> Achievement: Monster
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> Man is the cruelest animal.
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> Effect:
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> * minor percentage increase to will
> * major percentage decrease to wisdom
> * 10% increase to all damage
> * ability - Aura of Fear
Bob buried his head in his chest and muttered something that sounded awfully like "fuck's sake." He let out a long slow breath. Had Bob expected something like this? Of course not, maybe, fine, he wasn't all that surprised. If there was an achievement for covering yourself in mud, then there's no way the system would silently pass over everything Bob had done.
He wouldn't think about it. The achievement's name and title, they were just... flavor text. Just flavor text. Who reads flavor text anyway? He wouldn't think about it. And look, the effects aren't that bad. Yes the percentage decrease to wisdom was punishing, but that had been largely deserved; it really hadn't been Bob's wisest plan. An increase to will and an across-the-board bump to his damage output were both welcome. Not to mention a new ability. Everybody loves new abilities.
> Skill: Aura of Fear (Demon)
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> An invisible aura surrounds you. It can be felt as a cold, unsettling presence about your person. Weaker minds will flee from you. Resistible.
Bob massaged his scalp. It'll be okay Bob. It'll be okay. You're strong Bob. You've got this. That had to be the worst ability ever, bar none. Who would ever choose an ability like that? Even a dark lord wants friends, no? Companions, bed-fellows? If everybody pisses themselves and runs away from you, you're going to turn lonely and bitter fast.
Bob, it's fine. You'll turn off the ability and pretend this never happened. Oh no. Don't say it Bob. Don't say it. It's a passive ability. Of course it's a passive ability. And of course there's no way to give up an achievement. I have a permanent aura of fear. Like it's not difficult enough to make friends as an adult.
This was going to make life so damn complicated moving forward. Was the situation salvageable? Achievements could be upgraded, right? Maybe if Bob kept doing good things, it would change back into something more palatable. Repentance shall save the wicked.
Was Bob wicked? Bob grimaced. "I thought you said you weren't going to think about it."
"It's not that easy, is it?"
Bob still imagined himself as an average-joe. The kind of person you pass on the street without taking a second glance. So the achievement had hit him like a bucket of ice water to the face. The system considered him a monster. A monster. He had the achievement to prove it. Was he a monster?
He wanted to argue. He wanted to say it was underserved. He was a good man. But he hesitated. He had done some truly awful things. You read about ancient armies sacking cities. And in your head you just cross off a point on the map. On the ground though, on the ground... Well Bob had only gotten a taste, but it had been enough. Just the memory was enough to make bile creep up his throat, to make his eyes sting; he saw that cloying, sickly smoke, the shadows of death and fire.
Bob wasn't a psychopath. He didn't slaughter indiscriminately. He'd never willfully attacked sentients. Others wouldn't even pause before attacking. It was a dog-eat-dog world. Death was a familiar face. Others would have...
Hadn't Bob only fought monsters? Weren't monsters supposed to be dumb, wildly aggressive creatures? That's what video games taught you. You were doing the world a service by killing them. The townsfolk would shower praise and gold on your head. But what had the achievement said? Man is the cruelest animal.
He remembered those lines: I am become death, the destroyer of worlds. Bob couldn't pretend Arthur here and his band of merry beetles were mindless killing-machines. They might be monsters, but they were still intelligent; they formed bonds and communities; they built cities. They didn't deserve death.
Bob had needed strength. And he wished he could have gotten it some other way. But look, if he were honest, if it were really a choice between saving George and himself, and burning that beetle city to the ground, Bob knew he would do it again. Each and every time he'd make the same choice. All life wasn't equal in his eyes. Maybe that made him a monster. But then the man who'd sacrifice his own child to save two strangers looked awfully like a monster to Bob. A rational monster sure. A philosophical monster. A monster who could look in the mirror and see a good man.
The choice itself didn't bother Bob. It was the doubt that bothered Bob. Did it have to be this way? Had it really been an us or you question? Maybe Bob hadn't looked hard enough for another path. Maybe there had been another way, some road with less blood but leading to the same ends? Their lives meant less to him. But they didn't mean nothing. He was suffering, wasn't he? Look at him now. He was suffering. Wasn't that the mark of a good man? Only an evil man is without doubt.
He rubbed a hand across his fate and sighed. He'd studied philosophy at university. But then he'd lived an ordinary life. And in an ordinary life, how many of your decisions actually matter? A handful maybe. You can count them on your fingers. Now though, now his decisions mattered. Every last one. And he wanted to make the right choices. He wanted to be a good man. Not in the eyes of the system, but in his own eyes.
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He clicked open the final notification:
> Quest Update:
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> Quest: Sky's the limit (Personal)
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> Count to 1,001 out loudd without misisng a numper (max interval 2 seconds).
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> Optional challenge: count backwards
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> Time Limit: before reaching level 10
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> Reward: (hidden)
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> Optional Reward: Jonny the Man - The Kiwi Warriors
That wasn't a secret evolution quest. It was the Jonny the Man quest. The one with the dyslexic quest writer and the pointless challenge. The one he had valiantly attempted and failed previously.
The new condition seared itself into Bob's mind: "Time Limit: before reaching level 10".
