THE CHOICES OF PAPA ALLINDER
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It was a dark room, with nothing but two screens, one on the left side, the other on the right. The left showed Lizzie, riding Papa Allinder’s back and making joyful noises; to the left was a dark field covered in bodies, blood, spears and arrows stuck in the mud or corpses. Clouds covered the sky; ravens circled above, waiting for the last movements to subside before feasting on the dead.
Shaking, Papa Allinder took an unconvincing battle stance, preparing his staff for anything.
“This challenge is simple.” A man appeared, slowly stepping forward. Majestic but eerie at the same time, covered in ghastly tattoos; metal threads embedded in his body, and a white fur on his shoulders. As he closed the distance, surrounded by a cloud of snow and cold, a terrible sentiment of dread spread in the old man. “Choose. Life, or death,” the apparition commanded, spreading his arms to point at the images.
“Y-you m-mean the s-screens?”
“Yes. Life, or death.”
The elderly man let out a bitter laughter, mixed with tears. “This can’t be so simple…”
“You are right. What is life? What is death? You have a Class now. Your son called a favor from a friend, to return you the favor of giving him a good life. Do you know what it means?”
Trying to contain the shiver in his body, Papa Allinder shook his head. “Why don't you tell me?”
“A wise answer. A Class is the most precious thing on Earth. It’s up to the Classed to help your planet survive the Awakening. You’re a Sage and a good one, and magic users are rare. We can afford squeamish people around. Make up your mind: embrace or reject your new nature. The left screen shows a normal life. I take your class back and give it to someone more worthy, but you have a few more years to enjoy your family. A peaceful death, remembering your late wife who died at a young age. You never loved again until you met Rowan, a son she would have loved too. The right, you embrace your Class. Maybe you die in battle, maybe you live to see two hundred. Maybe you build a harem and make kids of your own, or just find another love. It’s a risk, no guarantees.”
There was no hesitation from the elderly man. He nodded with energy. “Right. I want to be able to protect my son and his family.”
“We'll see. Power changes people. In fifty years, maybe you kill a bandit just to bed the grateful innkeeper, or let her be ransomed, if she’s ugly. Do you confirm your choice, yes or no?”
“Y-Yes.”
“You have a probation time, of a year. Kill a thousand sentients, monsters, or humans, and save the same number. Begone.”
Gasping, Papa Allinder found himself back in the square. In his back, one of the padlocks on the gate broke into pieces.
“Thank goodness,” Rowan rushed to hug him, and Cora joined. “Was it hard?”
The elderly man's shaking hand grabbed his shoulder, supporting himself on it to stay on his feet. “I c-can’t talk about it now…”
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THE TEMPTATIONS OF FATHER HUBERT
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Goblidog Wurf, son of Howl and Barks was the happiest of monsters. His tiny mind couldn’t comprehend how someone could love him so much to raise him from the dead. The Paladin was a Saint. No one else ever had shown him any sign of affection. Muhmma Fenrri, his master, was kicking his butt every other hour. He was cannon fodder and knew it. All his spawn-litter had been killed in suicide missions before they reached this floor. A new master was needed if he aimed at a continued existence.
What delicacies a new master like the Paladin could feed him? Heavenly treats. Maybe real dog food, and not some meatless boar bones, boiled for two hours in a soup.
Now, he knew he had angered the Paladin, by humping his leg. Humping was reserved for mating, but it was hard to fight against the burning in his loins. A leg was the second-best after a bitch. But he had heard the Paladin preaching about forgiveness to his comrades, so there was still hope.
Nevertheless, Wurf's plans to correct his mistakes and be adopted were in jeopardy. The Paladin was about to enter some dangerous dungeon floor. Goblidog Wurf had a good smell and good eyes. His prospective master was afraid. The Paladin was sweating, checking his grip on the one-handed sword every second.
The decision was made quickly: He will prove himself in battle, and gain enough clout to be adopted. So, as his next chosen master advanced toward the strange wooden gate, he rushed and touched it at the same time. Then, they were in another place. A room, with many pillows and sofas. Laid on them stood a strange creature. Two big globes on her front, mammaries, a female of sorts.
And instantly, the possible future master wobbles on his feet, drops his sword, and approaches the sofa, hands first, aiming for the mammaries. Was he blind? Couldn’t he see the artifice? The deceit? The creature reeked of bad Mana, a fake, a construct. There were claws beneath her fingernails, fangs, and wings dissimulated in an illusory wrap. A Harpy.
