FVR
Chapter Nine.
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"Lor," he called out with a whisper, his hand still clasping air as it searched for hers, "guys, where'd you go?" His voice trembled slightly. He received no answer, only a soft, distant hum which mingled in with the indistinct sounds of chatter and the clanging sounds of metal.
Having found himself alone once more, an overwhelming sense of loneliness and fear washed over him. His heart pounded in his chest and his toes clutched the soles of his shoes. The realization of his feeble strength and the sudden absence of his companions had left him yearning for their presence. What do I do? What do I do!?
He drew his sword slowly, and made himself smaller as he walked backwards toward the edge of the plaza; choosing to hide under the protective shadow of a desolate building.
His spine tingled as he looked for monsters - something to indicate that the wave had started - but nothing stood out.
This fucking game, he thought, reflecting on another sudden change, what's the point of a timer when it keeps jumping down to zero? He took a moment to note that the timer had started from twenty-two hours again, meaning he was still on wave three. Does that mean the tutorial is over when I complete the one hour wave?
He cursed his lack of knowledge again, and regretted that Lor had not been a real player who could have told him what to expect. I wonder where she is... The thought was sincere, but fleeting. It was not too long ago that he had resolved himself to fight her to the death if it had meant his own survival; a decision which still existed on the boundaries of his intent to survive, and his willingness to inflict pain.
With the town having succumbed to darkness, lit only by the stars which hung wearily in the sky - and surrounded on all sides by buildings - Joel had no way of knowing if there was anyone else around.
Have I gone back to where I was before meeting the others?
He ran through the events since entering the city; it had been dead quiet, but the day had felt warm and the sky seemed clear. He had gone to sleep, only to be woken by Lor, Thad, and Taffy. Then they had the fight in the courtyard, the walk through the city, and then saw the warriors in the plaza. Finally, the shift from evening to night, and the disappearance of everyone in the plaza, as well as the golden hue. The Touched Lands, Joel recalled Lor saying. Is that where I'm meant to go?
Joel paused a moment, trying to picture what the game wanted from him.
He opened up his character page and looked over his stats. If this game is going to throw me into a fight, I need to spend these skill points.
His reluctance to spend them had been fueled by his belief that he still had time, and the worry in his heart that he could make a mistake with spending them too soon. The mistake would be not spending them, he told himself, as he put five points into strength, ten points into agility, and five points into physical defence.
《Level: 2. XP: 8/250》
《Mana Capacity: 0/0》
《Strength: 15+2》
《Magic Power: 0》
《Agility: 15+5》
《Perception: 0》
《Physical Defence: 6+2》
《Elemental Defence: 1》
《Critical Chance: 1%》
《Critical Damage: 50%》
《Status Resistance: 0%》
I'm sure I'd still lose in a fight against Lor, but being harder to hit, harder to kill, and able to do more damage, can't be a bad thing. He still felt troubled over mana capacity and perception, but without knowing what they did, it would just be throwing away valuable points.
He stood there for a few moments, as the distant noises hummed. Shit. He had thought his resolve to fight had increased, but fear still found him. Taking several deep breaths, and recalling what it meant to die in the game, he slowly etched forwards. With his sword in hand, and his skill points down to zero, Joel left the plaza in search of the wave.
***
The city had been a labyrinth of streets since leaving the barracks, so Joel simply walked in the direction of the mountains, which hung in the backdrop nearly everywhere he stood.
Despite his efforts to walk silently, his footsteps reverberated against the cobblestone streets in reply to the approaching sounds of bustling activity. The scent of wood smoke and oils wafted through the maze of buildings, mingling with the sticky air which latched onto his skin.
Joel navigated through the streets, his senses heightened - the muscles in his feet coiled in anticipation, and his dash lingered loosely on his lips. Every shadow and every noise held a potential danger, every breath and every movement of his held a potential alarm.
