image [https://cdn.midjourney.com/a0415e82-c946-4c86-8c44-b26c230fc5c9/0_2.png]
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New Reality: 23 February 1525, Northern Italy.
They had regrouped a couple hundred yards from the walls of the French camp, on a small hill outside the park, tying the horses to a tree, fifty yards away. A small copse surrounded them, but the trees were sparse enough to let them see the plains and the enemy's camp. At the same time, Ardent was reading through the last notifications.
Your minion, Mimic, has reached level 2. You have gained 50% XP toward the next level.
The Monster Master ability (Dungeon Master School) has advanced to tier E. Monster Control cost reduced to 4 MP/second. Monster Storage increased to 2 spaces. The Create Monster spell's channel duration is reduced by 2-10 seconds, depending on the tier and type of the monster.
Important: While Monsters are stronger than the average Classed, they regenerate Health and Mana at a much slower rate and depend on Monster Storages or Dungeons for a faster recharge. Sending a Monster to Storage requires a proximity of at most 10 yards.
Your Mimic has entered Stealth and activated Automatic Return mode. Time to arrival: cca. 5 minutes. Direct connection lost.
MP remaining ATM: 300.
"Magic is powerful," Ardent said matter-of-factly, his breath letting out faint plumes of vapor, condensing in the cold morning.
"I know…" Salvatore sighed. "I almost forgot the feeling of having enough Mana… it's like flying in the sky compared to swimming in mud…"
Ardent turned his palms upward; he couldn’t know.
"I have to confess, your approach is… original," Salvatore said. "I never thought you would choose Monster Master. People prefer flashier stuff."
"It's about fucking them first," Ardent said.
Salvatore shrugged. "So it seems. OK, since we're alone, I have to warn you about something. Francis—"
"Wants revenge?" the condottiere asked.
"No, on the contrary… He likes you and wants you to marry one of his daughters. The oldest is about ten, the youngest two. Normally, at least two of them would have died young, but Donnie ensured they survived. Part of the plan: stretch the fabric of history until it breaks."
"Kings will always be kings," Ardent shook his head. "I won't impose myself upon a child."
"Chose the two years old," Salvatore suggested. "Before she comes of age, you can find some pretense and cancel."
"Out of the question. But… Do you think monarchy will survive that much?" Ardent said. "The way I see it, our society will be radically transformed."
"Mickey says the same, but my AI simulations show the transition will take decades… Is that your monster?" Salvatore pointed his hand toward the road behind.
A small cloud of dust was approaching fast, almost at horse galloping speed. When it went through puddles, mud, and droplets of water were added to the moving sphere. At fifty yards, it began to slow down, and after dismissing its cloaking, the Mimic stopped in their midst.
"I'm h-here… b-boss…" the monster panted, its tongue trailing on the ground and rusted leaves.
"Good job," Ardent patted the chest's lid, like a master his faithful dog.
"T-thank you… S-sorry, I need a m-moment…" The Mimic collapsed on itself in a heap, his straight lateral lines now bent.
"He looks like one of Salvador Dali's paintings," Salvatore giggled.
"Uh…. Up yours," the Mimic managed to say after whizzing in a deep breath. "A-and I'm an it and p-proud to b-be one."
"You must name it," Salvatore said. "And maybe you'll think twice before practicing your new powers on other people's stuff next time. Especially Legendary artifacts."
"Sorry…" Ardent lowered his head between his shoulders, sheepishly diverting his eyes. The truth was that the chest had looked empty and abandoned, and when he chose to invest his second ability point into Monster Master because it was the only Supreme option available, testing it on an old coffer made sense. "How about Meanwood? I mean, you're mean, right?…"
"It's an excellent name, Master, I'll—"
"Shut your piehole and pretend you're furniture," Ardent blurted. "We have company. The Germans."
On the field's southern edge, a dozen men were approaching on foot, between bushes, thickets, and trees, hiding from the Spanish camp's view. They had a small white parley banner and wore Landsknecht attire, with the typical slashed tunic and pants, letting the fabric underneath show. A man dressed in servant clothes was leading them, his voice carrying to the group's ears.
"Why should so few control the means of production? I'm telling you, the future is foremost for the workers. Oh, we've arrived. Hi, fellows."
"Hi, Francis," Salvatore hissed. His hand jerked up, but he transformed the facepalm gesture into a combing one, passing his fingers through his hair. "You're in a socialist phase, I see."
