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Bomba, the lanky barkeep, smiled as she handed me a mug of ale.
RIP gestured to the drink and spoke with exaggerated formality. “You must drink one fully before we retire to our table.” He burst into laughter, shaking my arm and spilling some ale.
He reminded me of Calico, my dog. When I lived with my mom, Calico would pounce on me every day after school with exuberant assaults of jumps, wags, and licks. At such a young age, it took an effort to hold onto my books—an annoyance then, and I took the animal’s attention for granted. At my aunt’s house, coming home from school left a hole in my chest. Sometimes, it felt so empty it ached.
I did my best to enjoy the moment with RIP. I drank while he listed the things he thought I needed to do. “Look, man. The first thing you need to do is get a woman. You’ve got three beautiful girls without men on their arms. That won’t last forever, you know. You’re crazy not to move in. This game has been kind to our physiques—if you know what I mean.”
Before he dug himself into a hole, I saved him. “I gotcha, don’t worry. I’m already working on something in the romance department.”
RIP showed both surprise and admiration. He held up his hands. “I just want to make sure you’re okay, man, because some things are too keen to miss out on—if you know what I mean.”
It cued my time to agree.
He erupted with approval and slapped the bartop. “As long as I know you’re on the case, I’ll hang loose.”
It encouraged me to know that RIP gave me some credit.
“Next, you gotta level up, man! What are you doing?” He pointed at me and shook his head. He wouldn’t like my recent decision to stay on campus, so I laughed nervously, and RIP joined me, although he had no reason. He seemed eager to be a part of any inside joke.
We changed the subject and talked about my time in the library. RIP cracked up while I told him about my routine. I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t a lame way to play a fantasy game. As I described my painstaking efforts of penmanship and methodical endeavors of book sorting, RIP’s face twisted into a comic mask of disbelief. “Man, that is heinous! I can’t believe you’re going through all that.”
“Nah, it’s kinda cool. I picked up a writing skill and a research rank of 13.”
“Research? Is that a skill? Rank 13 is pretty high. I don’t think any of us have a double-digit rank in skills, although Pinky’s survival rank must be up there. Although, I guess it makes sense—we’re doing all sorts of things with our day while you stay in the same groove.”
His assessment of my strategy might have been derisive, but I gave him a pass. I wasn’t an easily offended person. Calling out infractions and asking for apologies seemed like such a fruitless pursuit. Besides, finishing the first mug fortified me with confidence.
“I gotta eat. This drink is already going to my head.”
RIP made a dramatic gesture to Bomba that we needed refills. “My dear Bomba—please inform Luis we’ll need the finest from his kitchen tonight. Let’s get some pheasant goulash if there’s any leftovers. And definitely some of that keen buttered onion bread.”
As Bomba refilled our mugs, RIP leaned on the bar and repeated the order emphatically. “If you could get us that dip for the onion bread—you do not know how choice that would be. And I’m talking enough for the entire table because those girls will eat all the dip!” He pointed a finger in accusation. “They don’t care, man. That’s no joke. They’ll snort it all if you let them. They can’t gain weight, so they’ve become gluttons!”
Bomba shrugged. “I’ll bring two bowls of dip out, my dear—one for the boys, one for the girls.”
RIP’s eyes widened with the brilliance of her suggestion, and he gave her a thumbs-up.
Bomba nodded, winked, and went to the kitchen.
RIP handed me a refilled mug. “They have real beds here. And you will not believe their food. It’s so keen. You’ll never want to eat in that heinous cafeteria again.”
We joined the girls. Their mad grins hinted that Charitybelle probably told them about our romance, so I avoided the subject. Not knowing what else to say, I returned only a nervous smile.
After the moment passed, we discussed my theory about saving power points for the endgame. I explained why I thought developing skills took priority over gaining levels. RIP attempted to derail the topic when copious amounts of onion bread arrived, but the ladies kept me focused.
I collected my thoughts and took a deep breath before speaking. “If spells and combat abilities come from spending power points, then you should stop spending them until your skills are high. If you spend them later in the game, you’ll have a menu of better options.” My inebriation made me stumble over some of my words. “You wanna leap-frog over the low-level stuff and save points for the ult powers.”
They debated and discussed the implications of my theory as I ate, drank, and listened. Fabulosa remained unconvinced, but I became too intoxicated to care. ArtGirl argued saving points could be dangerous, but they agreed that Charitybelle and I were smart to keep the school’s aura of protection.
The discussion deflated RIP’s insistence that I should start leveling. “You know, man, the farther behind you fall in the leveling curve, the more danger you will be when grouping up with us. The first few levels are a joke, but we can’t always control who the monster attacks. And I’m kinda like the group’s tank—and I take that job seriously. I’d feel bad if I lost aggro on something, and it knocked you out of the game.”
