I was of two minds. My instinct for self-preservation at war with my, dare I say, irrational desire to save Rook. Or maybe I just wanted to make an impression on the Round Table. Whether personal courage apart from avarice was a virtue I possessed I truly could not yet discern. Who was it that said ‘know thyself?’ Still working on that.
With only a second to spare, I rushed into the space between the trapped Rook and the enormous black beast. I could feel the intense heat radiating off its body. The air between us shimmered like a mirage.
▶ Leave her alone!
Breaking her line of sight with the Huodou, Rook shook her head clear, noticing me with surprise and then immediately turning back to try and free her leg from beneath the collapsed catwalk.
I brandished my dagger, ready to stab at the creature’s face. But then I too saw those ominous eyes. They were like bottomless holes, and in them I could peer into another scene. But what? I stood transfixed. Time seemed to slow as I gazed into those eyes as if through a glass darkly. And all I could hear was the ringing in my ears.
It is hard to describe exactly what I saw, but the gist of it is this: a naked figure in an empty room, scrawny, hugging itself for warmth and trembling pitifully. Layers of skin, like an onion, were sloughing off. Layer upon layer, paper thin, revealing the utter emptiness within.
And then the Huodou killed me.
Chapter 23 - Death
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Bright light pierced my eyeballs. I tried to shut my eyelids but realized I didn’t have any. Not yet. My mind lurched. I tried to move my limbs. Phantom pains. Signals to nowhere.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
Where am I? What…?
In a tube. Stuck in a cylinder. A whirring sound. Beams of light, weaving the fabric of me together. Bones and sinews. Hot light crisscrossing through me. My nerves stinging, each one coming online, coming alive. And then my clothing and armor, stitched together right on top.
I remembered the burning warehouse. I remembered the Huodou.
Dead. I fragging died out there. So that must mean…
Restoration Complete. Now discharging.
I heard a metal clank and the small vibrating platform lowered me out of the angled, translucent restoration tube. I looked down at my bare forearms and hands in wonder. Ozone vapor wafted off my fresh epidermis. My outfit was crisp and clean. Not a speck of soot or blood.
I stepped away from the tube, approaching the small panel beside the machine.
Your last restoration was {0} cycles ago.
Automatic Restoration Fee notification. 1,000 Crypt will be deducted.
Shiva! 1,000 Crypt?!
I quickly checked my menu as the currency drained from the B3-9S7-C10K chip in the base of my skull.
[ECONOMY
* CRYPT
* * 200]
No! I couldn’t believe it. The restoration fee was 1,000? Exorbitant. Extortion. Robbery!
Then, with a sinking feeling, I combed through the rest of my menu.
My Crystals? Gone. My new Hellhound data card fragments? Gone. My Baskerville Hound fragments? Gone. Even the recycled paper-feeling calling card from Fancy Jack was gone. I had been restored to my most recent data backup. Looking at the screen on the panel confirmed it.
My ammo and Energy were replenished, and the ringing in my ears had abated, but that was small comfort. I knelt on the platform for a long time, wallowing in frustration. My loot. My precious loot. A handful of Volunteers passing through the Restoration Point shot me quizzical looks from afar.
But wait, something didn’t add up. Didn’t I have 1,180 Crypt after taking the MAR to New Dresden? Oh, I see. I backed up to when I had 1,200. Before buying a drink for Pixie and catching the bullet train. The subtle potential to exploit this system for financial gain briefly crossed my mind, until I remembered the words of Antisoc. The penalty, or restoration fee, increased with each subsequent death. Well, their exact words were ‘prohibitively and progressively expensive.’
At least I wasn’t in debt. Yet. But what did I have to show for all my labors? For all the killing and dying?
I had been late to the raid, but bog dram if I didn’t try to lend a helping hand. Now I needed to see if the Round Table would agree with that assessment. Were they still in that burning warehouse? Were the survivors still battling their {rare} opponent? How much time had elapsed? How long had I been… out?
No way was I going back to that inferno. Not right now. I would go to the Rathskeller and see what awaited me.
I made an unenthusiastic slog across The Commons until I reached the top of the steps leading down into the subterranean Volunteer hangout. I could hear the bass from the throbbing electronica within. I hesitated for a spell, listening to the upbeat tempo of music that did not remotely match my current internal state.
Grumbling, I took the steps and pushed through the double doors.
To my surprise, across the room I saw all the members of the Round Table seated at their usual spot, save for the empty chair of course. I must certainly have lost some time, being dead and all. I politely squeezed past the other patrons and one of the members noticed me, tapping a few others until they all turned to stare.
Then, to my even greater surprise, all the Round Tablers started to applaud.