There were seven opponents, all of equal skill, though none had the benefit of Roman’s attributes. Even without the enhancement provided by the Seal of Authority, his level far outstripped that of his opponents.
But that didn’t matter.
He was better than them, and to a degree that made him almost a different species. Of course he would have the advantage of superior Strength, Dexterity, and Constitution. Still, he didn’t activate any of his spells or abilities, because that wasn’t the point of the session. Instead, he was training his swordsmanship, and he couldn’t do that if he ended the fight before it could ever start.
That, and he didn’t want to kill them. Doing so would only result in a slight trickle of experience, and they were far more useful as practice opponents.
So, they circled him, their own swords held before them. Some had known something of sword fighting before the world had been touched by the World Tree, but others were more recent studies. Yet, Roman was enough of a realist to know that each and every one of them was his superior, at least in terms of pure technique.
Fortunately, he did have the advantage of his attributes, which served to even the odds. A good thing, considering he couldn’t countenance the notion of losing a fight in his own city. Not only would it affect his reputation – and thus, invite challenge – but it would also scrape against his ego in a way he never intended to analyze.
Suddenly, the first sparring partner struck, her sword flashing against the torchlight of the dojo. Roman reacted instantly, slapping the sword away with enough force that it nearly went flying from the woman’s grip, displaying her weakness for everyone to see.
It was a pitiful showing.
But it also highlighted Roman’s driving force. Only he was strong enough to save everyone. Only he had the power to ensure their safety. And if he wanted to continue rising to the challenge, he couldn’t allow himself to let up.
So, he trained.
As soon as he’d parried the first attack, the other six foes struck. Roman’s sword became a whirlwind as his footwork struggled to keep pace. Fighting one of them was well within the bounds of his capability, but all six – and with the first woman having just recovered – was on the verge of pushing him too far.
Still, as the clang of metal against metal continued, Roman fought on. And with every blocked attack, he grew stronger. It was reflected in his attributes, but that was the ability of his sword at work.
The False Dragon’s Fang had an insulting name, but its viability as a weapon was unquestionable. Not only was it incredibly sharp and durable, but it also came with enhancements to his attributes. But the ability, which was known simply as Escalation, was what truly set it apart.
And as his power climbed, Roman’s tentative ability to defend against so many enemies grew sturdier until, at last, he began to overcome them with sheer Strength. Swords flew from their weak grips, and in one case, a hand followed suit – it was that man’s own fault for being too slow – until, at last, they had been subdued.
“Do not bleed in my dojo,” Roman snarled at the wounded man who was clutching his stump to his chest, sullying his gi. He kicked the severed hand toward the man, growling, “Go see a Healer.”
Of course, a Healer was incapable of regrowing limbs. Perhaps it would be possible in the future, but for now, no one in Easton – God, he hated that name; it sounded so pedestrian when it should be majestic – had that kind of ability. Hopefully that would change going forward. Still, it was possible to reattach the limb, so long as he hurried.
As ordered, the man fled the dojo in search of a Healer. Once he was out of the room, Roman glared at the scattered drops of blood he’d left behind. That was unacceptable.
But he didn’t intend to cut the training session short just for a little blood. So, he said, “Again.”
This time, instead of the False Dragon’s Fang, he used a training sword, but even then, only six of them couldn’t hope to stand up to his might. Still, Roman continued his training for hours more until, at last, Fiona arrived.
The tiny waif of a woman had made some attempts to accentuate her boyish figure – likely to get Roman’s attention – but to him, those attempts made her look more like a child wearing an inappropriate costume.
Not like Trish.
But Roman’s wife had never been cut out for life in the apocalypse. Unlike him, she’d had difficulty adjusting to the necessary mindset, and because he’d sheltered her so completely, she’d been entirely unprepared for the brutality of the new world. He knew that, and yet, there was a part of him that still blamed Alyssa. Even dead, her mistakes still haunted him.
If she hadn’t forced his hand, he wouldn’t have had to banish the best crafter in the city. Likely, he should have killed Carmen. The woman’s crimes called for as much. But at the same time, he felt that he owed it to Alyssa not to orphan her son. Losing one mother was difficult, but losing a second parent was enough to ruin the child.
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And Roman was not such a monster that he could put Miguel on that path.
No – he was a hero. Perhaps not in the traditional sense. He didn’t charge into battle wearing shining armor and physically protecting the weak. Yet, everything he did was meant to ensure that the largest number of people survived. That made him a hero, at least as far as he was concerned. If only the others would understand that, many of his problems would be solved.
“My lord,” Fiona said, bowing her head. She’d begun to use the affectation sometime after he’d banished Carmen, and Roman had to admit that he liked it. What was he, if not the Lord of Easton?
“Hello, Fiona. What news?” he asked, struggling to maintain a pattern of speech appropriate to his position. He was no actor, though, so he’d had to spend countless hours forcing himself to drop his casual demeanor. It had worked, though. People respected and feared him.
“They are ready,” Fiona stated. “Do you wish to proceed?”