As Joel turned a corner, he saw a row of buildings reduced to rubble. Charred debris scattered across the floor, and smoke billowing into the sky. For a moment, he stood in shock.
What's happened here? His eyes darted around for signs of life, friend or foe, but found nobody. He wondered why the buildings in the plaza were okay, they're further in? Also, this area is less built than before, and the buildings are smaller too? He shook his head. The thought of immediate danger put his tangential thoughts to rest.
In the distance, he could still hear faint voices, and the sound of distant yelling and cries that mixed with the crackle of the flames.
A sudden sense of unease washed over him; alone in a city, during a conflict, with nothing but a short sword and no training.
With every step he took closer to the wall, a heavier sense of dread bore down on him. Fuck this game.
The nearer to the edge of the city Joel got, the worse the flames became. Rubble blocked roads and the darkening smoke suffocated his lungs. He was close now, maybe a hundred or so meters, when he caught a faint whisper emanating through the smoke and the rubble. His pace slowed to a crawl, pressing himself into the shadows beside a collapsed flight of stairs. With deliberate movements, he slid down, intent on disappearing from view.
Thinking that he had made himself completely concealed, his heart sank as two men, clad in armor, turned the corner - their weapons already drawn.
They knew I was here? Through all that smoke? Joel's sword lay on the floor by his right side in an attempt to avoid catching the light, but now he dreaded not thinking about an ambush.
"Helkin?" One cautiously asked the other, his voice cracked as he spoke.
"Just a boy." The other replied with a wispy but stern voice. "Why are you here? This part of the city has been evacuated."
"I..." Joel searched for the right words, but in his panic, none came.
The man clicked his tongue, "tsk, we've no need for cowards, boy. Head to the caverns in the mountain, and pray for the dawn." He took a careful step backwards, keeping his weapon extended, then began to walk away.
Resolve, Joel. He told himself, echoing the words Lor had given him. "I can help," he finally said, standing as he did. His fear had not left him, nor had the trembling in his feet, or the ache in his heart, but Joel knew that his only chance of survival rested in his own hands - and his hands needed a strength which he could not attain on his own.
The man clicked his tongue again and paused in thought for a moment before replying, "one of the officers can deal with you. Come on."
"You sure?" Queried the second man.
"We leave him, he roams into someone else, then what, Lippy? We'll be the whoresons who let him go." He nodded for Joel to walk on ahead, "go on," he said, pointing his blade down the road through the rubble, "it's that way. And sheath that sword."
Joel did as they told, then led the way while the soldier directed him from the rear.
***
The path had been mostly decimated by an earlier attack, or some form of bombardment. "What did this?" He asked. The two men remained silent, likely giving each other a baffled look.
It's a battle, Joel. They probably think you're an idiot.
He continued to notice smaller structures than the ones he had seen before, and while the streets were still a maze, they were less cluttered, and less packed together than they were during the festival.
As Joel approached the wall, much to his surprise, he noticed that it looked perfectly undamaged. At its peak, for as far as he could see from left to right, stood dozens of men, all with their arms outstretched. The indistinct chatter he heard from the plaza slowly became replaced with hurried steps and voices - consumed by anticipation. Soldiers scrambled to their posts, their voices a blend of urgency and determination.
"Secure the western barricades!"
"Archers, at the ready!"
"Mana shields, maintain your composure!"
"Arrows, squires, every last one!"
"Boiling oil, bring the boiling oil!"
"Remember your training! Shields up, swords ready, mana sense forwards only!"
Too much happened around him to pay attention to it all.
Amidst the chaos of preparation, of commands given and feet stamping, Joel felt invisible - just another pair of feet trudging through the muddied ground. Even in the darkness and the smoke, however, Joel recognized the street which led out of the city; it was the same one he had seen earlier in the day: the grand gateway loomed just as large as before, with its gate drawn and dozens of men on either side.
It's a real war, the thought consumed him with a stark realization of where he found himself in the game, it's the past!?
