Chapter 1: Thanatozoology

~ Part 1: Beating Dead Horses ~

Four days later, inside the VRMORGP… VPROGM… PRVMO… inside the game…

A red-orange flash of light splits the air and, with sounds of metal tearing through flesh and bone, the head of the sickly pale horse detaches from its neck and falls splotshily – yes that’s a word – on the thick carpet of greyish grass, spilling greasy dark red fluids around.

“…Urgh,” I groan. Undead blood. It always has that nasty texture to it, you know? Stale and half-coagulated. Very unappetizing. In fact, the taste is pretty terrible. Downright nauseating. And it's poisonous.

Can’t forget poisonous.

Drinking it probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do then.

The rest of the dead body collapses with a beat of delay as if needing some time to notice it had lost something important.

Dumb creatures.

Well, you can only expect so much from animated corpses.

The holy light coating my sword flickers and dies down as I sheath the weapon. Immediately, my surroundings are plunged back into darkness. Thunder growls in the black clouds densely covering every square inch of the sky, and only the occasional flash of lightning bring some brief, bleak brightness.

Too short to see a damn thing.

And it’s the middle of the day. Doesn't look like it, though. You'd swear it was night instead.

Fitting for this land of the dead, I’d say, or at least a country cursed to look like it.

I cast a quick glance down at the severed head. The spiked black tongue of the monster hangs flaccidly out of a maw that opens all the way to the very back of its cheeks, splitting the elongated face into two halves like some abominable equine crocodile. Its racks of black fangs also have no business belonging to a horse. But necromancy will do that to you. It twists the body almost as much as it twists the soul... at least, that's what that book I read said... No I didn't try to cast those spells. Who do you take me for? Hahahaha... haha... errr...

More tar-like blood is trickling sideways from the empty eye-socket of the horse. Looks like its insides have been gouged out with a dull knife, leaving only a mangled cavity behind. I have to admit… the sight possesses the sort of grotesque aesthetics I’m not insensible to.

Let's bring it back home and mount it on the wall.

Sadly, after seeing similar corpses dozens of times, the appeal of their morbid beauty is already starting to wear off. I have long since lost track of how many [Night Mares] I’ve slain in these cursed hills.

Fifty-seven.

Oh well…

I resume walking, leaving the de-animated corpse behind. Usually, decapitation wouldn’t suffice to finish off the undead. Their butchered remains will keep coming, crawling, wriggling at you until you destroyed whatever is keeping them animated – brain, heart, managem, necromancer, you name them. But holy weapons bypass that restriction by directly attacking the necromantic magic and severing any links to the puppeteer. I'm so glad I stole— borrowed this sword from Master.

My step is light and swift for someone wearing a full-plate armour. It simply shows that my Strength and Agility stats are high enough to compensate for the weight. The enchantments covering my gear don’t hurt either. Made them myself, and I must say, I’m quite proud of the result.

Sure. You only blew yourself up eight times.

"....."

I've been following the same paved road for the past three days—what's left of it, anyway. Several centuries of neglect have reduced it to little more than a dirt path littered with vaguely parallelepiped rocks.

Not that I'm surprised. There shouldn’t be many who used this road in the past couple hundred years. Not many living, that is. It has to be said that the country I’m in, a lovely little place called the [Lost Kingdom of Erwyn], is currently facing a slight pest infestation… and has been for the past three centuries. And unfortunately for the local populace, while others might have to deal with rodents or locusts issues, Erwynian folks got… undead.

Lots…

And lots…

Of undead.

Which understandably has made travel a very unpopular business.

Meeee, I’m bored!

No, I’m not.

But those monsters are so weeeeeeeeeeeak!!

Stop complaining. We’ll reach the next town soon enough. Maybe we’ll even be able to get you a couple of cut-throat muggers, like in the last one. You like playing with assassins, don’t you? I’ll even make sure to rent a room at the shadiest inn I can find. Okay?

…okay.

Good.

It's not that the monsters are weak, truly. It's more that I'm a bad match-up for them. I mean, against a paladin, basically an armoured warrior wielding holy magic, a bunch of flimsy sacks of dead flesh and bones animated by dark magic don't have much of a chance, do they? I’m not actually a “true” paladin, but my class is close enough that the undead don't feel the difference. Not that they feel much in the first place.

Me? I’m a Solar Knight. The Solar Knight.

Bitch, pu-leeease.

Don’t be vulgar.

Basically, it’s the same as your good ol’ paladin but pledged to the Sun God instead of some Light God or Goddess. I got more firepower but less healing abilities. After all, sunlight is less likely to cure your toothache than give you third-degree burns and skin cancer.