The Paladin, his tongue out, salivating, reached and started to fondle those false globes, shaking his head to the right and left. There was some… strange bulging appearing in his pants… And the monster was preparing to strike, claws at the ready.
Goblidog Wurf jumped forward, his fangs and jaws snapping around the fake female’s throat. She screamed. The Paladin screamed. She trashed, trying to get rid of the Goblidog. The Paladin trashed as well, screaming in panic. And then, victory. The monster disintegrated into specks of light. And reward.
You have leveled x 60. You are now level 80. Your INT stat has been automatically raised to 10, to be able to allocate your APs. You have been assigned as a Paladin’s Familiar, receiving a new class.
The Paladin screamed again, and they were out.
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THE LESSON OF ROWAN ALLINDER
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When Hubert was thrown out of the Gate, Rowan was in his way and had to catch him in his arms.
“I don’t wanna talk about it! I don’t wanna talk about it!” the priest screamed, wrapping himself in his cloak and shaking his leg to get rid of the Goblidog, who was hanging on for dear life.
“Dude, I don’t give a shit!” Rowan shoved the man away. “I really don’t. Leave me be, and take the weird dog with you! Marry, be happy, make kids together, for what I care.”
Shaking his head, he touched the gate, hoping for the best. If his Papa and the weirdo had survived, he could do it too. A slight squeeze in the heart; apprehension, not for him, but for Isla. There was something in her eyes he couldn't get and was too afraid to use his senses without her permission. He touched the gate absent-mindedly and arrived in a martial arts training room, like those he had used in the town.
“We finally meet, Rowan Allinder. You, of billions of humans, attracted my curiosity foremost.” The tall man who talked was muscular, his skid of a golden hue, dressed in a suit of armor that appeared embedded in his skin, and there was no doubt in Rowan’s mind about his identity. The Warlord.
"It remains to be seen if it's a good thing," he said plainly. "What do you want from me?"
The man started to walk in a circle, with Rowan in its middle, talking slowly. “Once upon a time, the Galaxy was a wonderful place, one large and beautiful culture stretching everywhere. My story is not about that time. I was born long after that civilization collapsed, when Barbarians roamed everywhere, Demon Lords, Wild Dungeons, and Towers slain entire planets in sick games. A group of Heroes arose, battling against the tide. They exterminated the Barbarians and killed the Demon Lords, their power and knowledge grew, and finally they were able to input spells into the Mana itself, creating the System. After conquering the most dangerous Towers, they found themselves jobless and overpowered, their mere existence a danger to the peace they created, and asked themselves: What next?”
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
The man stopped in his tracks and faced the Count. "Short answer: They ascended in a special dimension, timeless, ageless… Now, who do you think I am?”
A hypothesis started to emerge in Rowan’s mind as he furrowed his brows. “One of their foes or one of them, gone rogue and imprisoned in a Dungeon.”
The Warlord let out a short laugh, jerking his head back. “I didn’t go rogue. Playing god wasn’t for me, so I stayed behind. But there was a price to play. Power corrupts, and I had Admin rights over the System."
“That's why you were imprisoned in a dungeon?” Rowan asked, grimacing.
The Warlord shook his head. “I wasn't imprisoned. I renounced my Admin powers and became a Dungeon. I am the gate outside, and this place, and this person whom you're talking to, at the same time. That was the deal I struck with my friends.”
Rowan's jaw slacked. “What? You're kidding me!"
"I swear I had neither transformed you into a kid nor want to do it," the Warlord said deadpanned.
"Sorry, just a human expression. Really, a dungeon?" Rowan tried not to laugh. "Err… Can you be claimed?” The question, albeit hesitating, had a hint of greed in it.
"AHAHAHA!" The Warlord roared, bending in laughter and slapping his knee, then coming forward and grabbing Rowan's shoulder, speaking loudly in his face. "I like you, Rowan Allinder! Already thinking how to beat me, are you? Claiming my core is beyond your abilities, I'm afraid, but I'm making this System-reinforced Vow: Every time you beat one of my challenges, I will offer you a priceless gift. How about that?"
"Sure, sure…" Rowan tried to take a step back and failed because of the Warlord's grip.
The Warlord released the young man's shoulder and resumed walking back and forth, shrugging. "I want you to understand my purpose, this is paramount. I became a dungeon with one goal in mind: to help the most worthy warriors to better themselves and protect the legacy I and my friends built. For the last decade, I have been traveling on the Traipenent, of my own volition. It was extremely boring, but then we crashed here… Earth has a lot of potential, I thought, so I broke the Ship's Core, leaking the System out to Awaken your Planet. I might not have control over the System anymore, but it does listen to my suggestions if they're to its liking. And here, we both were on the same page."
