I’d drawn quite a few curious glances as I reached the end of the Village, but I couldn’t tell if it was because they recognised me from the black clothes or because it was uncommon for people to leave the safety of the town. I checked the map menu and, from what the Alchemist had said, set a course north by following the orientation of the north-pointing finger of a little compass in the map’s bottom corner. I’d for some reason expected to find an arrow indicating where I was supposed to be going, but this map had none of that. It was simply a small slice of the world, rendered in a strange 2.5D with a miniature image of me in the centre and a bit of the world around me. Currently, I could see a few blocks of the Village on the bottom part of the map, and, above, green hills and a lonely road.
Because I liked the way it looked, I equipped my ‘Raven-Black Cloak’, though I was already covered in quite a few layers, so, really, it was quite unnecessary. In the real world, I would’ve been cooked to death in the sweltering sun, but thankfully the elements of this World were a bit more forgiving. To my satisfaction, a few players nearby gasped when they saw me, and started talking loudly to each other, while pointing in my direction.[1]
I stepped beyond the border of the Safe Zone, as indicated by a quick-flash of a prompt, and let the wind billow my cape behind me dramatically. It was a good thing it wasn’t a backdraft, otherwise I would’ve looked ridiculous.
As I headed out, I put a hand on the scabbard by my waist. It was a comforting burden, I thought.
Seven-or-eight minutes later, I reached a fork in the road. The Forgotten Village was already quite far in the distance behind me, and I could see the peak of a tower over one of the hills to my right. I consulted my map again and could tell that I was still heading in the right direction. From the image on the screen, I could now see the entire church ahead of me, as well as all the hills in the area, and also the strange top-down view of myself from behind. It wasn’t possible to manipulate the map by zooming in-and-out, nor by moving it, but it now had a useful little arrow pointing back towards the Village, denoted by the tag ‘Safe Zone’. It was good to know that I wouldn’t easily get lost in the endless hills with the arrow and compass as references.
While continuing north, I wondered if it would point to every Safe Zone I discovered or if there was some kind of range or limit to it.
The church was a ruined mess, to put it mildly. Its tall mosaic glass windows were shattered into a million pieces; its statues atop the door and around the length of its roof had all been defaced or completely destroyed; and several holes had been punched into the side of the building, exposing half of the interior to the open elements, which had not been kind to it. Moss, weeds, grass, and insects, as well as small miscellaneous critters, infested the entire west-facing side of the building. Before its massive doors, a courtyard had once been present, but was now almost entirely swallowed up by the earth, with naught but a few stone benches and lone columns poking out of the tallgrass.
Astride, yes, astride one of such partially earth-swallowed benches sat a long-haired old man, wearing a faded-brown monk’s robe with a thick rope coiled around his waist. As I neared, I could study his appearance in more detail. His brow, mouth, and neck were lined with creases of age, his hair was dark-grey with scattered white stripes in it, and his eyes were glossed over and creamy-white. I had no doubt that this was the man I was looking for, though I couldn’t say exactly why.
Father Adam lifted his head at the sound of my boots grazing against the side of a tilted slab of stone. “Who’s there? Did the Alchemist send you?” His voice was like crumbling dry paper and the scrape of chalk. That was the only way to really describe it.
“He did,” I replied.
“Come closer, let me see you.”
I carefully approached him, and he twisted across the bench to sit normally before me. I wasn’t really sure how he was planning to see me, as it was quite obvious that he saw nothing at all. The answer to this came when he reached up and clasped my face in his old, veiny, liver-spotted hands.
“Yes. Yes,” he repeated to himself. “You’ll do just fine. Come sit.”
I politely obliged the old man and sat down next to him on the bench. It was quite an awkward thing to sit on, as it sloped downwards, and I ended up having to use my feet to brace myself or risk sliding off.
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“I have a quest for one such as you,” Father Adam said, his dry, raspy voice making every word sound pained. “Once, this church was used as an archive of our Kingdom’s knowledge, but, as you can tell, it has fallen to ruin. Last month, one of my most prized possessions was stolen: ‘The Map of the Forbidden Catacombs’. The man who stole it goes by the name of Red Rian, and leads the Red Runner Bandits, who often terrorise the villages nearby. I wish to see my possession returned, and will reward you handsomely for your efforts.”
“Alright, I’ll retrieve this map of yours.”
“Seek out the Quartermaster in the Soldiers’ Camp, he’ll know Red Rian’s whereabouts.” The mention of the Quartermaster registered on my memory, and I recalled Kerebor’s advice to use the guy to practice my fighting skills.
