Have you ever had trouble with privacy? As in, have you ever had someone put their noses where they didn’t belong and find out things you didn’t want being found, secrets you’d rather not be known, or just someone looking through your things.
The answer is probably yes sadly: these days it’s hard to do something without others finding out about it one way or the other, and parents have developed the bad habit of wanting to control most if not all facets of their children’s lives. It is saddening, but it is what it is and, hopefully, the coming generation will know better.
Anyways, imagine all that, then multiply it by a factor of five.
Then add a healthy dose of blackmail to the mix and you got the Greatest Game as it was in Isse’s time. Or rather, as it had been for a few millennia even before Isse’s arrival in this world.
A total lack of privacy worldwide that led to more blackmail flying around than there were birds in the skies. All of them.
Some would say that it had always been like this, Stars, most of you, dear readers, would say that it’s the same back on Earth, and I’d like to say that you’re wrong, but it was like that back in my day and I’m not around anymore to confirm whether you’re right or just exaggerating.
Pardon my mood, I’m just feeling… maudlin, today. It happens from time to time. Ha. More often than not these days, sadly. You try being around for as long as I have and not become a mass of barely repressed depression and memories one’d rather forget.
Sigh, but let’s not dilly dally now, shall we? After all, you’re not here to listen to the ramblings of an old man.
The day the events I am about to narrate happened, Isse and Albert had gone out of their home. Specifically they’d been summoned by [Lady] Serafia herself who’d wanted to chat with Isse while having Albert check on the clock he’d recently repaired to make sure the enchantments she’d had placed on it weren’t interfering with the movements of the gears. Turns out that, what had been an excuse to have a tea party with Isse, had also been a good idea because, apparently, the dumbass [Enchanter] who’d placed the Spells hadn’t thought about the high levels of mana in the clockworks nearly magnetizing the gears.
So, while he worked on trying to fix the problem without needing to change every single gear inside the clock, Isse had a lovely tea party with the [Lady] who had also invited, of all people, Morra.
But right now we are not here to speak about the happenings of that fun meeting.
No, today we are talking about a group of four people breaking into a shop that was known in all the city of Tedam for selling the best clocks in a good half of the continent, if not maybe the entirety of it.
We’ve met none of them so far: they were nobodies, most of them, Pawns of the Game that mattered little and would probably die somewhere in the dark with nobody to remember them. That is, for three of them: the last one, the fourth, was something else entirely. He was a Rook. Now, what was the function of these pieces in the Game? Well, once upon a time being a Rook meant being the King’s fallback plan, the piece used to protect his or her reputation from crumbling by being a scapegoat, and the one most proficient at destroying their enemies in the same way. It hadn’t been violent, not like they had become now. These days they had become glorified enforcers, worse than criminals, for even criminals had a credo they abided to, while Rooks just blindly followed orders.
This Rook in particular was well over Level 40 and was the strongest one serving his King.
And, currently, he was eyeing the entrance of the shop they’d been ordered to get into to dig up some dirt on the man who lived over it: Albert Sirion. An ex-Player, one of the best ones who had managed to complete the Pilgrimage of Eights. What was that? The Pilgrimage was an ancient rite that allowed anyone to leave the Game in a definite manner: the Player in question just had to complete eight tasks assigned to them by various Kings all over the world. It was hard, nearly impossible with how things were done these days, but so far it had been a sacred and respected rite and the few who had succeeded at it had been let go and never recalled.
Not this time apparently. The King had decided he needed Albert, that it was beyond important for him to come back and so here they were. If they could find anything (and there was bound to be some dirt about Albert since he had once been a Player) they could… convince him to come back. Just for one mission. Only one. It wasn’t much, right?
So there they stood, looking at the front door.
“No chance in Airm we’re going through the front door,” said Pawn 1, as the Rook had decided to call him. One through Three. Because they were just Pawns.
How cruel a destiny it was to be reduced to a mere number by those who considered themselves superior. In truth even the Rook was no more than a number to his King. Oh, sure, he was number 1, the best of them, but still, just a number. If he died, or was captured or disappeared there would be others ready to take his place. The Game always hungered for more Players, more Pieces.
“If we were a bunch of idiots we’d go in from the front. I, on the other hand, know for a fact that there’s a back entrance. Let’s go there.”
They did, and meanwhile the Rook smiled as he complimented himself for his brilliance: he had taken the time to scout out all he could about the shop, which wasn’t special per se; on the other hand his plan to blackmail the [Enchanter] he’d found out had been working on [Lady] Serafia’s clock and forcing him to mess up the enchantments so that the woman would be forced to ask him for help, now, that had been a true genius move worthy of a Player of his rank. He didn’t know that things had gone a bit different from what he’d planned, but that didn’t matter because, in the end, things had gone the way he needed them to go.
