID: Player Character #5. Homeground: Tartary Empire. Assigned username: Agravain Macaeda.
Grand Quest assimilated.
Parameters defined as within range requested by participating archangels.
Generating appropriate presets...
“What?” the guard cried, “Speak! Weren’t you so loud before!”
“We ought to take him in quietly,” another opined, “If he really was with that man, Cadfan or something, this could have diplomatic consequences. The king made it clear there is not to be unprovoked aggression.”
“You call this unprovoked? And that’s even assuming he is! You, are you with Cadfan?” the guard returned his attention to Agravain.
Wait, what, Agravain?
It was a strange name, one he had never heard of before in the context of his own identity.
And yet, somehow, that was how he thought of himself now.
Because when the voice in his head was addressing him as such, he had, almost instinctively, reacted as though his name had been called out in a crowd.
Agravain Macaeda, Player Character #5,...
Warning! An error occurred during preset assignment:
More than one preset found, manual assignment required...
“What?” Agravain cried. Suddenly he was able to speak again.
“Cadfan,” the guard repeated, “you know the man? You one of his barbarians?”
Player Character #5, technical support will contact you shortly, please patiently await further instructions.
What the hell was that?
What the hell indeed. It bears repeating twice.
“Can’t you understand what I’m saying?” the guard pressed.
“Maybe he doesn’t? Not all of them barbarians can speak Tartarian after all.”
“Don’t be daft, he just spoke in our language earlier!”
...Hm. Hm?! Coming in, coming in! Sorry for making you wait, lesse, Player Character #5... What’s the problem here? Two presets? Huh? Kinda… weird? Very weird indeed! Can’t say I have seen this reported before. For Michael’s sake, why is it always during my shift that--hah. Well, I suppose you just need to pick one and be done with... Hello? Can you hear me, err, Agravain Macaeda? Hellooo?
“What the hell? Who’s speaking?” Agravain cried.
The voice sounded markedly female, just as before, only not as impersonal but with a clear personality to it. And this personality sounded questionable to boot.
“You’re speaking to the palace guards, man! Are you of the royal family, or are you with that barbarian Cadfan? Speak!”
Huh, what do you mean who? Technical support, what else? Weren’t you given notice? Well, doesn’t matter. To begin with, we don’t encounter errors like this very often. And, please bear with me here, but front office is far from one of my main responsibilities, not even close, or it shouldn’t have been... At the very least you won’t find it in my job description without a magnifying glass... talk about abusing the small prints, those dipshits... Hmm! Wait a darn bit, aren’t customer support chats usually logged for reviewing--shit! I mean. Darn. Erm. Well! Whatever the case, I’m here to help, however inept the help might be! So with that out of the way. You get to choose, see, errr, between two possible classes. Any is fine actually, but since the protocols can’t resolve two equal matches, you will have to pick... Well, I can pick for you if you prefer it that way, but to be absolutely honest I would rather not bear that kind of responsibility, it’s heavy...
“What classes?”
Confused couldn’t even begin to describe what he was feeling now. Not just the voice babbling on in his head but it seemed even the guards were losing their patience.
It was like listening to a podcast while having a conversation with someone else. Or reading two books at the same time.
“What kind of question is that? I’m asking if you’re with those foreigners, the barbarians at the outskirts or the royal family?”
“Barbarian?”
There’s Grand Sag--huh? What are you saying? I haven’t even listed it yet, or have I? Welp. You sure wanna be a Barbarian? That class’s specialty is rather...unique, you know? In a bad way too... not that it is my place to say, of course.
Barbarian (n): a person from an alien land, culture, or group believed to be inferior, uncivilized, or violent—used chiefly in historical references.
“Yeah, you could say that.” With that understanding in mind, Agravain answered the guard cautiously, “I’m not from around here.” That was obvious enough. No matter how he looked at it, all these things and subjects: royal family, princess, classes,... were far from terms he would expect to hear in daily life. Whatever this place was, he sure as hell had no place in it. “Right, I guess you can say that, I’m a barbarian. Weird choice of words as it is.”
That’s decided then. Let’s see... class assigned, Barbarian. Now this is a surprise, I never thought anyone would pick a class in this category--bet Jophiel will get a kick out of this, too. Good for her, I guess...
“So you’re with Cadfan then? Did he tell you to infiltrate the princess’s chamber?
Anyways! Thank you for your cooperation, we hope to see you again...wait, that's not something you say at the end of customer support, yeah? Ciao, then!
“This is a waste of time, this guy’s probably just dumb,” another guard chimed in, “Look at him: jaw slacking, eyes wandering. I reckon he isn’t even considered bright among his own.”
“You may be right,” yet another said, “yet even a dullwit could sing a note if you whip him hard enough.”
“To the dungeon with him then,” the captain concluded, “I want a reasonable explanation for the king as to how this slack-jawed fool managed to infiltrate his daughter’s chamber. Else, you can be damn sure heads will roll!”
Only vaguely did Agravain comprehend the discussion over his fate. His mind was reeling still. Worse, the inner, disembodied voice had not stopped, only returning to its previously impersonal and cold tone.
Preset applied.
Profile assimilated.
Player Character #5, Agravain
Class: Barbarian
Focus Attributes: Strength, Endurance
Traits: Novice Fighter, Dump Stat Intelligence
Feats:
Modifiers:
Skills: Rage
Rage bar: 100%
Attributes:
Str 44 | En 28 | Dex 14 | Int 0 (-∞) | Wis 8 | Cha 11 | Luck 15
Player Character #5 is now eligible for participation in the Grand Quest.
