Otis Manning (Class: N/A)
Level : 2
Clan/ Sect : [Slave of Fortune’s Favour]
HP: 15/15 MP: 5/8
Status:
Strength 9 Agility 6 Endurance 9 (11) Intelligence 8 Will 9 (11) Charisma 6
Characteristics:
Undying Resolve [I], (endurance, will + 2)
Characteristics:
Undying Resolve [I], (endurance, will + 2)
Skills:
Manipulation (level 3)
Mana Shielding (level 2)
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'Is that really it?"
They should have increased further by now but his stats had only nudged forward before coming to a standstill far sooner than he had expected. Staring into the void of black within the shimmering molten ring on his palm, Otis was at a loss. He had trained so hard for such an anti-climactic result. How was this it? From level 1 to level 2 there had been a greater leap than from 2 to 3, yet he had faced more and trained far harder than before.
Whilst generally a little disappointed, the young smith was please that his Mana Shielding skill had increased a level. Whilst it wasn't the qualitative leap, he hoped it would some day make, the process had become marginally less taxing. Only a sliver of mana was needed to dampen blows enough to tolerate a little more though the effects of prolonged combat still quickly drained him in training. This progress hadn't been seen in Otis' mana shaping as this hadn't been his focus. He knew he had to prioritise honing his battle prowess more than his crafting abilities. The odds were beginning to feel too insurmountable to do anything less.
"You look like you're chewing dirt, you know?"
Wrinkling his nose, Otis couldn't help but smile through the frustration. Sat in the centre of their encampment, sleep had abandoned him, yet again. Days of expectation and a looming bout, that may well end in his execution literally, had ground on the mage. As with all things, overexposure was quickly fatiguing his ability to focus but since defying his own scheduled annihilation, Zlatan had been an unexpected pillar of strength. Given the continued distance of their other injured companion this was development was especially surprising. More than just a leader of Team Rictus, Otis had began to regard the man as a paternal figurehead of the rag-tag group.
The unexpected intrusion into his solitude and self-deprecation was yet another example of how Zlatan had become that strength, so sorely needed. There didn't seem to be a reason for his unrelenting positivity and yet, in the face of near-certain death, he stood fast.
"Just looks like that's it. I was really hoping there would be something, anything, more... than this."
"You'll hit Level 5 soon enough, it's the one you have to watch out for. It'll come."
Huffing, Otis tried not to feel too defeated though this was to little avail. Level 3 had fallen short of his fairly meagre expectations, it was hard to feel like it mattered what he did now. If he managed to survive long enough to achieve level 4 would he progress at all? Was this it? Was this all some hopeless biological failure, that would prove impossible to move past?
"Your world sounds different but, without mana to shape and direct your physique, you've probably got some pretty plain base race stats. Depending on how much of an influence mana has on people from birth you might be more or less screwed but you seem pretty on track for average across the board at the moment."
"My what?"
Otis stared open-mouthed. The implications of what Zlatan was saying sounded tremendous. Otis had wondered how the stats were balanced across the different "things" and beings that inhabited this new reality and now it was being brandished in front of him. He'd thought to ask earlier but he'd been so focused on his own progress that he had resigned the detail to the recesses of his mind whilst death was more imminent than a stray possibility.
"Ah... so..."
"Magnus wept, have you told him anything?"
Neither Rage nor Nightmare had managed to move over to the trio's encampment, but the sudden interjection showed that the specialist berserker had made her way over already. Eyebrow cocked, even Zlatan struggled to maintain his usual nonchalance.
"I mean no offence, but we were surprised you got this far let alone be thinking about your fifth level," he replied turning to Otis. "The big guy usually handles the big picture stuff..." Zlatan trailed off, the absence of this counterpart felt evermore clearly.
"Me either, to be honest, but I still don't understand what you mean about base stats."
Albeit somewhat irritated that they had withheld information, Otis had listened as his worldview was once again changed. There were races and by proxy the sort of racism that came with difference and arrogance but, within this new realm, the concept was cranked up till the dial fell off. Firstly, countless races that existed. Beyond the human-centric, Earthly, idea of superficial bounds of skin tone, there could just as easily be humans as there were giants and totems and wastrels. These races could be manufactured through directed intervention but otherwise appeared to come into being at the whims of fate. Within the overarching bounds of these races were sub-races, all of which were infinitely more abundant. Sub-races were so easily curated that they could exist between nearby towns, if the conditions saw fit for adaptation, or the two were separate for long enough. Unlike Earth, adaptation to the point of developing distinct traits and characteristics could occur between generations, let alone many hundreds.
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
Other than the speed of change, the distinct difference was that everything was quantifiable. Every race and array of sub-races could have their every attribute and skill examined. This could occur with trust and an open sharing of information or, as Otis had already experienced, through invasive scrying techniques.