He should have felt fear, but a creeping sense of uselessness filled his mind. He felt like a child watching adults work, without the slightest clue how he could help, or if he could.
Joel again noted the absence of the golden hue beyond the wall through the open gate, then noticed a row of flickering lights at eye level far in the distance. As Joel squinted his eyes, the lights vanished behind the approach of men on horseback, clad in armor - too covered in mud and blood to make out their insignia.
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A straw of a man in partial armor emerged from the barracks, he wore a gambeson on his chest and casual comfort elsewhere. Not an ounce of dirt blemished his attire, and when he spoke, he did so with a coarse, dignified voice. "The captain?" He asked, looking at the men who had ridden in.
"Dead," a voice replied as they dismounted their horse and removed their helmet, revealing cropped short hair and the tired face of a young man.
"Lieutenant Roland?" The slender man said with a salute.
"Captain," Roland corrected, passing the reigns of his horse to another man. "I'll be overseeing the arrangements from inside. Prepare a messenger for me, and a flagon of wine." He turned to his men, "rest while you can, we'll be back out soon." His eyes glanced around and caught Joel's, he paused for a moment, then proceeded into the barracks and out of sight.
Joel found himself standing still, too consumed with information to tell his feet to move, until the soldier behind him snapped him back to reality with a shove.
"Come on," he ordered, "inside."
Joel slipped with every step the closer he got to the barracks, until the mud gave way somewhat to the cobblestone floor underneath. The soldiers ushered him down the hall, passed injured men having their wounds healed, and men sleeping in awkward positions wearing full armor.
"Here," the soldier said, knocking on a closed door to no reply. "Wait inside, someone will deal with you." They opened the door and pushed Joel in before taking their chance to leave. "Wait..." how am I meant to explain myself? Joel questioned to the closed door. Fuck!
***
Muffled sounds of cries and metal on stone still reverberated through the air, but it sounded much quieter here than Joel would have expected. Inside, the small room exuded an air of authority while bathed in a soft lamplight which sat atop a large wooden desk that occupied the end of the room. Parchment and inkwells littered the desk, and a half-finished cup of wine. Maps decorated the walls, detailing intricate drawings of the surrounding lands: Durnovia Proper. Joel read, looking at a map of a city. The city sat cushioned against a mountain trail that run for miles to either side of it, and opposite a mountain trail that went off the map. Lands Of Wynguard, he read, looking at a passageway through nearby mountains. Bay Of Dieser Ort, which overhung the sea to the north. Town Of Llstoria. Path To Kyrstil, and several others. Joel had no way of knowing if the maps were of an island, or a continent, as there was no world map to compare them to.
There were two chairs for guests by the desk, and another which sat in the corner of the room behind the door. Joel gravitated to the later, solitary chair, and sat down.
Now what?
He thought about what to say, and what he could offer in terms of help. Being stuck in the war meant he had to survive alongside them, which meant relying on their strength, and offering what little he had in return.
Do I have to survive for twenty-two hours? The thought widened his eyes as he pictured the impossibility of it.
The door opened with a sudden jolt, making Joel jump in his seat. Steel footsteps thumped along the floor, each step leaving traces of lingering dirt.
A tall, burly man, dressed in armor streaked with mud and smelling of body odor, tossed a bag to the floor before taking a seat behind the desk. As he looked up to meet Joel's eyes, it became apparent that he was the same young man Joel had seen earlier.
"You were the one outside," Captain Roland spoke calmly as he unlatched the clasps securing his gauntlets. His voice carried a gruff, gravelly tone, tinged with weariness and an authority that commanded an immediate response. "Are you Lumas, or Samul?"
Lumas or Samul? As in the people of Samul? What's he on about? Joel had no words to respond - his unformed speech about offering his strength had vanished at the mention of people he had no information on. Roland, however, continued to remove parts of his armor, ignoring Joel's hesitation.