"Your squire is knowledgeable," one of the newcomers said, missing to connect the name with the proper owner. "Old, for a squire, but knowledgeable. Never mind. Why have you summoned us, Morlako? Weigh well your words," the man turned toward the young condottiere.
"Consider yourself lucky. The only reason I'm not running you through with my sword for working with the French is because of your father's memory," a burly and surly man added. The name had been lost in the depths of Ardent's mind, but the man's frown resembled Mickey's.
"First of all, I'm my own man," Ardent replied. "Second, you know I'm the better sword here, and third, your plan was discovered; I'm saving your lives here. Lannoy is dead, and D'Ávalos will retreat."
"We won't retreat," the burly man said deadpanned. "And France saw how we fight, at Bicocca."
"Right," Francis sighed, scratching the back of his head. "What if we try non-violence this time? Like: proletarians, unite?"
"Keep your mouth shut, squire!" one of the Germans ordered.
"Fighting is pointless, France will start to retreat from northern Italy before the week's end. Give this to Papa Frundsberg. He'll understand," Ardent forwarded a letter."
The burly man took the envelope, shrugging. "Is this why you made us come all this way? If you have some common sense, you'll surrender."
"If you have some common sense, you'll persuade the old man to go home. It's because of my late father I'm showing him this courtesy. If you decide to press on, you and your men will perish. I will give you a demonstration of our capabilities, to see with your own eyes I'm not joking. Salvatore, give them your telescope please."
While the man from the future offered the Landsknecht a telescope pulled from an inner pocket, Ardent went to the chest, opened the lid, and extracted a sniper rifle. The object was so much longer than the coffer that the Germans gasped in choir.
"Is that chest heaving?" an officer asked in a low voice.
Ardent rested the barrel on a thick branch. Raising a brief prayer, because he was relying only on artificially implanted information, and had never used such a gun before, he addressed the Germans: "Look toward your camp."
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
He wiped his forehead, sweaty from the stress, and aimed his scope. The morning's fog had started to dissipate. From the mound they were on, the Spanish camp could be seen, with a lot of people running around. Panicking? He hoped so, but some troops were preparing for battle. Unfortunately, those were the Landsknechts.
In front of the troops, three men were arguing. He was acquainted with two of them: D'Ávalos, and a thick man in his early fifty, almost as wide as tall, Frundsberg, the father of the Landsknechts. The third, he recognized from the descriptions: very tall, with a large nose. It was the former constable of Bourbon.
"Please, kill the Spaniard or the German." Francis's voice, in his ear, almost made the condottiere shoot before time. "Bourbon defected only because of my mother. She's a Karen."
"Don't keep the finger on the trigger until you take the shot, dummy," Salvatore hissed, scrutinizing the youngster. "And remember, squeeze—"
"Why don't you two go lick each other balls behind a tree, and let me work?" Ardent snaped.
"Son, I'm saddened to hear you—"
"I'm not your son, you're just ten years older," Ardent yelled at the king. "I'll shoot Bourbon, he's an arsehole. D'Ávalos promised to go away, and Frundsberg is a friend of my late father and a good man."
"No way he makes the shot. It's almost a mile away," one of the German officers stated matter-of-factly. They had passed the telescope from one to another, praising the quality of the device.
"Indeed, it is. Now… where was I?"
Adjusting the reticules as he was taught, Ardent exhaled, inhaled again, and held his breath. Remembering at the last moment to squeeze the trigger, he took the shot. The sound was loud and there was wind. Nevertheless, the bullet went on, and a sixth sense told Ardent that his mana was connected to it, due to a passive sniping perk.
Three seconds later, the former Constable of France trashed his arms and parted ways with his head. The bullet had been aimed—corrections included—at the torso, but had hit higher, with devastating effect. The fountain of blood erupting from the neck bathed both the German and the Spaniard, and the latter ran away, screaming.
Meanwhile, a German mercenary gasped. "Scheisse… he did it." More bursts of swear erupted around. It was an impossible shot, by the time standard.
"Morlako sold his soul to the devil," the unfriendly burly man whispered.
Ardent ignored their dialogue, inspecting his notifications, a wide grin of satisfaction spreading on his face.
Achievement: Poetic Justice. By granting Charles de Bourbon the same end as in the main line of history, yet two years earlier, and achieving the opposite historical effect, you have reinforced the current divergence.
Progress toward the next level: 95%
+1 Fate Point gained.
"Master, duck!" Meanwood screamed, coming alive.
A fraction of a second after Ardent dodged, a greatsword wooshed an inch over his head. Rolling back on his feet, the young condottiere let the rifle fall and unsheathed his schiavona just in time to parry a side sword.