“You mean all this is your fault?" Rowan almost screamed, clenching his fists, his instincts yearning to hit the monster in his face.
“All this?" The Warlord faced him again, poking Rowan in the chest with his index. "You mean your gift? Your Class, you wives? Your father's health? Are you questioning my wisdom, young man?" Out of a sudden, the Warlord changed shape, becoming older. His hair grew white and long, a crown appeared on his forehead, and large snowflakes began to float around in the air. Weirdly enough, he resembled a little Papa Allinder, only frightening.
“Yes, I question your wisdom,” Rowan stood firm, planting himself on his soles. Even a finger poke from the Warlord felt like a sledgehammer.
“Critical thinking, I like it. Or maybe it's just stubbornness, but I like it too." The Warlord grinned, relenting his poking and stepping back. "Enough talking. We’ll spar, only melee weapons, no armor, perks, or magic. Shields are allowed. I'm obliged by the Oath I took to fight fairly so I will lower myself to your level. I will still have the advantage, of course, so I'll Rezz you if you die. But if you survive my onslaught for thirty seconds, I’ll give you a free lesson. Prepare yourself, Rowan Allinder. In three… two… one.”
Rowan had his armor already on. Activating his visor, he called a half-spear and a shield, to protect himself while the Warlord changed into the first shape he had, only without any armor except a loincloth, and armed with a greatsword. A Barbarian, if Rowan had to guess a class.
Then there was no more time for thoughts. The Warlord charged at him swinging, and he was fast. Barely avoiding the flourish, Rowan plunged ahead, to get the man in the guts. Twisting his body, the Warlord shapeshifted the greatsword into a saber, and Rowan barely survived the cut, protecting his head with the shield. The opponent’s weapon changed again, now a knife, trying to go around the youngster's defenses. Turning the shield with its margin toward the Warlord’s face, Rowan tried to hit it, but failed, as the man let himself fall down and dodged, getting back at him in the next second, now armed with a gladius.
Thrusting didn’t help, the Warlord caught the tip of the spear with his edge, in an oblique trajectory, deflecting the hit and gaining enough momentum to come for a thrust toward Rowan’s gut. The youngster twisted his body too, letting the spear go, and throwing a fist. It connected with the Warlord’s hand, the man protecting himself, albeit groaning. Rowan received a deep cut on his torso before they pushed themselves from each other, to get more distance before charging again.
The most terrifying thing was that he could feel the Warlord had no superhuman strength or skill, as he had promised he was putting himself at the same level as Rowan, somehow. It was the difference in knowledge that counted.
The Warlord gestured toward the spear on the ground, inviting Rowan to pick it up, transforming his own weapon into a half-spear too. Taking a few steps toward his armament, Rowan pretended to raise it up but charged at the man instead, at the last second. The Warlord's blade cut the side of his neck, but he ignored everything, ramming into his adversary. His knee hit the man’s groin, his elbow the chin, his hands searched for the eyes, to gouge them off, biting on the Warlord’s throat with his teeth. The adversary dissolved into specks of light, but there was a river of blood pouring on his clothes, from his slit throat
Delayed Truth activated. You have 0% HP.
Then he was back to full health, his Perk recharged, and the Warlord reappeared.
“Well done,” the Warlord bowed his head. “That's how you use such a Perk in a life-or-death situation. You overcame your apprehension and didn't let yourself be intimidated to go against a superior foe. I'll think of an extra gift to reward your win, but for now, the lesson. You have an old Artifact as a weapon. Your imagination shapes it. Be creative.”
A brief gesture and a mannequin appeared on the far side of the room. The Warlord's hand invoked a dozen undulating metal filaments, thirty feet in length, that he projected at the dummy, some encircling the members and neck, some cutting, some bashing, others skewering it. The weapon looked like Spiderman's threads had mated with Wolverine's claws, and was a sight to behold.
“Of course, in time you will learn to focus your magic through your weapon.” The Warlord’s weapon took a spear shape and shot a beam of frost from its tip. It was Rowan’s perk, Räsvelg, but concentrated in a fascicle. The target was blown to pieces but reappeared back in a couple of seconds. “This is important. I'm bound not to reveal too many Perk-related spoilers. Use your brain.”
“My Perk says The Snowstorm is Räsvelg’s First Aspect. Does it have others? And what about applications.” Rowan asked.
