image [https://cdn.midjourney.com/45a5b590-edfc-44fb-9c9e-dbf4cdcfada0/0_3.png]

----------------------------------------

New Reality: 10 June, The Balkans

Ardent woke up in the chants of nightingales and starlings. It was a hot morning, and the scent of freshly cut hay that made their mattress was intoxicating. He extracted his arm from under Myrtle's head, after kissing her hair. She returned to her soft snoring a second later and he went out of Ana's hut.

Pulling a bucket from the fountain, he threw a handful of cold fresh water on his face, then took out his toothbrush and paste—courtesy of Leonardo's ingenuity—and washed his mouth in the trough nearby. Their small army was camping in the clearing around.

You are susceptible to receiving a secondary quest. Check with your father-in-law, Martin Martin.

What the heck?

Hurrying to search for his father-in-law, he noticed the priest lying in the grass, at the edge of the forest. Martin was not sleeping but his injected eyes spaced out every few seconds. He was drunk. Returning to the well, Ardent grabbed the bucket and took it with him, splashing half the water over Martin's head.

"Kill me," Martin said.

The second half of the bucket followed.

"I'll fuck your mother's dead ancestors in the ass!" Martin yelled, slapping the air to chase the water away.

"Nice to see you back in shape," Ardent said, squatting next to the priest. "Now spill the beans, what's up?"

After wiping his nose with his fingers, Martin waved his hand in the air.

Martin Martin, Juggernaut, Lvl. 30 wants to share a quest with you. Accept? Y/N

"Yeah…"

Family Quest:

Martin Martin's son, Martin Martinko Martin—

"Martin Martinko Martin? Wow… You're so dumb you couldn't think of a proper name?" Ardent guffawed.

"I'll fuck your ass while you're screwing your mother," Martin yelled. "Everything Martin is beautiful!"

Ardent shook his head, concentrating on the blue text. It had bad news.

—who was kidnapped by the Turks as a young boy, has now become a Mystic Champion of Wild Magic. He has been indoctrinated by the Turks and is a fervent believer in their mission.

Objectives:

Make peace between Martin Martin and his son, Martin Martinko Martin

Or

If it comes to a fight, stop them from killing each other.

Reward: 1 Fate Point per survivor.

"How old is he?" Ardent asked.

"About your age, twenty and something…"

"You forgot what year your son was born?" the condottiere frowned.

"You forgot when you were born too," the priest yelled back.

"I was a toddler when the Turks destroyed my village, you morron. … never mind, arguing with idiots helps with nothing. You're not going to kill your son, right?"

"What choice do I have?" Martin screamed. "He's of my blood, he must be a formidable warrior, ten feet tall and eight wide, like myself. If it's about choosing between my son and my country, faith, and nation, then—"

"You're just eight feet tall," Ardent noted.

"So? He must be better."

"Grmpf…" the young warrior snorted. To skip talking, he summoned Ana —who had slept in an adjacent hay barn —in the monster storage, then out of it, near them. "We're in trouble, can you do a Tarot reading? Ouch!"

"You look nice, Ana!" Martin noted.

The woman was naked. She wouldn't have been if she had kept the large bath towel around her, but apparently, slapping it over Ardent's head took priority.

"I thought minion-master brutality is forbidden," Ardent complained.

"Blow me," the Dryad said, making a dress of moss and leaves appear over her body.

"No, thanks, Francis is better suited for the task…"

"What do you want?" the woman sneered, raising the towel for another hit.

"Do a Tarot reading for Popa," Ardent scowled, protecting his face with his elbow. "Please."

Ana gestured in the air, and then strange noises started in the woods. A minute later, two tree stumps appeared, one larger, one smaller, walking on their roots, like Meanwood in their unelegant gait. In no time, the taller stump settled into an improvised table, and the other in a stool on which the woman stood. "Cut the cards," the Dryad offered the pack to Ardent.

"It's for Popa, I've just told you."

She nodded and moved the deck to face the priest. "Cut the—"

"I'm a priest, I won't indulge in devilry. Ouch!" Ardent slapped the priest's head, seconded by Ana, with the towel, after which Martin reluctantly divided the Tarot package into two halves.

Ana arranged cards on the improvised table, nine of them face up, a tenth one face down. There were various figures there that Ardent recognized: a king, a knight, a joker, a priest… and others that he didn't know at all. The next to last card was a skeleton holding a scythe. A bad omen, if any.

"Reveal the last card," Ana commanded.

With shaking fingers, Martin grabbed the Tarot card. It fell from his hand, at first, his meaty fingers far from being nimble. But when finally the picture was shown, both men jerked in befuddlement. It was a simple horizontal line, on a neutral-grey background.

"What the heck is that?" Ardent asked.