"So it might not sound great but humans as a race, especially humans like you, are fairly standard," Rage began to round out.
"Humans like me? Are you not like me?"
"Definitely not," she smiled.
Distinctly humanoid, Rage's people had been separated from an emergent cluster of mankind's early sprouting dominion, in a far-flung war before the recollected history of her race began. Nurtured by a passive tribe that called themselves sprites, the human troop gradually began to imitate their saviours. Given their description, Otis recognised the description with eery familiarity. Much like nymphs of Greek mythology, they were almost bound to nature. They had Paths that were just as diverse as all other races but physically they were bound to nature. On this new world this other race, had subraces each closest to a feature of the terrain; wood, water, earth, rock etc. There were more complex beings but they were rarer, as one would apparently expect. After a couple of generations, Rage's people were easily identifiable as a new sub-race of humans, as they adapted to a new lifestyle. After an unknown number of new births they weren't these sprites or wholly human, they were something more and something less - a blended mix of the two. Rage was a demi-nymph of a human ancestor, whose path led her towards a berserker class.
"There's no knowing if your sub-race or whatever you count as exactly, has been weakened by having never been exposed to mana, but you're lucky. Those sweet few who deem themselves purists try to create super races. They catalogued tons of base race traits before they tried to force specific stats higher, through eugenics and torturous experimentation. Don't they just sound lovely."
"And so... this is what... my max stats looked like... when I was trying to break through to level 5... all those years ago."
Concluding her history lesson, Rage scrawled a comparison of their basic race stats.
Strength 8 Agility 12 Endurance 9 Intelligence 10 Will 10 Charisma 11
Strength and endurance were both slightly reduced, whereas agility and charisma were slightly raised. This wasn't exacerbated to suggest any great diversion but it was enough.
At this point, Otis was visibly overloaded with information and struggling to wrap his head around the information. If earlier he looked as though he were chewing dirt, he was now looked pained by the continued deluge of information. Smirking at the sheer lack of knowledge, Rage levelled an exasperated stare at Zlatan before rounding the concept out in its fundamental components.
"This knowledge is fairly commonplace so, if you're still like what we know to be human, your max base stats should all be an even 10."
"I mean some people break those numbers but they're usually genetic freaks or lacking elsewhere."
"Fuck."
Looking back down at his stats, Otis realised that maybe the small improvements he saw weren't so small.
"How come I'm close to as strong as I can be without feeling much stronger."
"Practice. If you had just turned level 2 and someone else had been level 2 for months, they'd whoop you," Zlatan laughed.
"Oh."
"No one usually advances as quickly as you are now, so it's going to take a while to adjust and break through the mental blocks too. You might increase your stats above your base rate stats, before level 5 but once you hit it you'll break those basic bonds entirely."
"And a whole heap more problems," winked the battle mage.
Albeit under the threat of imminent death, it slowly began to dawn on Otis his position wasn't entirely hopeless. It wasn't that his progress was slowing or that he wasn't achieving anything, he just needed time. It was the one resource that he couldn't extend by much, but if he could survive just one more bout maybe he outpace the Overlord's expectations just enough to keep living till he managed to make his escape... somehow.
----
Huddled in the darkest reprieve of the twisting halls Suzia, stared into the bloodshot eyes of her younger friend. The Knight was wounded in more ways than one. Fighting with reckless abandon had left her with wounds easy enough to heal but the betrayal of those within The Veil had cut her far more deeply. They had both known that they were losing the fight to outside forces but now they could feel the walls closing in.
"The Smithies know something we don't. I know it."
In the days since Tiera was brought face to face with the treachery within their ranks, she had been too embarrassed, too hopeless, to go to the blacksmiths. Suzia had been the only person she had entrusted. Although she was sure that trust had been well placed, the unkempt hair and heavy bags under the healer's eyes saw the toll this additional burden had placed on her.
"I don't think I've ever seen so much movement within the sect," Suzia chuckled.
Overlooked for so long, there was little challenge for the lumbering giants to operate in total secrecy. They were a forgotten nuisance only sought after to fix and provide arms for the "real" fighters of The Veil. It was this attitude that placed The Veil in such a dire position to begin with. If the smithies ever chose to betray the order, this debacle showed they wouldn't know the magnitude of their error till legions of enemy forces resided within their hallowed halls.
"They're secretive but I know it. They won't confirm it, even to me, but I've known Haekril for too long not to see the twinkle in his eye."
Since Tiera's rejection of her troop, she had operated on missions but held the mantle of her title with disregard. What was a Knight without loyalty? Without trust in those around her? Coincidentally, the smithy had tightened its already close circle. Tiera was between two sides that were beginning to emerge within The Veil, only for now she stood on her own with Suzia by her side.
"They're on to something, Tiera."