I nodded in appreciation as he lectured.
“You’re stressed about other players and the long game, and I get that, man, but monsters can kill you, too. And how far are you going to get without allies?”
RIP wanted to help me in the long game. I couldn’t deny the truth to his words. While Charitybelle and I ranked up our academics, crafting, and combat skills, the rest of the gang leveled in the field, becoming more durable.
RIP wanted some male bonding. While my intoxicated state somewhat placated him, he fed me tasty little stories, each a parable extolling the virtues of adventuring.
As more patrons entered the pub, the place got louder. A table by us broke out in songs in an unrecognizable language. We shouted over the din.
I drank and listened to their stories.
When an uptempo song caught the room, some locals began to dance, and the ladies joined them. Fabulosa tried to get RIP to join her, but he resisted. When Charitybelle saw them go, she shot out of her seat as if jolted by electricity. She caught my arm, but I clung to the table like a castaway on a life raft.
“I’m sorry, I don’t dance.”
Charitybelle gave me a pained expression. “Really? Why not?”
“I don’t know. I guess I don’t enjoy it.” I leaned back and pretended to relax.
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“Why not?” She bore a pained expression.
“I don’t know—dancing isn’t my thing. It just doesn’t make sense. I’m fine with watching.”
“Oh, no, you’re not.” Charitybelle’s eyes shone as gears worked in her head. “Well, then, let me put some sense into it. Dancing operates under the same principle as a wave. Waves are periodic disturbances to masses that would otherwise be at rest—” Charitybelle gestured toward RIP and me cowering behind the table.
RIP looked away, unswayed.
Charitybelle tilted her head toward the dance floor. “Bodies in a wave excite and affect their neighbors. This is called oscillating energy. Each connects to those around them, losing their sense of self and becoming part of a greater whole. And it’s fun!” She grinned at her explanation and excitedly shifted her weight between her feet.
Who could resist that?
I exhaled heavily and allowed her to pull me into the dance area. Luckily, the alcohol lubricated me enough to shed inhibitions. Perhaps this explained how birds learned to take to the air. By getting them drunk, they forget they don’t know how to fly.
Charitybelle mimicked the other dancers, losing herself in the rhythm—and soon I lost myself too.
We danced while the uptempo songs lasted. The exercise felt good, and afterward, we listened to the other players pontificate about future adventures.
The gang developed their own slang for the game, using terms and references I didn’t recognize. I didn’t get inside jokes and found myself in the middle of conversations and squabbles whose points I’d missed. It made me a little sad. The intimacy served as a constant reminder that I remained on the periphery.
Did I lack the social gene that connected me to others? They weren’t to blame. They tried to bring me into the fold. For whatever reason, I didn’t have it in me to go along with the crowd, explaining why I always felt like a stranger. People without a home don’t have the luxury of going with the flow and bonding with friends. I played this game only to make money, which made me slightly ashamed.
I drank more to cheer myself until Charitybelle tapped my shoulder. She shouted in my ear. “We have to get back to school.”
I gave her a look of incomprehension.
“Check your buffs.”
I focused on the icons in the buffs and debuffs in my peripheral vision. Two icons appeared.
Debuff
Inebriation
-2 Agility, -2 Intelligence, +2 Strength, +2 Willpower
Duration
6 hours, 32 minutes
Buff
Ivory Tower Power
Immunity from player damage, lasting until level 5 or until you attack another player. Immunity is temporarily suspended after leaving university grounds for longer than 12 hours.
Duration
16 minutes, 24 seconds
Charitybelle wasn’t wrong. We’d been away for almost 12 hours and should head back. I forgot about the 12-hour grace period for the immunity buff and became grateful she minded her interface. We weren’t in any visible danger, but I had enough ale and wanted to return.
RIP waved his hands when he saw us leaving. “Oh, no. Veto! Veto!”
The women overturned him in a chorus. “Overruled!”
RIP’s reluctance to protest hinted that he had grown accustomed to their opposition bloc.
I patted him on the shoulder. “Sorry, pal. It looks like the adjournment stands.”
He grumbled in disgust.
Charitybelle arbitrated a compromise. “I motion we continue this revelry tomorrow.” After a round of ayes, she knocked a wooden cup against the tabletop. “The motion carries.”
I woke up alone in my dorm room the next day, having no recollection of arriving. My night of debauchery served as a welcome diversion, and the absence of a hangover meant I could go back to studying.