Joy and fun~

How is the Sun God not a divinity of Light, you may ask? Good question. I knew the answer, once. My mentor surely must have mentioned it. I vaguely remember something about the Sun being more of an Entity of Nature than a proper God, but still being able to produce pseudo-holy energy, reason why vampires have such an aversion to sunbathing. Poor guys. I know few activities more relaxing than a good nap in the sun.

Sucks to be them.

…Yeah. And human blood must get tiring after some time.

The taste isn’t bad, leagues above undead haemoglobin.

Still, that’s quite an exclusive diet. I like my food varied. If not for these displeasing titbits – had vampires been available as a playable race back when I started – I would have probably chosen to be one of them instead of a plain, old, boring human. But that's the downside of belonging to the first batch of player. New playable races are unlocked by players as the game progresses and the world is explored. Back in the days, there used to be only three starting races: dwarf, elf, and human. Since I felt neither like culminating at five feet of height with a bushy beard, nor becoming dizzy if I didn’t sniff a tree every twenty-four hours, I chose the third option.

I remember when the beastmen were unlocked. I'd grown to like my avatar by then, but Dan and Yas preferred them and both deleted their former characters to make new ones. They had to farm monsters like crazy to get back their levels after that, but knowing the siblings it didn’t pose much problem. I kind of pitied the monsters instead.

Merfolk were close seconds to be discovered, mostly because they live in the ocean near the initial starting city, [Start City] – I know, I know, Oscar of Originality there for the devs. Then followed the lamias, arachnes, fairies, and a bunch of other beings from the elven forests. I wonder how controlling non-human limbs works?

The latest race to date to become available is actually… err… hehehe… well… demons. Demons, like beastmen, have a huge variety of sub-races. They are also quite popular with new players. It’s the eternal question that divides masses: nekomimi or succubus?

And yet, nobody thanked me for finding the map that led those miners to the Hell Gate. So what if that led to a little invasion and bloodbath? I'm not the one who opened the gate carelessly, am I? Why do they always paint me as the bad guy?

Because you’re so good at it?

Uuuuugh!! This is so unfair. I really want to cry, you kno—

“RRRRAAAAAAAAAAAARRRR!!”

…but I guess taking out my frustration on yet another overgrown undead pony works too.

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

To avoid the conspicuous clatter of metal against stone, I've been walking in the grass next to the derelict lane. But I guess my merciful efforts to be discreet were wasted. Then again, undead don't hear sounds like we do, so I was mostly doing it for myself... meh. Now, yet another [Night Mare] is rushing at me… err… Did I say "rushing"? I mean stumbling surprisingly fast in my general direction and wheezily neighing as if out of breath… or having punctured lungs, which is often the case with the undead.

I’m not quite sure why they still insist on “breathing”, though. They'er dead. They obviously don't need to.

Muscle memory?

Not like we have any real way to confirm that. I suspect it might be akin to a psychosomatic reflex, but there’s a limit to what can be ascertained through vivisection…

Can it even be called "vivi-section" when practised on undead?

Does the terminology matter? Leave semantics to the linguists.

I like experimenting on monsters, and undead make wonderful guinea pigs. I’ve been trapped in this Z-cursed country for three in-game months now – time flows four times faster inside Untold Tales compared to the “real world”, so this means I’ve actually been stuck here for three weeks. Still long. In this time, I made some very funny discoveries using the corpses of my fallen foes. I tested a bunch of different acids, spells, sewing experiments. What happens when you mash several “living” undead together? But… SCIENCE, of course! Fufufufufu! – and, one day I was really bored, I organised a timed zombie race. [Ghouls] are by the way faster than [Zombies], but slightly slower than [Wraiths]. Maybe because the latter aren’t impeded by the terrain. Flying. That’s kind of cheating actua—

Ahem. May I recall to your fickle attention that we’re currently under attack?

Oh right, that’s true—“Whoa!” I refocus on the present just in time to evade a sickly pallid horse jumping at me, its shark-ish jaws opened far wider than a horse should thank to its ripped cheeks. Thankfully, undead's attack patterns are easy to get the hang of. Ram. That’s basically the extent of it. I’m not talking about Random Access Memory here. Ram. Ram until one hit gets in. Sure, the occasional [Elder Lich] can make for a good brawl, but those self-proclaimed overlords asides, the undead aren’t the brightest will-o'-wisps in the bog.

And this [Night Mare] isn’t either.

With an exasperated huff, I sidestep out of the way of the charge, pivoting my upper body and pulling back my right arm. I don't even bother to unsheathe my sword and simply punch the monster in the face—the side of its head, really. My fist connects just under its hollow orbit, and a very satisfying crack echoes in the silent hilly meadow. My gauntlet, also enchanted with pseudo-holy magic, leaves a fuming mark in the putrefied skin of the horse when I retract my arm. The [Night Mare] is stunned. It staggers under the hit but surprisingly doesn’t collapse.

Relatively impressive. That punch would have floored an ogre.