A knock came, and a young man walked in, carrying a flagon of sweet-smelling wine with an iron cup, and a damp towel. "Do you see anyone in the corner of the room?" Roland asked the boy. He glanced up with a furl on his brow, looked at Joel, and nodded questioningly. Then took his leave and left the room, closing the door as he did.
"I beg your pardon," Roland said, rubbing the mud off his face with the towel. "It is a curious thing to see a man with no mana." He threw the towel to the desk and poured some wine. "Who are you?" He asked with a no-nonsense demeanor and a large amount less interest. While he waited for a response, he picked up a piece of parchment and a quill, and began writing a message.
"Joel," he answered gingerly.
Roland took a moment to finish the message, stamping it when he had, then picked up his wine. "That means nothing to me," he took a large gulp, spilling some down his chest plate as he did, "who are you to the former captain to be sat in his room during his absence?"
Shit. "I...I'm here to help."
Roland paused, holding back a laugh. "A scrawny man with no mana, come to help take on the mighty horde of the Dozrak'een?" He smirked, but a ounce of doubt still lay in his eyes. He took another gulp, finishing his wine, then poured another glass. "Another day, and I would have waved this off as the prattle of some bastard child seeking glory... But..." He took a moment to think, his eyes unblinking as he did. "In the face of extinction, one must call upon their faith." He paused, studying Joel further, "you must not exist of this world to have no mana, yet you are neither the Pathfinder, Lumas, nor the Taker of Souls, Samul. So, I beseech you, you who have come at midnight on the final day of my life. What can you offer me?"
Joel had no idea what to say. The words of this man were so foreign to him that he felt as if he had opened a book half way through a story. What can I offer? He thought deeply before an answer struck him. "Resolve," he said with a still heart as he recited Lor's words. "Resolve to fight, even if it means death. Resolve to fight, even if my friends are dead."
Roland fell silent. His eyes drifted to the floor and darted slowly from left to right, his eyebrows furled. The silence persisted long enough for Joel to regret speaking, but not long enough for the words to have disappeared from memory.
"Fine," Roland said finally. "Can you fight?" Joel tentatively shook his head. He had come to realize his own weakness in the last few hours and doubted he could help when it came to fighting. But he also realized the hypocrisy of the words he just spoke. "You've come to help the strategists then?"
Being a tactician was never my strong point in games. "I'm not smart enough," Joel stated honestly.
"And I am not courageous. Yet on the battlefield, they call me brave. Why is that?"
Brave? Joel reflected on Lor's question about bravery "I... I don't know"
"I am sure you shall soon understand."
Lor had said something similar.
"In truth," Joel said quietly, "I don't know how I can help. All I know is that I'm scared, and I want to survive."
Roland paused at his blunt honesty. "What are you scared of?" His eyes trailed off slightly after he asked.
"Pain." Joel replied.
His greatest fear was his pain, there was no denying that. But not in any way that he could ever explain with his words. It wouldn't be fair to say that he felt scared of pain, full stop. But rather, the chronic pain that waited for him outside. The kind that kept him awake, that kept him indoors, kept him in fear. It was not just one thing - it was everything. All at once. And it all came from a pain that he could not run from. At least, until he had started the game.
But to explain this to Roland - a character within the game - seemed a tall order.
"Then you lied when you said you were not smart. For only a fool would not fear pain." Roland paused in thought, then drank more slowly. "My greatest fear is losing the freedom we have."
Joel felt taken aback, he thinks they'll lose? He wanted to say something about what he saw in the festival, but a knock at the door interrupted him.
"Enter," Roland spoke.
Three men strode into the room, their uniforms crisp but their tired eyes betraying the strain of their long shifts. Each man carried a set of maps and documents and took no hesitation to sweep the clutter from the captain's desk to lay out their findings. Joel couldn't see the maps from where he sat, but he heard enough to paint a dismal picture.