They walked around the house-shop and reached the back, where a sturdy wooden door laid in wait, locked shut.
“Do your thing,” he said, motioning Pawn 2 towards the door.
The woman nodded and, silent as a cat, reached the door, her nimble fingers going for a set of lockpicks at her side and taking out a torsion wrench and a pick. She reached the door, kneeling on the hard ground of the alley, putting her eye near the keyhole and looking at the mechanism inside with a [Lockpicker’s Eye], the Skill changing the pupil’s color for a few moments. She grunted in appreciation.
“Heh, clearly this was made by an expert, it’s much more complex than I thought.”
She rummaged around in her bag of holding and extracted two more picks, these ones much smaller, and set to work.
The lock was small and wouldn’t look out of place in any home around here, but that was all deceit: the insides were filled with components so small and arranged in such complex combinations that it would’ve taken hours just to disassemble it piece by piece.
Pawn 2 set to work, her torsion wrench in place, ready to be turned to open the door while she moved her picks inside the lock’s mechanisms, shifting pins this way and that, keeping them in place with ever smaller picks, all while avoiding the fake pins that would keep the door locked if they were moved, then making sure to rotate the ones that, if moved in any other way, would cause a chain reaction that would lock the door again.
It was a challenge, the first one she’d had in months. She could feel the Levels coming just by picking this masterwork. Oh what she wouldn’t have given to become an apprentice under the man who’d made these. Now she understood why their King wanted him back into the Game so badly.
Finally, she moved the last pin in place and, as fast as she could, she twisted the torsion wrench and listened in satisfaction as the lock clicked open.
A moment later she felt a pinprick in her eye.
Then she fell to the ground, dead.
The remaining Pawns looked in shock as their colleague, who had been working tirelessly for fifteen minutes to open this door, just fell to the ground, her eye punctured to the brain, blood flowing out fast. And there, right where the keyhole had been, having moved out the wrench and broken the picks, had emerged a long, sharp, pointed bit of… steel? Probably steel. It was now covered in blood, eye humors and, near the tip, brain matter.
They didn’t know it, but for all the woman had worked hard on cracking the lock open, the place had still been defended by one of Albert’s Skills: [Sanctuary: Trapped Locks].
“What the fuck?” whispered Pawn 3.
“She had opened it. Look, the door’s sliding open. Why did a trap activate?” asked Pawn 1.
The Rook shook his head: “It was probably a Skill. From what I’m told it’s definitely in his style: make an impossible challenge to ward off people he dislikes, then kill them anyway if they succeed. He really doesn’t want anyone to get in his home.”
Like most sane people, he added to himself.
“What do we do?” asked 1.
“We go in, obviously. Let’s not throw away her sacrifice.”
After a moment of hesitation the two Pawns moved forward, warily opening the door since the needle had retracted back inside. No more traps were activated though.
As the Rook passed by the corpse of his companion he nodded in thanks: he could’ve easily broken through the door with sheer strength, but now, because of her sacrifice, he knew what to expect from the rest of the home.
In they went and they were greeted by a short corridor with doors on both sides that led into what appeared to be a workshop with tables covered in gears and clocks that were still being assembled.
“Ok, let’s scatter and search through the lowest floor first, see what we can find. Afterwards we’ll look into the first floor.”
The two Pawns nodded and stepped forward.
Immediately the Rook felt one of his Skills activate: [Negate Ward Spell].
Fuck, that was close.
“[Deactivate Ward Spells: Thirty Minutes]. Come on guys, fast, we’re on a time limit. [Players: Enhance Senses]”
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
They moved fast, just as he’d ordered and in a matter of a few minutes they’d scoured the entirety of the ground floor, finding nothing but gears, springs, clocks both finished and unfinished and a safe that the Rook found out, through a Skill, contained a single gold coin, protected by enough traps to make most people regret their life choices.
At the end of the search they found themselves in front of the door that led to the stairs. It was, as expected, locked.
“We’re not going to have to pick it, right?” asked Pawn 3.
“None of us are trained for that my friend,” said Pawn 1.
Instead of answering Rook stepped closer to the door and, after taking a deep breath, kicked the door in with all the strength he could muster.
For a single moment as his foot touched the door he could feel the Skill permeating it, feel it empower the wood, making it stronger and more resistant. The Skill laughed at him, at his paltry strength that would’ve never managed to single handedly break it. His eyes widened slightly as he felt the blood in the Skill, as he felt it boil over and out, trying to eat his foot.
[Rook’s Charge]! he called in his mind, and immediately he felt an alien force push him onwards, but he managed to stop it, to redirect it towards his leg alone, enhancing his strength greatly as the door creaked and bent, needles of wood sprouting from it like grass, trying to stab into his foot and nearly managing to pierce through his reinforced shoes.