“What level?”
“Thirty-five,” she answered.
“That will have to do,” he answered. Then, without even looking at his training partners, he set off from the dojo he’d had built within the palace. He’d taken great pains to make it as authentic as possible, which meant finding an architect who understood Japanese style. He had no illusions about becoming a samurai – not like the cowboy who followed Carmen around like a lost puppy – but the discipline of that style of swordfighting certainly appealed to his straightforward sensibilities.
The rest of the palace was decidedly more western in appearance, and the Architects and Interior Designers had chosen to channel Gothic design principles. Roman was unconcerned with the specific décor, but what he did care about was the perception it dictated. And for that, the palace was perfect. Sharp, deadly, and beautiful – it gave all the right impressions.
Roman strode the halls without acknowledging any of the other people present, and soon enough, they reached a set of stairs that led down below. He didn’t hesitate before descending, passing multiple checkpoints along the way. None of the guards present – each in their blue-and-white uniforms – dared try to stop him, and before long, he found himself in the dungeon.
It was even more extensive than the palace. Part of that was due to the sheer number of detainees – traitors, all – but it was also because of the special project that was housed within. Many of the prisoners were rebels who’d been captured during the recent bout of unrest, but others were petty criminals. Most were thieves who were too lazy to contribute to the greater good; instead, they’d chosen to prey off their fellow citizens. Others had been arrested for vandalism. Some were violent offenders. But one and all, they were the dregs of society, and as such, they represented an opportunity for Roman.
After all, if they’d already proven themselves useless in life, then perhaps their deaths could be of use to Easton.
“I would like to see the program in action,” he said.
“As you wish, my lord,” said Fiona. Then, she gestured to the warden – a man whose name Roman didn’t bother remembering – who led them deeper into the facility until, at last, they reached a large warehouse. The first thing that hit Roman was the smell – it had the odor of a kennel, and for good reason. It was populated with hundreds of cages, each one containing a monster.
Or a beast, Roman supposed. He watched as a prisoner, naked but for a pair of sturdy manacles, was handed a dagger. Then, the emaciated woman was led to one of the cages, where she was forced to slaughter the animal held within. It took a handful of thrusts, but it succumbed soon after. As soon as it was dead, someone wheeled the cage away and replaced it with another. Then, the woman was directed to repeat the process.
“It ain’t efficient,” said the warden. He was a thickset man with a huge gut, which disgusted Roman. It was almost enough to push him to action. “Maybe a quarter of the experience per kill as if they were found in the wild. And it don’t work after level thirty-five.”
“No experience at all?” asked Roman, surprised.
“Some of them scholars say it’s ‘cause the system measures effort, too. It’ll give you some leeway early on, but there comes a time when it ain’t gonna work no more.”
“Does this affect the program’s viability?” Roman asked, glancing at Fiona.
“No. It will work. We’re almost certain.”
“Then let’s get to it. Bring them forward,” Roman ordered.
And only a few minutes later, there were twenty prisoners before him. Each one was shackled and looked as if they hadn’t eaten in weeks. Perhaps they hadn’t. After all, they needed to be kept in a weakened state.
Without hesitation, Roman drew the False Dragon’s Fang, pulled it back, and lopped the head from the nearest prisoner’s neck. As it flew free, he experienced an influx of experience. It wasn’t nearly as much as he would’ve gotten for killing a level thirty-five monster in the wild, but it was still enough to move the needle.
“Did it work?” asked Fiona, her eyes shining with excitement.
“It did. We will proceed,” he said.
Then, he did just that, executing each of the criminals. It was a testament to how weakened they were that none of them even resisted. Likely, they counted death as a release. That served Roman’s purposes, and by the time he’d killed all twenty, he’d crossed the threshold to another level.
He’d already been close, but even that much seemed like a confirmation that they were on the right track. After all, these people were drains on society, but he’d finally found a way to make them useful. It felt good, solving such a problem.
“Good. Very good. How many are in this dungeon?”
“More than a thousand. And there are more coming each day. The issue is capturing the monsters, but we have dedicated teams scouring the countryside,” Fiona explained. “We can provide twenty kills a day, at least for a few weeks. After that, we may have to reevaluate.”
“You’ll have your criminals,” Roman said. “Inform Remus that he is to enforce the strictest letter of the law. That should get us a few more criminals. And if you run out of monsters, have them kill one another.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“What word of Arbor?” he asked, referring to the nearest city-state of any strength. In terms of population, it was even larger than Easton, though its military might left a lot to be desired.
“Primed for invasion.”
“Hold off, for now. We need to handle this delicately. In the meantime, we will continue to develop our strengths. Daily runs of the tower for our elites. And as many prisoners as you can find.”
“Yes, my lord.”
With that, Roman turned away, secure in the knowledge that he was doing everything within his power to ensure that Easton rose to prominence. After all, without his guiding hand, the world would soon fall into chaos. It was his duty to bring everything under one banner, because he knew that things would grow more dangerous with every passing day.