"We're told that only several of your northern unit returned?" One asked.
"Half of the survivors remained to buy us time." Roland rubbed his eyes with a breath, stood up, then pointed at the map as he shook off the mental fog the wine had given him. "Their units approached from the northern strip of the Funnel's region first, several hours after we lost contact with Hornsbrown, then," he traced a finger down the map, "the north-eastern mountains through Samul territory about two hours later. Their first wave focused only on removing our external barricades and towers, they didn't seem to worry about their own preservation and were wiped out before the second wave arrived. They had up to five Dozrak'een's without their mounts, directing their movements. Each one led a battalion of up to three hundred mixed-species mobile infantry, with several cohorts in their structures that broke off to strike the walls. No giants. No fliers. No Helkin. Mainly human men, devoted to Hel's cause. It must have been seconds after the last of them were killed when the second wave flooded the skies with the Dozarach's, and other wyvern sub species. They bombarded our mana defenses for an hour or so with hit and run tactics before a third wave approached, this time, with fifteen or so Dozrak'een's, each with a battalion of up to five hundred. Captain Collins was killed in action during a skirmish on the northern wall to an unknown entity during this time. I called for a retreat, setting the channel on fire as we left. Half of the survivors, approximately twenty, stayed to catch the horde off guard once they came through the flames. Several others were picked off by Dozarach's as we escaped."
Holy shit.
Joel's thoughts as Roland spoke painted a picture so vivid in his mind that he knew he was in way over his head. Hundreds in each battalion and at least twenty of them all charging within a few hours.
Joel's gaze had lingered on Roland's armor as he spoke, tracing the deep scratches and dents that adorned its metal. Each mark told of an attack, of a struggle and a testament to the chaotic nature of the battlefield. While mud caked the surface, Joel could see areas that bore deep scars, puncture holes, and dried blood. Jagged gouges crisscrossed at his shoulder plates as evidence of a near brush with death. His face felt worn with a weariness that Joel had never experienced; lines of exhaustion etched into his furrowed brow, and shadows of deep fatigue darkened his piercing blue eyes. Yet, despite what he must have seen and done, there existed a resolve of steel in his visage and his posture. An unwavering determination, and the courage to fight, even to his death.
Even through the death of his friends. Those words gave Joel pause, and a sense of remorse for what he had said earlier.
"That matches the reports we've had." One said, nodding to the others. His voice sounded strained and his movements were sluggish. "We assume you to have taken command of this unit?" Roland nodded. "Good. We count a remaining three hundred in your ranks." A person on his left handed him a document, which he then placed on the desk. "We are to merge them with the battalions under Captains' Gould, Drist, and Asche, for a frontal defence." He grabbed another map from his colleague, and drew circles around the areas Roland was to move his men. "Here, and here. Scouts give us twenty minutes until a secondary bombardment. You will be the final line." He paused, "Captain. There is one command, and that is to hold the wall until the king returns. Understood?"
"Understood."
The three men took their maps and documents then left the room, all while ignoring Joel, who sat in silence, processing what he just heard. He expected Roland to jump into action, but he stood in silence.
"There..." Roland said suddenly, with a contemplative look, "there is a difference between a fear of pain, and a rejection of it." He's still thinking of that? "Pain, itself, is inevitable. Fear it. Yes. But you must accept that you will feel pain." He looked to his hands, and clenched a fist. "Maybe not now. Maybe not in the way you would expect. But pain will always find you. To reject it. To run from it. Will only..."
"I don't..." Joel interrupted. He remembered the pain he felt in his hands when he fought his shadow, and how it wasn't the kind of pain he had been running from. "I don't reject pain. I reject the pain I left behind."
"Then pray that you never return to that pain. For it shall not welcome you back."