"What?" Bob goldfished. "T-t-that's n-not f-fair. You can't just change a quest on me like that. And right when I'm on the cusp of hitting level 10. It's a violation. A violation of... consumer protection rights. I'll throw the law at you."
It must be nice to be the system. It could do whatever it wanted. Its subjects had to shut up and take it. Bob could think of a few tyrants who'd be green with envy at the thought. Very well, very well. For the heavens to bestow upon Bob an opportunity to reacquire a copy of Jonny the Man and finish the interrupted story had been a miracle. You don't get far squandering miracles. Thankfully now was the perfect time to start on his counting quest, he was plopped down on a beetle's back, killing time. He'd wrap the whole thing up before they arrived and maybe even get in a little bit of reading.
One thousand and one, one thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine. Bob warmed up fast. Maybe it was the bumps to his intelligence, but he was speeding through the numbers. He didn't stutter or stumble, he strove powerfully down the ninety hundreds, and by the time he'd reached the eight hundreds, Bob was spitting. He'd found his rhythm, his flow. He was rapping the shit of this quest. He lightening through the numbers. He was ice. He flowed. He twisted. He glided along.
Had Bob missed his calling? Some people say that every person is born for one solitary purpose. To each soul is a destiny, a self-evident duty. The system was trying to show him the way. This was Bob's destiny. Magical quality assurance, the Mud Arts, Canine Caretaking, those were all hobbies, distractions. Bob's true purpose was here. He was the numbers rapper from hell.
Six five seven, six five six, six five four. The words rolled off his tongue. He was murdering the numbers. He was on fire. Everyone could feel it. Those same beetles, the very ones who'd booed his dodges and mocked his attacks, they were enthralled. Of course there were. The beetles were musical creatures; naturally, they could appreciate a master.
Bob looked out over his company. Five seven five, five seven four, five seven three. The whole hoard of beetles nodded their heads in unison, marking out the beats of the music, as they rushed off into the unknown. This is what it felt like to be a star. This is glory. This is adoration. Bob danced over the beats. He understood now, deep in his soul, that one great truth: music is power.
They were all one. All united by sound. Bonded by music. They were the beetles. Bob, Arthur, George and Insects. Four four five, four foury four, four four three. The beetles banged their heads and leaned into the flow. Somewhere a percussion accompaniment started up, a sick, layered, overlapping beat. Four twenty one, four twenty, four one nine. Communion through melody. These beetles, these beetles were his people, Bob's people. The past was in the past, forgiven through music, transcended through sound.
Together they had covered an enormous distance. The northern forests, once a black mist at the end of sight, loomed tall in front of them. They'd been downwind of the scent and the wind had pushed deep into the grasslands before finding them. Bob started to hear noises, splintered wood, battle calls, moaning. He smelled blood on the air. No, it was too soon. He was still only in the three hundreds. He needed more time.
Bob stood up and peered over his beetle steed. Three two four, three two three, three two two. The scene was chaos. The beetles looked to be the last to arrive at this mad death party. Bob's vision swam with little grey annotations. Monsters, monsters, everywhere. There were jumping spiders, grass crocodiles, reaper-insects; Raupenflieger pus was splattered over everyone and everything. There were a whole contingent of forest creatures Bob had never seen before: belligerent Hawthorn trees, upside-down owls, a godzilla woodlouse, many-tailed foxes, tree-fish.
It was a war of everyone against everyone. The monsters looked blood-frenzied. Striking wildly and accepting whatever punishment came back. The forest edge was a maze of dead and dying, corpses and wounded. The whole ground seemed to squirm and wriggle as a hundred overlapping combats played out.
And there, splat in the eye of the storm, were three familiar faces and one unfamiliar one. Bob raised an eyebrow and called out interrogatively: "Three zero five?"
Three pairs of eyes looked up at Bob.
"Hey, it's that bloke with a dog. He's riding a beetle."
"What did he say?"
"Couldn't catch the words."
"Lad, you told us he'd died."
"His scent vanished in the mud slide. You do the maths."
"Well he's not dead, is he?"
"I can see that."
Bob looked down at three's company. The three men were clustered around a patch of thick oaks. They were desperately beating back wave after wave of monsters. In their centre lay a semi-conscious woman, her wrists and feet tied. If Bob's nose was right, the fragrance was coming from her.
Bob eyed the woman meaningfully and then tilted his head at Rad: "three zero four?"
Rad swallowed guilty and looked away. Bob nodded. That's about what he'd expected. He'd given them the benefit of the doubt. He hadn't assumed. He'd asked. His stomach bubbled. Bob hadn't wanted to fight sentients. He hadn't wanted to fight people. He wasn't a murderer. He didn't kill for sport. But this, this was just unacceptable. They were asking for death.
Bob ground his teeth together. This was what the system wanted wasn't it? This was why he was trapped at level 9.99. He was supposed to kill them. He was being manipulated. And yet he looked at the helpless woman. That might have been him. That might have been George. They were asking for death. Asking for it.
Bob muttered something under his breath. He'd decided. He swept out his hand across the line of advancing of beetles and the beetles stopped, waiting for the voice of the prophet. He let them stand there frozen for half a second, while the three monsters in human-skin stared open-mouthed at his army. Then he roared out: "THREE HUNDRED!" The beetles stamped their feet against the ground and charged.