Your assigned Archangel will arrive at your location in a day’s time. Please do your utmost to avoid getting yourself killed before then.
Best of luck, and don’t forget to have fun!
“And up you go,” said the guards as they hoisted Agravain up by the arms.
“Where’re you taking me?” the barbarian said, still half-dazed. His head ached and his limbs were strained to the limits. He felt as though he was being stretched, pulled in all directions by strong ropes fasted to mighty windlasses. At least the voice inside his head had shut up, for now.
“Don’t worry, this will only hurt a lot if you answer properly.” One patted his back.
“I want a lawyer.”
“You’ll have a feast, a pretty girl, and everything else besides where we’re headed, promise. Now come along.”
The barbarian’s mind was fuzzy, but he hadn’t become the imbecile these men were making him out to be. Slowly as he adjusted after the shock of many clashing voices in his head, Agravain began to read the room. At least a baker’s dozen of the guards were there, all with spears or sabers pointed at him except the ones restraining him from behind.
By and large, the cautious mood from before had abated, thanks to what they perceived as their prisoner’s lack of resistance. The men certainly weren’t on guard anymore.
Talk of tortures aside, it almost felt like he could get out of this peacefully if he played his cards right.
One approached with a long rope.
“I’ve done nothing wrong,” he protested, eyeing the rope with resentment.
“Are you dumb?” the captain of the guards sneered, “A world of wrong you already did by sneaking in here.” He gave the back of Agravain’s head a slap.
“You dog,” cried the barbarian, turning with a snap of his teeth to accompany the sudden bark, scarcely missing the man’s hand with his bite.
Immediately, he felt the impact of a spear butt on his back, then another without holding back on his temple, rattling his brain within. Any man would have fallen stone cold by such cruel strikes. But suddenly, Agravain felt like no common man.
In fact, the sharp pains summoned something in him, something which coursed through his veins like a mad torrent. The restraints of the guards, both large and strong men, tickled at him like a nuisance, like thin vines lightly coiled over his limbs.
Rage activated.
Current rage bar capacity: 99.9%
Briefly, the disembodied voice returned ringing in his head. He paid it no heed. His arms were working.
It was little more than a shrug of his shoulders, but the guards who had been restraining him fell away as though hit by a rampant vehicle.
In the back of Agravain’s mind--the very back--a corner so overlooked it might as well have been deliberately hidden, there was an awareness of a change in his psyche.
He had not become a mumbling fool the guards had been treating him as. But the intellectual habits, the practiced restraints, what little of it, he had learned all his life seemed to have eroded away in a blink of an eye.
Sure, he had always been a reckless man, a short-tempered convict who resorted far too often to violence. Only thanks to his family’s status that he had been bailed out time and again.
But there had always been certain self-imposed limits he put on his actions. He had never leaned on his family name to cause needless suffering, inflict grievous harm on purpose, or ruin anyone’s life. The most he had ever done was punched and punched away.
Until then, there had been a pattern to his actions, certain things he himself acknowledged to be too much or too far on his part, during or after the fact.
Being a modern man, born and raised in a modern society, he had never intended to kill.
Not anymore.
All limiters broken, discarded, exterminated.
The spears that were thrust at him appeared like sticks--breakable sticks.
Grasping one in his hand, Agravain snapped it with a twist of his wrist.
Even as splinters flew, a deadly chain of reaction was triggered, and all the glinting steel in the vicinity shot for the barbarian’s unguarded body.
Further incited by the pains, by the steel lodged in his flesh, between ribs and puncturing organs, he wrenched one out as though it were a mere prickling thorn. Growling, the maddened man struck the head of a guard with it so hard the pole shattered into splinters.
“By God!” he cried, “I will show you dumb.”
Methodically, he yanked out another spear, again rattling another guard’s brain.
His foes looked on in horror as their soaked red steel were easily removed one by one.
Then entered the men with the sabers, closing in as the spearmen pulled out.
The speed of Agravain’s response caught even himself off guard. His fist shot out with the power of a cannonball, the speed propelled by gunpowder. The melee ended before it happened, the swordsmen sent the way they had come, their feet never touching the ground.
Even as blood oozed from his half-dozen wounds, Agravain pursued his enemies with snarling teeth. He seized a man, thought to strangle him, then changed his mind. Instead, he grabbed the man’s legs, lifted him high and horizontally overhead, then tossed the body at the rest with such ease as would have puzzled him had he still had the mind to consider it.
Still there were limits to what he could achieve unarmed. The guards switched to a more cautious approach. In a formation as wide as the room could afford, a line of spears advanced in concert.
He could break them one by one, but their goal was to pin him using sheer number; a man disarmed by the barbarian would at once be replaced with another, thrusting home where the previous spear had been dislodged.
Before long, Agravain found himself pinned against the wall.
The more he struggled, the harder they pressed, fearing to let a seemingly unstoppable beast escape.
His punctured lungs were killing him, flooded as they were with blood. A constant buzzing in his ears overrode the strange female voice that was still going, overriding even the spearmen's desperate grunts. His body was being torn apart, swelling as though it would soon explode.
Current rage bar capacity: 55%
Then he felt the wall buckled under pressure. Shattered glass pierced his upper back. A breeze brushes his head through the broken window.
With a last heave, Agravain flung himself backward, pulling the spears with him, and vaulted over this window sill.
Naturally, the guards all let go of their weapons.
The rest was a liberating fall.
No more the stuffy air of the weird place he had stumbled into by way of a closet. No more the crazies poking at him with their sharp sticks.
And so laughing, the barbarian fell.
And struck the paved road far below with a meteor’s impact.