Joel's thoughts went back to his parents. Back to his real body. He raised his hand and traced the veins as they stretched across the back of his hand and up his arm. The grooves over his knuckles, the freckles on his skin, and the way the hairs stood up. It all looked and felt real. But I'm sat in a tube in the real world, with things sticking out of me and people watching my vitals. This isn't real. This isn't real...
A knock rang on the door, and with it, Joel snapped back. "Sir, it's Claycel. Dozarach and their riders have been sighted."
"Enter," Roland said softly, his eyes gave Joel a wearied look.
The clean man from before stood with a young boy. They opened the door and saluted, Roland nodded for them to enter. The man caught Joel's eyes as he closed the door, then gave Roland a sharp look.
"He is a personal matter. Do not concern yourself with his presence." Roland said as he sat back down. "Continue."
"Yes captain," Claycel replied, presenting a small piece of parchment. "Dozarach have been sighted in the distance. We believe the second wave will commence momentarily," he paused, giving Joel a side eye before continuing, "I assume the officers who just left conveyed similar information?"
Roland sighed deeply, as Joel listened intently. "They did," he replied. "Understood. Has this been passed on to the command centers?" He asked, to which Claycel confirmed. Roland then gestured to the young boy, "is this my runner?"
"Yes sir," the boy replied loudly.
Roland ushered him forwards and carefully handed the boy the note he had just written. The boy placed it into a pocket on his sleeve, then rolled the sleeve up.
"Deliver this message to Tiberius at the primary command center. Do you know where I mean?" The boy nodded, "good. Go." The boy saluted, then swiftly left the room and took off running. Claycel closed the door behind the boy.
"The fortifications will not hold for long during another bombardment." Roland said as he put his armor back on. "Especially with the added forces from the north. Do we have anyone who can create external mana shields?"
"None. All external mana users are currently outside, or exhausted. Barring myself."
"How long could you give me?" Roland asked.
"Alone? Ten minutes." Claycel tucked in his gambeson as he steadied his resolve.
"The ones at the castle?" Roland queried.
"Protecting the royals? They would sooner flee through the mountains with the shields defending their rooms, than send someone who could help prevent a breach." The disgust appeared clear in his eyes, but his tone seemed to suggest that he opposed the very notion of going against them.
"Fine. Then rouse everyone. Exhausted or otherwise. Have them line up outside. If they are to die, they shall do so on their feet."
The door knocked again and before Roland could answer, a man stumbled in.
"Urgent. Sir!" The man handed Roland a piece of bloodied parchment, saluted, then left. Claycel gave him a glare as he did.
Roland read the note and froze in place.
"Sir?" Claycel said, his coarse voice tempered with concern. "The king?" He asked with a meek whisper.
"I need another runner," Roland said as he ate the parchment.
"The-the boy was the only one I had free..." Claycel replied with a hand to his head, his feet shifting under his weight "I... I.... I will have to find a tier one."
Joel's ears had pricked up. It was a chance for him to do something. It may not win the war, but if it helped enough that he could survive - then it would be good enough. "I'll go," he said. Claycel wanted to say something in protest, but refrained. Roland tapped his fingers against the desk several times, his eyes fixed on a point in the ceiling. His tapping stopped with a thud, and he looked down at Joel.
Roland grabbed the quill again and hurriedly wrote a few words down. "I have a message that needs to get to a certain man that cannot go through mana-echo," he stamped the parchment and handed it to Joel. "If you wish to help in this war, you can use your legs to do so." He handed Joel the note, "take this to the castle. Do not stop. Go!"
〘Wave Three. Deliver Roland's Message〙
Joel took it and turned. Claycel already had the door open as he ran through it, down the hall way, and to the muddied path. He moved quick. Quicker than he had ever moved. Every step felt like a small jump - even the air stabbed his skin a little as he breezed through it. He looked up to the castle - on the other side of the city, through debris, rubble, and fire.
Wave three, deliver Roland's message!? This is the only thing I can do that can help. I won't fail.
"Dash."