You got to hand it to the undead, they’re a tough bunch.

Tough... Ri~ght. Weren't you talking about blowing off some steam?

Oh, I was, wasn't I? “Hm-hm-hm-hm-hm,” a muffled laughter filters through my closed lips. I smile, maybe looking a little demented. I've been told I overact my emotions sometimes. “Aww~ Sorry, horsey. But ya know the drill: wrong place, wrong time, nothing personal, yadda, yadda, yodda. I’m sure you understand—Well, you would if you had a functioning brain, right?” I crack my knuckles clad in metal. Well, I try. It's the intention that counts.

The [Night Mare] only reacts by wordlessly directing its blind gaze in my direction, obviously not getting my intent. Well, it doesn’t matter. I wasn’t really expecting it to. It's just that spending too much time alone tends to make me talk to monsters. You need some form of communication in life, and talking to yourself is something only crazy people do.

Obviously.

But here I’m talking to someone— well... something. So I’m not crazy.

Quod erat demonstrandum!

So much denial.

Shut up.

I mean, you could also talk to a wall. Or a chair. Or a banana. That’s something.

You don’t even exist. You’re only in my head.

And that is why you are losing this argument.

"I can’t believe this. Why can’t you jus—”

“ROAAAAAAAAAARRR!!” 

"Tsk." I click my tongue and glare at the roaring horse that just very rudely interrupted me.

What an idiot. Horses don’t roar.

Did nobody tell it that?

But it’s okay. I’m not mad at you horsey. See? My smile only broadens. “Awwww~… Aren’t you the cuuutest? Come here Clutterdie.” I take a step forward. The light emanating from my raised fist washes over the dark surroundings.

“ROOaaa…arr?”

* * *

Five very gratifying minutes later, I raise back to my full height – my avatar is an impressive six feet seven inches of muscles and silvery armour – and I stretch, purring with delight as my bones pop back into alignment. I then glance down at the fuming heap of mangled flesh and broken bones that now only very conceptually resembles a horse. An amused huff escapes me.

That, is art.

Who would have guessed that slowly beating the unlife out of a murderous creature after rendering it helpless could have such a great cathartic effect?! Hahaha! I feel immensely refreshed! I think I understand now more why Yasmin is so obsessed with hand-to-hand combat. It's excellent as a stress-reliever.

Although, I still think it’s a little unfair to her opponents that she’s able to shapeshift into a three hundred and fifty pounds black bear mid-fight. What she does is more hand-to-claw combat... Oh, well. I’m pummelling zombie horses with holy brass knuckles, so it's not really my place to criticise her.

Bah! Fair fights and honour are for morons. Who cares as long as you’re the one left standing at the end.

Oh, I’m sure there’s plenty who care.

But not us.

Yep. Not— Wait, no! I do care! What are you making me say?

Tsk. Denial I tell you.

Whatever.

Basking in the afterglow of my explosion of pointless violence, I casually invoke a minor holy spell. White flames flicker around my hands and wrists, burning away the sizzling greasy blood coating my gauntlets. This done, I turn away from the mangled corpse of the beast.

“Well, let’s g–”

“GGRRRRRAAARRRRAAAAH!!”

Oh, you got to be kidding me. I finish to pivot and come face to fa— face to snout with yet another of these darn things. Jesus! Is there no end to these guys?

You’d think after you nearly drove the local population of undead horses to extinction, the few “survivors” would get the message. 

Right? But no apparently.

Usually, if your level is far enough above the level of a monster or if you kill enough of its kind, it will instinctively start avoiding you. Game-wise, this serves a double purpose. It prevents strong players from farming low-level mobs indefinitely, and it allows those same high-level players to cross areas teeming with weaklings fast without wasting time dealing with the rabble. But I guess Corpsie & Co. didn’t get the memo. My theory is they simply lack any sense of self-preservation.

Dumb things. That’s probably why they eat brains: Jealousy.

Undead never learn. They keep throwing themselves at me like office workers on their morning coffee, in a vain attempt to rob me of my health when all they’ve really managed to lower until now is my reserve of patience! I like a good battle as much as the next bloodthirsty paladin, but this is getting ridiculous! Boredom and annoyance are both slowly rising in me, coalescing into an unstable solution along with the melted grains of my composure. I can feel my boiling point drawing closer.

At least, this new undead horse isn’t another [Night Mare]. Meagre consolation. I let out a sigh as I dodge the initial attack of the festering creature – and I do mean “festering”. Urgh. That smell. Sometimes the amazing realism of this game is a little too detailed. 

Makes me wish you'd put your helmet on.

But that thing makes me claustrophobic!

Maybe. But it has air-filtering spells built in.

I know. I put them there.

THEN WHY AREN'T YOU WEARING IT?!

Gnah-gnah-gnah-gnah...