"A minus," Ana said. "Either something will appear that will negate the last card, or a fate worse than death awaits you, Priest…"

"Almighty, help me!" Martin crossed himself. "Don't let me be transformed into a foul zombie or minion like this witch here… sorry, I meant—"

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

"I know what you meant," Ana threw him an ugly stare. "Now, I will return to my bath, if you don't mind."

"Err… sorry for summoning you without notice," Ardent said.

She snorted and left without any further words. The priest was spewing some nonsense, which Ardent ignored. He walked to the top of the hill, beckoning Salvatore on the way.

"What's up with him and his son?" Salvatore asked once they met.

"You eavesdropped?"

"You talk very loud," the man shrugged.

"Ten years or so ago, Martin was drunk in the next village, and the Turks came for the devishirme. They recruit young boys and train them into Janissaries. They took Martinko and shot his mother dead… I heard she jumped at them with an axe or something. People say Martin is sane, compared to her."

Salvatore sighed, refraining from more comments.

"Now, give me the device," Ardent said.

"I'll do it," Salvatore forwarded his hand in a stopping gesture, before extracting a small sphere from his inventory and throwing it up in the air, as one does with a pigeon. Two blade wings appeared laterally, and a plasma line behind. In no time, the drone disappeared over the top of the trees, heading east. "I still don't understand whay aren't you using the Dragonling."

"He's a trump card I don't want to reveal before its time," Ardent said, then sat on the grass, hands under his head, relaxing.

"I see," Salvatore nodded, sitting near him. "Forwarding controls to your phone."

A few minutes later, the smartphone buzzed. Ardent opened it and looked intently at the screen. The aerial view offered a detailed image of the enemy's army. That was the good news. The bad one was their proximity, about five miles. It meant the battle was going to happen before sunset. And most likely, before noon, or the attackers would get the sun in their eyes.

"Alarm!" Ardent yelled. "Prepare yourselves!"

He also sent a chat message to those who had the System:

[Ardent to all]: The Turks are closing in. Be ready.

Lower on the clearing, the Mimic produced a trumpet and clamored a short motif.

"Isn't that the Imperial March?" Salvatore asked.

"Maybe," Ardent grinned sheepishly.

----------------------------------------

The Ottomans entered the wide valley displayed for battle, their army anchoring itself on the hills, adopting an oblique line facing Ardent base. Multiple rear guard units meant they were aware of his fast hit-and-run tactics. Light infantry and cavalry were also spread around the wings, ready to fight inside the forests if needed.

It was a big army, forty to fifty thousand strong. Most of the garrisons in Belgrade and the small towns on the way, and half came from Constantinople, led by none other than Suleiman the Magnificent. Ardent felt proud to be awarded such attention.

Unbeknownst to the Turks, Ana's hill had been transformed into a redoubt, earthworks, and trenches raised and dug in the forest. It could have resisted a World War One assault, and the Ottomans had no cannons to speak of, they had left them behind to move faster.

Ardent's plan was all about speed too. He was going to lure the Turks into attacking the hill, resist, then, after a second attack would come, with more troops, thinning the enemy's wings, launch his Texas Rangers on them. His light cavalry was waiting on the other side of the valley.

Pleased of himself, he rubbed his hands. Surprisingly, a messenger carrying a white flag rode toward the hill, stopping near the forest and waving his banner with one hand, and a letter with the other.

[Ardent to all]: Someone in the first line bring that message to me.

Five minutes later, a Māori Warrior arrived, carrying the letter. Ardent opened and read it, then yelled: "Popa! There's a message from Martinko!"

The priest came running, his heavy steps sending rumblings into the ground, with Myrtle not far behind. She arrived first and snatched the letter, reading it aloud:

"'I, Agha Kutsal, formerly known as Martin Martinko, invite my biological father, the renegade priest Martin Martin, to meet me on the field below the hill. My sister, Myrtle, and her husband, the Morlako, are welcome to join. No one aside those three should come.'"

"It's dangerous," Martin thundered. "I'll fight him alone!"

"There will be no fight. He's my, baby brother, I'll convince him to return to us!" Myrtle yelled at her father, clenching her fists.

Ardent groaned. The priest had three layers of armor on him. Atop the usual leather jerkin was a chainmail and then an enchanted plated cuirass. It was certain he considered his son a great threat, but in doing so, he had reduced his mobility to almost zero. "We'll go together," he decided. "I want to take the size of this champion of wild magic… and save him, if possible. Maybe he's enthralled and I can lift the curse."

"Let's do it. The faster it's over, the better," The priest blurted and walked down the hill, sobbing.

"Fuck you, idiot!" Ardent mumbled to himself, going after Martin, with Myrtle following closely.

They burst out of the forest a couple of minutes later. "Go tell my son I'm here!" Martin bellowed, making the messenger's horse buckle.