“Where do I find this camp?”
“Travel northwest from here until you see the smoke from the camp’s fires.”
I pulled out my map and studied the compass for a moment. Northwest from the Old Church would take me back the way I’d come, which meant retracing my steps. Even from the fork in the road I hadn’t been able to spot any smoke in the distance, which meant it would be quite a trek to make it to the camp. Another option was checking to see if it was possible to find any transportation in town, but that would likely take up just as much time as walking there, or perhaps even longer, so I decided just to walk.
I left the old priest behind and went back the way I’d come. Up-and-over hills, again-and-again, until my legs were sore and I was gasping for air like an asthmatic. Thankfully, I reached the dirt road soon enough, and after having walked northwest for a while, I stopped in the shade of a single tree that stood proudly off the side of the road.
It was quite strange that with how many people I’d seen in the Forgotten Village, I’d yet to spot any other Players along the road or even in the distance. Had everyone in the Village simply resigned themselves to their fate of cheering on those at the Frontier, like the generous young man from the tavern? It seemed like quite a waste, but I suppose not everyone was interested in taking part in this sadistic Trial where your life was literally on the line, or at least your memory of it. While the concept did scare the hell out of me, I also couldn’t just sit on my hands until someone else defeated this twisted Trial on my behalf. That wasn’t who I was, and from what I guessed, Past Me had been the same way. Perhaps that was the one part of my personality that hadn’t ever changed.
When I felt fully rested, I left the comforting shade behind and continued my march towards the camp.
An hour later I finally saw smoke on the horizon. It looked like grey clouds billowing out of the earth. I realised that, despite wandering through such expansive grasslands, I had yet to spot any grazing animals, and though I could hear the melody of a solitary flute accompanied by birdsong, I still had yet to find its source. For some unexplainable reason, I’d just assumed that the background music was a part of this World and not considered it odd that its volume remained constant wherever I went.
I came over a hill, and the peaceful soundtrack was replaced by the sound of war drums. The sudden rhythm made my heart beat faster in expectation of what was to come. Before me lay the camp, surrounded by evenly-spaced thick and sharpened wooden stakes that made up its walls. The loud voices of the soldiers sounded from within, as though they were busily preparing for war.
A banner appeared in the air before me and stated: “Now entering Stage ‘Soldiers’ Camp’.”
The landscape sloped down towards the camp, and the grass had been ploughed away all around and inside it, leaving the raw dark-brown earth exposed to the eroding sun.
A tall guard approached me as I drew near. He was wearing a barbute with a T-shaped opening, showing only his eyes and part of his mouth. He also wore a light-grey tabard over chainmail and wielded a spear taller than himself, planted in the ground next to him. Curiously, the tabard held no insignia or coat of arms.
“State your purpose, Traveller.”
“I’m here to see the Quartermaster,” I said. I did my best to sound confident, but I had yet to be in a real fight, and, in terms of intimidation, this guy was winning.
“So, you wish to join the Army, do you?” I hadn’t said anything of the sort, but I guessed he just assumed that was why I’d sought them out.
“I guess,” I replied unenthusiastically.
“Well, I doubt you have what it takes,” the guard responded and laughed. His deep voice echoed within his helm.
“Can I en—”
“The Quartermaster will test your mettle,” he interrupted, “and then we’ll see if someone like you has a future with the Army.”
What a rude bastard...
It wasn’t even like I wanted to join their stupid army anyway, I just had a quest to fulfil. But, shoving my annoyance with the guard aside, I made my way into the wooden fortification.
The Soldiers’ Camp was a maze of palisade walls, but it held most of the things I’d expect a medieval army camp to contain, such as an area for soldiers to sleep, a place to eat, a place wide enough to be considered a courtyard, and, of course, a training area, which in this case doubled as an armoury for some reason.
A bald and burly man, clad in chainmail that seemed on the verge of its links snapping from the pressure of his heavy frame, leaned on a shield that was jabbed into the dark soil. Beneath the chainmail was a layer of cloth, though not enough to provide any serious addition to his defence. Before him stood two recruits, or at least that was what they looked like to me, who were receiving some instructions from him.
When the large man noticed me, he waved the two away and started stroking his black beard with his thick fingers.
“I haven’t seen you before. Are you here to join the Army?”
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[1] If I was to be famous, I could at least wallow in the flattering attention, so long as it didn’t pose an immediate threat to my life: i.e., death by trampling.