Unable to stop its mindless rush, the disgusting equine monster stumbles past me. It ends up quite a distance away. I feel like facepalming, but I don’t. Hitting yourself with wearing metal gloves is hardly advisable. Instead, I look at the monster with pity as it slowly turns around.

It starts readying another charge, aggressively scrapping the grass with its front hooves.

What are you? A bull? "Right. What are these ones called again?" I squint at the space slightly above its head, where the ears should have been had they not been ripped-off. The words [Squared Stallion] appear in the air, glowing an ominous red.

Red. The creature is hostile.

Uh, No shit?

Hey, who knows? Maybe he just wants a hug?

Yeah? Him and whose arms?

Don’t discriminate against the armless. It’s not his fault he only has legs.

The [Squared Stallions] are the second inhabitants of the [Deadgrass Hills]. Very gory fellows, with their bodies littered with bleeding and suppurating wounds, and their innards… well… mostly “out’ards”. It’s a wonder how they don’t trip on their own intesti—

*THUD*

…

I will pretend I didn't see that.

The maimed horse unsteadily raises back up, looking a bit like a very ugly new-born calf. This is depressing. Can’t we just ignore it and leave?

We can try, but it’ll probably follow.

Urgh. I roll my eyes. Why me…?

While I debate with myself on my subsequent course of action, the stallion finally gets its bearing and attacks, robbing me of the choice.

“GGRRRRRAAAAAAAH!!”

Here it comes.

“Right,” I sigh, unmotivated. “Might as well…” This time I take my glowing Zweihänder out of its back-sheathe and half-heartedly hold it in the direction of the incoming “threat”. I ready myself for a quick execution. No need to prolong that thing’s misery. Besides, I’m getting tired of these hills, and I don’t want to spend any more time here than absolutely necessary. “Okay. Three… Two…” Once the distance between me and the [Squared Stallion] is reduced to less than two feet, I initiate my move, aiming for the neck.

“GRRRAAAAAAA—hayk!”

*scruueeeerk*

…

I blink.

...

Please tell me I'm dreaming and this monster did not just trip on its entrails again, fall forward, and impale itself on my blade maw first.

Nope. It did. Look, the tip even comes out from the top of its skull.

“…...”

Eh. This one was particularly stupid, wasn’t it?

I lowered my weapon, and the now unmoving corpse slide down limply with a wet noise.

*sluuursh* *thud*

“…...”

Well, let’s move on then. We shouldn’t be too far from the next town…

“…...”

…err… Hello?

“…...”

With a deadpan face, I raise my sword again.

What are you…?

*slash*

…

*slash*

…

*slash* *stab* *slash* “Stupid” *stab* *stab* *stab* *stab* *stab* *stab* “Idiotic” *stab* *stab* *stab* *slash* *stab* *stab* *stab* *stab* *stab* *stab* *stab* “Ridiculous” *stab* *stab* *slash* *stab* “Annoying” *stab* *stab* *stab* *stab* *stab* “Useless” *slash* *stab* *stab* *stab* *slash* *stab* *stab* “Dumb” *stab* *stab* *stab* *stab* *stab* *stab* *stab* “Insultingly incompetent” *slash* *slash* *slash* *stab* *stab* *stab* “Piece of…” *stab* *stab* *stab* *stab* "Scheiße!"

*stab*

*stab*

...

*stab*

“…ahhhh…” I let out a long breath. For a moment, I simply stand there, panting, bloody, and vaguely out of it.

…

……

………

Better?

*stab*

“Now, yes.”

That’s my boy.

…

"Phiooo." My cool restored and my smile back, I ignore the potential loot I could obtain from the unrecognisable remains of the [Squared Stallion] – undead provide crappy loot anyway – and I resume my walk along the winding former paved road which, hopefully, will soon lead me out of these equine-infested hills. Around me floats a faint cloud of smoke as the holy enchantments of my armour and sword burn through the tainted gore staining them.

I’m alone in a land of roaming corpses. The surroundings are dark and smell of blood.

I feel like singing.

“♩ Le p’tit ch’val dans le mauuuuvaaais teeemps, ♪ Qu'iiiil avaaait donc du coooura-a-age! ♩” An extract from an old French tune comes to mind, about a white horse and drab weather. Sounds fitting. “♫ C'éééétait uuun petit ♫ chevaaaal blaaanc! ♪” Although I do note a distinct lack of white horses anywhere close. “Undead horses. Undead horses everywhere…” Hopefully, I’ll soon reach the next human settlement and be able to take a break. Oh, and contact Dan and Yas too.  It’s been a while since I last called them. With the use of the in-game chat restricted to safe zones such as cities, I’ve barely spoken to them since they invited themselves to my flat last Sunday.

That was four days ago.

…

Am I too asocial after all?

…

……

………

Naaaah.

So, how far is that city again?

* * * * *