The man, a skinny youngster clad in white, pulled the reins until the horse calmed down, then dismounted, letting the animal free, exhorting it to go away with a slap on the rump. Turning toward the giant and crossing his arms, he said in the local Vlach dialect: "I'm Martinko."

"It can't be!" Martin gasped, taking a step back, with both arms forward, like to keep the devil back. "You're… tiny!"

Knowing that looks could be deceiving, Ardent activated his Insight. Martinko had no magic whatsoever in him, on the contrary, he seemed devoid of any core, Mana Body, or channels, all three of those being common occurrences among the System users.

"It is me," the young man repeated with a smirk.

Myrtle dashed forward. "Don't attack him!" Ardent yelled.

"Baby brother!" Destroying Martinko's obvious attempt at keeping a cool attitude, Myrtle hugged him tightly, crying, and kept at it until he abandoned his mask of indifference and returned the hug.

"I'm happy to see you too," he said, tears gathering in his eyes. "I'm glad you come."

"Son, you're not going to fight me, right?" Martin asked, with hope shining in his eyes. "Come back to us."

"What are you talking about?" Martinko frowned, pushing his sister away. "I'm not going to fight anyone, I came here to say my mind and farewell. I was your son, once, but no longer. That morning, when you laid drunk and the Turks took me, our blood ties were cut… I hated you so much… for years…"

"Son… I'm so sorry…" Martin kneaded his meaty fingers. "If only—"

"Enough!" Martinko raised his voice a notch. "Know that I don't hate you anymore. I came to realize my abduction was the best thing that could happen to me. I was entrusted to a wonderful family, a Sufi wiseman, and his charitable wife. They taught me to read and write, maths, poetry, philosophy… They were better parents than you, by far."

"Martinko…" Martin whimpered. "I'm—"

"I don't need excuses, I made my peace with it. I'm here to say goodbye, and to give you a blessing."

"Little brother, come with us," Myrtle interjected.

Martinko shook his head and raised his right hand in the air.

"To you, dear priest, this blessing be:

May every sip, from this day hence,

Hold naught of wine's intoxicating sense.

For when your lips the cup shall meet,

Its taste shall turn to water-sweet.

And so forth, from spirits shall your mind be free."

A giant slap of Mana hit Martin from above, throwing him on the ground on all fours, heaving. The burst of Magic had shone like lightning, bright, dazzling, making the hair stand on his body, but to Ardent's senses, Martinko still had no magic in or around him.

A Blessing: Cure Alcoholism had been applied to Juggernaut Martin Martin by a Mystical Saint. From this day on, all alcohol Martin drinks will taste like water and will not affect him.

"What have you done to me? It can't be!" Martin screamed. He moved his right hand to the belt where he had a flask, but because he was weakened by the Mana burst, he fell on his belly. Turning to a side, trashing his legs, the priest managed to pull the cork and drank the content of the flask in one go. "Nooooo!" he wailed, pulling his hair. "Noooo…" he repeated in a whisper, then his head met the grass and his thick arms and legs went limp. Martin had fainted.

So this is the fate worse than death, huh? Ardent thought.

"A word," Martinko addressed his sister and brother-in-law. "I have His Highness's ear, and he was magnificent enough to let me tell you this: retreat. The attack will start in half an hour, and we'll win. He… liked your approach to war, Ardent. Head my advice. Run, hide… and then, when things calm down, come to us. His Highness doesn't hold grudges. All competent people can find a well-rewarded employment in his service."

"Tell His Highness that we appreciate his offer," Ardent said immediately, to stop an outburst of sentimentality and pleas from Myrtle, "but the show's not over until the fat lady sings. We'll take our chances… Nevertheless… Please tell Soleiman that we don't intend to take Constantinople. We'll stay to the west of Bulgarian Morava. From now on, if he keeps to his own affairs, we keep to ours."

"Hahaha… Take Constantinople… You have a great sense of humor, brother in law…"

"Glad you like it. We're good, yes?" Ardent rushed to ask. "I mean, no hard feelings, no spell shit while we have our backs turned to you, all peace and Aloha, right?"

"It was nice to see you, sis," Martinko said after a brief snort aimed at Ardent. "Take care." Turning on his heels, the young man started to run toward the Turkish army.

Two Fate Points were gained for observing a peaceful confrontation between the two Martins.

Undeserved, but why search the gift horse in the mouth?

"What do we do with Papa?" Myrtle asked.

"Pfff…" Ardent sighed, scratching his head while looking at the immense unconscious mound of flesh. He slapped Martin a couple of times, leaving red marks on the livid cheeks, but the priest stayed out. A Cleanse failed as well, there was nothing to cleanse there. "I can't drag him up the hill, sorry," he shook his head. "Let's leave him here. He can survive a good amount of trampling and bullets… and if not, he'll rezz."