Then it broke in half and flew off its hinges, landing at the base of the stairs.
And the Rook heaved for breath, his heart racing a mile a minute as he remembered the feeling of blood rushing towards him.
That, ladies and gentlemen, was another one of Albert’s Skills: [Sanctuary: Bloodthirsty Doors].
Who in the actual fuck is this man? What the fuck is this? They want to recruit back a monster who’s been touched by Blood? Has the King gone completely fucking out of his mind?
These questions flew through his mind before he could stop them.
“Everything fine?” asked Pawn 1, who was looking in horror at the needles of wood slowly receding back into the door.
No, of course nothing was alright because his King was willing to break one of the oldest traditions of the Game for someone who had a Blood Class, because that was the only thing it could be: Conditions didn’t give people the Skills he had just seen the effects of.
“...Let’s keep going,” he said, shaking his head. It didn’t matter: he had orders and he wouldn’t go against them. He was just glad he didn’t have to fight that man.
Pawn 1 nodded and stepped onwards, trying his best to avoid the door that had just been kicked in. He stepped on the stairs and Rook expected them to creak ominously: they didn’t. They were well built, the wood in good condition. It must’ve been expensive. Actually, this whole place must’ve cost Albert a fortune, or at least one from the point of view of a Player. How high had he been on the Board? Had he been a Rook like him? Or something even more important, like a Bishop?
A thought crossed his mind: what if he had been a Queen at some point?
For those wondering, in the Game’s jargon Queens weren’t servants of the Kings. No, they were Players who had somehow managed to wiggle their way into a King’s everyday life, into their minds even, and could manipulate them into doing whatever they wanted.
Rook thought about that as he stepped on the stairs, but he discarded the idea as fast as it had come: nobody who’d become a Queen and managed to keep that role hidden would’ve ever abandoned the Game, and someone who’d been found out probably wouldn’t have lived long enough to tell the tale.
A step.
A sound like a sword being extracted from its sheath.
A strangled cry.
Gurgling.
A dead body.
It happened too fast. Rook didn’t even get the chance to intervene.
One moment Pawn 1 and 3 had been ascending the stairs, carefully looking at every surface, checking for anything even remotely resembling a trap, the next dozens, no, hundreds of long, thin and sharp steely spikes had emerged from the floor, walls and ceiling, piercing through the wood and the two men’s bodies, cutting through enchanted clothing, personal magical shields and defense artifacts and, finally, flesh and bone. They didn’t suffer for long at least, their brains and hearts and lungs getting practically turned into mush.
Rook too, for that matter, hadn’t been that lucky: his right leg had been inside the area of effect of this safety system and he stared in shock, the pain not yet registering, as it was pierced in multiple places, the bones cracking, the muscles tearing apart, blood pouring out as several arteries were punctured.
A few moments later he began screaming in pain and horror, although he couldn’t tell which one was more overpowering.
His mind panicked, he tried to pull the pulped mess that had been his leg out of the mesh of steel rods, uncaring that he would’ve probably just torn it off completely if he kept at it. Luckily, a few seconds later, the rods retreated back inside their hiding places. He didn’t see this, too concentrated on cradling the bleeding leg, but the moment the rods disappeared back inside the walls (as in, actually disappeared), the holes sealed themselves shut, leaving behind nothing but smooth wood paneling.
Another Skill.
This one’s name? [Sanctuary: The Price of Passage is Lifeblood].
Old Skills, these ones. Skills that hadn’t been seen for… millenia, for sure. From the time the last Knights of Lifeblood charged into the battle that would cause their deaths. And these… these weren’t even that powerful, not for the old standards. Truly, Skills and Levels had lost a lot to them. Where once upon a time A Level 50 would’ve been considered a force of nature, nowadays one of them was just really powerful, but rarely to the point where they could destroy entire cities with their hands alone.
The challenges were different, easier in a way, and people had become accustomed to them and now considered what had once been simple… complex. So they gained Levels, but the power given through those Levels was lesser because the challenge itself was lesser.
Anyways, Rook looked down at his leg, still screaming his lungs out, then a part of his mind that was [Always Lucid] made his hand move towards a belt at his hip where he stored all his potions and took out the most powerful one he had, a High Grade, Purification Type, Health Potion. He unstoppered it, the adrenaline running through his veins momentarily making the pain bearable, and poured most of the vial onto his leg, chugging down the rest.
Immediately his leg began to reknit itself, the powerful alchemical magic of the reagents encountering bones and beginning to set them in the right place (not something to be underestimated. There have been throughout history uncountable cases of people using cheap Accelerant Type health potions and ending up with their bones rebuilt wrong) while muscle fibers were stretched on top of thin threads of magic and reassembled. A mere ten seconds after the potion had been used the bones were back the way they should’ve been, the blood vessels already in working order as the muscles finished repairing themselves and skin began growing over everything.