“Mmm…” the Warlord mimicked a zipper over his mouth, but nodded energetically at the same time, with widened eyes. “Now, your fighting style. You think too much. Keep it simple, instinctive, and don't train with too many weapons… Look.”
Approaching the mannequin, the Warlord donned a short leaf-shaped sword. He made a step forward and a cutting motion. Then, he stopped, nodded, and repeated the same motion. And again, a few more times. Sometimes he paused longer. Sometimes not.
“If you need to go melee, stick to the spear and a short melee weapon. A Barong machete will suit you well but feel free to choose anything you want. Training well is important. Half an hour at a time, not more, then take a break. Train one weapon and one motion in that interval, taking note of what you do well or wrong, and correct. Don’t dwell on mistakes, think about how to correct them. Footwork is important. Train it for half an hour each day. And don’t forget your main asset. You’re stubborn and tough, put pressure on the enemy, do the unexpected, and keep going at them. This is all for now. It was a pleasure to meet you, Rowan Allinder. Expect to see more of me in the future.”
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THE FIGHT OF ISLA CULLODEN
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Pacing back in forth in front of the gate, Isla thought: What took so long? She wanted to get through with it and continue, just to drown her anger in action. She was so pissed on Rowan… Wishing to hit him. The only thing stopping her was thinking he’d feel more entitled to his snobbish superiority.
Sexy Police Brutality? That’s all he sees in me? A thug? And sex?
She bit her lower lip, groaning. It was the curse of her life. Her hippie parents never invested in her education. Bad grades at school? The oppressing capitalism’s fault. They couldn’t help with homework if she’d put a gun to their heads.
Choosing combat sports and a police career was to spite them. And arrest them too, when they manifested against some shit or hugged some tree. Shaking her head, she let out a mental fuck. She felt stupid and ugly. Isla wanted to be gentle, and refined. A princess, like Grace, or at least a cold elegant bitch like Victoria. Imposing. And she wanted Rowan to see that in her. Her potential.
Last night, after his comment, she invested APs into INT, raising it from a mere twenty to the third threshold, to show him she was clever too. Yes, she had been through college, but he, a simple forklift operator, had been schooled by a posh noble gentleman, a Brahmin or shit. To her disappointment, all the new perks were still locked behind question marks.
“Are you all right?” Rowan was back, fondling her shoulder.
“I’m fine,” she said, pushing his hand away, and touching the gate to avoid too much conversation.
Inside, it was hot, a dry hot. Around her were ruins, the antique kind, and a dry reddish earth. Not quite a replica of the Roman Forum but close. She ground her teeth, remembering how they made fun of her when she had mistaken the Italian Rome with Rome, Georgia.
Priority, protection. She had body armor, but extracted her police riot shield from the inventory, coating it in a layer of energy. In her right hand, her trustworthy revolver.
The beast took her by surprise, jumping on her from atop a column. She felt the air pressure at the last moment and turned. The monster’s weight threw her down, but fortunately, the shield took the brunt. She discharged half of her eight rounds in the beast, all hitting the lower part of the body. The monster took off, squealing, darting in zig-zags, hiding behind the large stones.
“What the fuck was that?” Isla groaned, getting back to her feet. The creature had a monkey’s head, a lion’s body, and a weird tail. It resembled something she saw somewhere in Rome, in a painting. A mythical beast. Rowan sure knew its name, he knew all the weird stuff painted by Michelangelo Faggoty or any other orgiastic porn artist.
It was unnatural… to have all those nudes in museums. No one thought of kids? For goodness sake! Isla’s frustration was growing. She wanted to be pretty, and elegant, to go together with Rowan to church, to be complimented, given flowers and boxes of chocolate…
She noticed the incoming monster too late. Isla fired her last bullets, wounding the creature, but not enough to stop the charge. It crashed on her, throwing Isla on the ground, pinned under the monster’s weight and a sting inflicting a Poison DOT. Of course, the bloody weird tail.
The multicore—or was it manticore?—was snapping her fangs an inch over her face, the police shield the only obstacle. And Isla’s HP was almost done from the DOT. Screaming in frustration, Isla dismissed her magical protection and the riot shield, thrust her right hand into the monster’s mouth, ignoring the bite and the pain, and activated her magical energy shield at full power, pushing it inside the monster, trying to shape it as… whatever. To pull, to stab, to choke with it. She wanted to live, and the creature had to die. She saw the monster’s head explode and then lost consciousness.