Charitybelle kissed me good morning at breakfast with a declaration that I had passed out early the previous night. Was it a comment about me drinking too much? I had to be careful not to lose my wits, my life, or my girlfriend and watch my intake. Getting dizzy wasn’t worth it. Without remembering how I fell asleep, I let the matter drift as we dressed for the day. It seemed always safe to say nothing.
After breakfast, Charitybelle suggested a goal for the day. “We should hit the library.”
“Are you thinking of taking up manuscript creation? I know a certain librarian who can help you with that.”
“No way. I’m just thinking we should acquaint ourselves with this world’s tech, history, and customs. It’s a given that our modern brains aren’t suited to survive the wilderness.”
“You don’t think Fab and the others can survive? Don’t let them hear you say that.”
Charitybelle flapped her hand. “Oh, they’re just hunting.”
“Hunters know how to survive, don’t they?”
Charitybelle rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. My dad took me hunting once. I hated it. He pretends to live off the land, but he’s a tourist at best. He gears up with supplies and equipment made by factories, and as soon as he runs out of something, he hightails it back to civilization.”
I grunted. I wasn’t much of an outdoorsman, but I could see her point.
“If we’re going to build a log cabin, we ought to learn how to do it first.”
I dramatically stroked my chin. “Gee, if it only had a catalog system to help us find books on lumber and woodworking.”
“I hear they have a great one now. Not that we’ll need it. You probably have the whole building memorized.”
“Pretty much. Everything except the top floor.”
“Then it’s a date.”
We clinked cups of juice together to toast the itinerary.
After a long morning of research, we went to the academy and took turns nailing the target dummies with cantrips to rank up our primal skills. After five casts of my cantrip, Shocking Reach, I ran out of mana. As I waited for my mana to return, I watched Charitybelle perform a Charge attack. Combat abilities like Charge didn’t require mana and ranked up her skill in piercing weapons. When she finished, she sat down beside me. A few minutes later, she stood back up and slammed Shocking Reach spells into the target dummy. I looked at her status. It surprised me she was, once again, flush with mana.
Charitybelle crooked an eyebrow. “Do you see now the benefit of Rest and Mend?”
My mana bar’s feeble recovery rate showed only a ten percent refill. She ground up her primal skill while I twiddled my thumbs.
Charitybelle gave me a self-satisfied grin. “You’re like the guys at my chess club who don’t know their openings. They waste time playing noisy games of bughouse. But in a serious game, the clock ticks even during basic moves. Everyone who knows their openings knows Morphy’s Defense follows a Ruy Lopez. It’s a given.”
I frowned and scratched my head. “You lost me, babe. What does the Lopez-whatever have to do with mana?”
“You’re wasting valuable time—and that’s a flaw in your scheme to rank up your skills. You’re being penny-wise and pound-foolish.”
I crossed my arms but couldn’t help but laugh at her I-told-you-so expression. I had to hand it to her—she knew how to press my buttons, and she wasn’t wrong. Downtime had been costing me many minutes of daylight.
Recanting my ascetic vows, I spent my first and only power point on Rest and Mend.
Power (ability)
Rest and Mend (tier 1)
Prerequisites
Light magic rank 1
Cooldown
10 minutes
Cast time
Channel
Description
Increases out-of-combat health and mana restoration by a factor of 10. Concentration must be maintained to sustain the effect.
Choosing this would double my skills-grinding rate. Because it required concentration, this ability counted as a channel. If anyone interrupted me, I would need to wait ten minutes to recast it.
In addition to regenerating mana faster, Rest and Mend restored health. It surprised me that the devs didn’t integrate Rest and Mend into the game’s core mechanics—spending a point on it seemed compulsory. What player wouldn’t want Rest and Mend? Perhaps the game offered an alternative that made this power redundant.
After I spent the power point, I joined Charitybelle’s rhythm of attacking and resting. It occurred to me that I could increase my mana pool by increasing my intelligence. Heavenly Favor added two intelligence points, thus increasing my mana by 20. Other ways to improve my intelligence stat included leveling or finding magic gear, but neither resided on campus.
Having more mana meant I could spam my spells more—and thus increase my magic skill ranks. Wanting more mana gave me an excuse to adventure. As long as I stayed below level 5, leveling a few times wouldn’t erase my Ivory Tower Power buff. Perhaps I could have my cake and eat it too.
“I think I’m going to join the gang on a hunt.”
Charitybelle laughed. “After all of RIP’s coaxing last night, you’re deciding that now?”
“RIP assured me they can safely power-level me. The monsters they’re fighting now will speed me through my first few levels.”
“You’ll need to be careful since you’re squishy. You won’t be very useful without combat skills, but they’ll be happy to let you leech some of their experience. I wish I could go. I’m almost level 5 already.” Charitybelle made a pouty face, but it didn’t change anything. She had to stay behind.