The upcoming meeting gave Fran some structure to ease his stress. All he had to do this Saturday was spend his day as normally as possible, keep his mouth shut and go to bed at a decent hour. Sleep was important: He'd need to be as sharp as possible on Sunday morning, a rare occurrence for a night owl like him. Bedtime on a weekend hardly arrived sooner than 3 AM even on the rare nights when he stayed in. There was always so much to do. Coding, listening to music on his headphones while dancing around in his room, even playing the odd video game. He'd have to ask Rafa about that. He was the group's expert in and put in an easy 60 weekly hours in AAA games the moment they dropped. Nothing was beneath him: Science fiction RPGs, Dark Souls clones, first-person shooters. Every game deserved a chance.
Rafa was funny and witty too, so much that Fran, Alberto and many others had asked him to stream his games. He’d be playing anyway, so why not give fame a shot? Rafa would shake his head patiently and dismiss them every time without an explanation.
Working on a coding exercise after another helped Fran distract his thoughts from the urge to google Mela, Merkes, Urume, Cheng'An, and even the Dragon's City, whose actual name had already vanished from his memory. Crap. Could he at least write a diary? Would he die if his parents read it? It all sounded ridiculous, but the marauding orc he'd slaughtered would probably have some thoughts about the ridiculousness of death at the hands of a hapless newcomer.
He kept on typing as fast as possible, aware that his teacher would be disappointed in the mediocre work he'd hand in come Monday. Fran didn't consider himself a genius. His class included two naturals who were clearly destined for greatness, but nobody beat Fran as a tough worker. Put the hours in, get the reward.
Back at The Wayward Son, he'd discussed the matter of training with some of the most extroverted patrons. They'd all recommended he save his coin for the best available teachers at the Dragon's City. They'd mentioned a couple of names, which of course he'd also forgotten: Outstanding combat instructors who'd shaped the best gladiators in the world. Mastermind strategists forced into exile after having a fallout with the uptight bureaucrats who governed the Empire. Pick and choose, but make sure you carry a heavy purse, Dhenn.
Except money didn't always come first. A more fundamental decision preceded it: Train what skills? And for what purpose? As cool as he found battles, he couldn't picture himself sending thousands of men to their deaths on a battlefield, so learning strategy was out of the question. Exploring left him cold. Thanks, Mr. Wanderlust, but I'd rather you explore and bring back the report. I'll make sure to leave a five-star review. He found the idea of becoming a rogue despicable in any of its forms: Espionage didn't suit his forthright character, and thieves and criminals belonged in prison.
Individual combat stood out as an exciting, default path and a crucial skill in a dangerous world. And you could pick and choose among so many options: Spears, axes, hammers, maces and a hundred types of swords for hand-to-hand aficionados, on feet or riding a stallion. Bows, crossbows, javelins, slings and even siege weapons for fans of social distancing. A world of possibilities.
However, a brighter light shone on the horizon and Fran's heart rushed to meet its radiance: Magic. Traitorous Urume Gulun had mentioned three types of magic: Psychic powers were the first. Divine magic was available too, but limited to the spells that each god granted their devotees. Best not to pledge your service to the god of harvest if you plan on spending a lot of time in dungeons. The explorer never discussed the third option. Learning spells from ancient scrolls, perhaps? Using magic objects? Crafting them? Crafting must be the most boring activity in video games, but Fran could see the real-life appeal. Set up a humble workshop, create cool objects at your own pace and make friends with your most interesting customers. Best to be careful, though. Such a lifestyle edges into cozy neet territory. It was the quest for Mela's purpose that interested Fran, not a shelter from reality.
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In any case, spellcasting remained a skill worth serious consideration. Hopefully, Melan spells weren't of the use-me-and-lose-me variety, or require that he recite a long activation poem while the slain orc's cousins charge at him with bloodlust in their eyes and axes in their hands. Got nervous and forgot a word? Time to start over, except you can't afford to. Oops.
The New Alliance party had made a cryptic mention of bringing “some stuff” back to Earth. Meaning what, exactly? That Alsu became even more of a dubious type with every week in Mela? That Dalamaru could walk down Gran Via, staff in hand, casting fireballs at anybody who gave her orange tattoos the wrong look?
Choosing well was impossible without knowing the purpose of the dream travel. To Fran, training for a war on Earth was the most logical possibility, followed by paving the way for Earthlings on Mela. Supposing that the dream portal wasn't a mere accident. Either option implied lots of bloodshed. Death for millions, perhaps even billions. Please let it all just be a video game, he thought. Just let it all be fake.
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On Sunday morning, he texted his sister before leaving. “Going to meet a friend for churros then check the manga stalls at El Rastro. Back by lunch.” He'd rather not whatsapp his parents at 7 AM on a Sunday. Her sister would tell them when they woke up.
He strolled to the huge Retiro park, a good 50-minute walk, a warm-up for the day. This time, he did use the time to strategize. His instinct told him to run the moment things got weird. But then what? He couldn't just lose contact with the New Alliance. That meant risking death. He dismissed the idea.
Sharing as little information as possible was fundamental. The New Alliance held all the cards, but Fran decided he’d stand his ground if they asked for his address or his place of study. He'd never put his family at risk.
The Retiro park was empty this early in the day. The large park shone bright. El Retiro was a breathtaking collection of green trees, gardens, sculptures and lakes, ready to welcome tens of thousands of visitors like it did every Sunday. Fran entered the park through the Puerta de Alcalá gate and walked toward the large lake. He stopped for a second to enjoy the view of the statues and stairs across the water. The voice message had mentioned meeting underwater, and Fran had no idea what that meant.
He continued to the tasteful Victorian structure of the Crystal Palace, transparent and harmoniously beautiful. Its was a hundred meters long and had originally been built as a giant greenhouse for a tropical flora exhibition in the 19th century. Next to it was a peaceful little lake with sleepy ducks resting by the water. Walking up to the palace's entrance, he scanned the interior carefully. Just a bunch of incomprehensible contemporary art sculptures. Nothing of interest.
A feeling of discomfort took him over as he took a long walk around the lake. His steps down the path brought him to the cavernous tunnel under a little waterfall next to the lake. He'd noticed voices coming from that direction, but they’d stopped dead the moment he approached within hearing distance. A dozen pairs of eyes fell on him with hostility and fear. Fran stopped for a moment and then walked on until he faced the group. Men and women, young and old, all sorts of clothing and demeanors. A group so diverse in its composition that they could only have one reason to meet on a Sunday morning in the most unlikely of places.
The group moved to the side of the narrow passageway. A man in a Spanish national team football t-shirt smiled and signaled at Fran to move through. Fran didn't move.
“Meet us underwater by the Palacio de Cristal,” he said.
“Before moving to the meeting's location,” responded an old man. His beard was unkempt, his cheap brown shoes worn out and he wore a ratted jersey. Everything about him was old and feeble, but Fran saw in his unblinking eyes a survivor from a thousand battles.