Rook sighed in relief.
Then he stared at the bodies of the Pawns and he felt bile rising in his throat which he quickly gulped back down. They had done their job and, as every Player of the Game, knew the risks involved: doing reconnaissance in the home of an ex high ranking Player who had reached old age. It was clearly stated that this was probably going to be dangerous.
Still, he had expected none of this.
For a moment he considered retreating and leaving, his mission failed, but he quickly thought better: he had no desire to be demoted back to a Pawn.
So, slowly, he stood back up, testing that his leg, which now felt like it was crawling with ants, could support his weight. When he was certain he could walk normally he began ascending the stairs again… by climbing on the bannister. If the trap was activated by pressing the wrong floorboard this way he wouldn’t activate it again.
In time he reached the top of the stairs, where another door waited. Locked.
Still, it was quick work to break it open with his Skill from before, which had recharged, and while the door tried to puncture his booted foot (he had to use the other one since the one he’d healed had had its own boot destroyed by the trap), he was ready this time.
Then he stepped on the first floor.
Three people had died to get here and he’d half expected, as he walked through the doorway, to see mountains of gold or something like that. The sight of the sad, undecorated, corridor painted a monotonous white was thoroughly grounding and… depressing.
Is this it? he wondered.
Then he shook his head for what felt like the umpteenth time in the last… fifteen minutes. Fuck! His Skill’s timer had reached the halfway point. He couldn’t waste a second more!
Quickly, or as quickly as he could, he moved towards the closest door. This time the wood didn’t wait for him to kick it to start sprouting needles. It was if the trap had understood that it had lost the surprise effect and was now just attempting to ward him away through intimidation. As if it was waiting for something. Or someone.
Oh, I understand. The traps weren’t meant to kill us. They were just there to keep us out until Albert came back to finish the job. But since I deactivated the [Ward] Spells on the building with my Skill the whole thing is moot.
It was scary to realize that the traps that had killed his subordinates hadn’t been meant to kill. But, after all, these were Skills from an older Era where they would’ve been considered basic, something that any two bit [Rogue] could’ve just passed through without a hitch. And sure, they may have been empowered, what with them being blood Skills, but the upgrade should’ve been minimal… right?
He put those thoughts aside, like all the other ones that had come to him so far, and instead looked at the door.
The spikes seemed to be challenging him, asking “Are you willing to kick me now and lose another leg?”
The answer to that, naturally, was no. Because of that he turned towards the wall beside the door and kicked that in. He didn’t even need to empower himself, his passive Skills doing the job for him.
The spikes remained in place a moment longer, as if stupefied, then retreated back into the wood.
House three, myself one. I’m fucking losing but at least I’m not being completely destroyed.
Then he looked into the room of which the wall he’d just caved in and nearly shat his pants.
For, beyond the hole, lay a room completely filled with spider webs from floor to ceiling: every available surface had been covered in it, everything except for a dresser with a full length mirror on it. From the ceiling, hanging from strands of webbing, were dozens of assorted items, from gears to children’s toys to wooden statuettes of birds, a cute attempt at decorating a nightmarish place. At the very center of the room, kept high up from the ground, was what looked suspiciously like a hammock with a cushion and, after an extra moment of observation, he saw there was a book lying beside said cushion.
He took a step back as a single thought crossed his mind: Arachne.
It was even possible: their Knights had long since found out that the reason why the Forest of Tusca had been burned down had been that arachne had made a Nest in it and had had to be exterminated. And, wouldn’t you look at it, just a few weeks after that incident Albert came back with a girl nobody had ever seen before with no past to her name.
He wanted to think it was a coincidence, but the details added up, and if that wasn’t enough, there was also the room in front of him.
With trembling hands he took a wand out of his bag of holding and pointed it at the room, casting the Spell that had been carved in it: [Mage Picture].
The Spell immediately took a shot of the space in front of it and stored it inside its matrix.
Then the Rook turned around and ran.
He slid down the bannister, into the ground floor and scrambled out the back door, nearly forgetting to use his one, most powerful, Skill, which had been the only reason why he’d been chosen for this mission.
“[Reset the Board],” he said, before turning around and running away, not bothering to look back.
Meanwhile, back in the shop and home, everything went back to the state it had been before their break in: the boxes of gears filled themselves back up, clocks going back to their places, the three dead bodies disappeared (reappearing back at base, scaring another Pawn shitless), the back door closed itself, the lock re-engaging; the broken doors and wall went back to being pristine and functional. The blood that had been harvested by the traps was drained, leaving the container empty again as it had been for the last six years.
And all was well.