Moving in consort, Germans were attacking him. Five times the agility of a normal person was fine but against a dozen of experimented foes, not so much. Ardent waved his body between hits, trying to hide between the trees, but he was about to be soon surrounded.
"Stop, comrades, let's—" Francis yelled, only to be run through by a sword. A 'let's get rid of him just in case' kill. With a loud gasp, the king fell on his face. Salvatore vanished, but Meanwood came to the rescue, guarding Ardent's back and parrying the swords with his tongue. To their credit, the Landsknecht fought on, non-plussed by the monster's intervention. There were three greatsword wielders there, their flourishes the greatest danger, one hit was all it took to cleave someone in two.
Fuck, I guess I'll find out if that Rezz thing works, Ardent thought, while dodging and panting.
Sweat ran down his face in rivulets, he was scared like never before in his life. The possibility of dying in battle was familiar and he could cope with that. On the other hand, the Rezz idea was messing with his mind, spawning intrusive thoughts one after another. Would he lose his mind, like Francis? Will the new Ardent still be himself, or a clone? There were so many weird things he had read on the tablet that didn't make any sense to him.
Meanwhile, one of the men had untied Salvatore's horse and was galloping down the slope, screaming for help to get the Landsknechts' attention. The Germans were now buzzing like a swarm of wild bees whose hive had been attacked by a bear. Dragon, Ardent's steed, was trying to chew on his reins to free himself.
I should never have tied him in the first place…
It was harder and harder to parry and dodge the hits. A fist hit him in the chest, hard, after a loud bang. One of the Germans had shot him with a handgun. A rare weapon for those times, but not unheard of. He had a hole in his right pectoral the size of a fist, going all through, air whizzing in and out with each breath.
I'm stupid! How could I forget?
"Peace… Stop…" Crawling on his belly and frotting blood, Francis grabbed two men by the ankles. All Landsknechts looked toward the king for a second.
Plunging forward, Ardent grabbed his rifle back and shot the ones held by Francis in the chest. Parrying a side sword with the butt, he discharged it again, in the face of a greatsword wielder. The last shot in the magazine blew someone's kneecap. The close range and the unwieldiness of the rifle got Ardent a cut his forehead, half-blinding him with a torrent of blood. Nevertheless, with only eight foes against them, he felt he had the advantage.
Meanwood beheaded the wounded man, then cut another one's legs. Ardent smashed a head into smithereens, using the rifle as a club, then plunged the barrel into the burly man's mouth like a spear. The force of the blow raised the man three feet in the air, breaking his neck. Then the remaining enemies ran away. Ardent fell on a knee, his ears drumming with his heartbeats and the rush of combat.
"Here he is," someone shouted. Salvatore, Donnie, and Mickey were running out from behind the walls accompanied by the hundred riflemen they had trained. Behind them, a line of black-dressed Landsknechts followed at a slower pace.
"Advance and aim. Prepare to fire at my order!" Michelangelo shouted.
"Fuck…" Looking back to the valley, Ardent froze. When he had killed the constable, the German troops were a thousand yards further. Now, they had covered half that distance, and coming fast, with a vengeance. Albeit uncoordinated, the mass of twelve thousand soldiers was nevertheless frightening. Struggling against weakness and exhaustion, he rose on his feet.
"Let me heal you," Donnie screamed.
"Heal Francis!" Ardent yelled back, rushing to untie his horse.
"Fire at will!" At Michelangelo's order, the riflemen, some kneeling and others on their bellies, resting their rifles on stumps or mounds of earth, unleashed a volley after another, with devastating effect. The incoming Landsknechts, now between three and four hundred yards away, were mown by the dozens with each passing second. Of the group that attacked Ardent, only two survived, losing themselves behind their comrades, and running on.
Coming from behind, their own Landsknechts took position to protect the riflemen as they reloaded. After the deadly result of the first salvo and seeing the rival infantry blocking them, the attackers stopped and regrouped.
A huge bearded man, on a horse, advanced between the two armies, showing the undeterred type of courage few have. Papa Frundsberg, the most respected mercenary leader. "What's the meaning of this? My officers were promised safe passage," the man shouted.
"I'm going to talk with him. Don't shoot."
"Where are you going, idiot?" Michelangelo yelled.
Spurring his stead to gallop, Ardent beelined toward the giant, followed by the Mimic, who was cursing, trying to keep up. As he approached, all the hostile Landsknechts took a few steps back, their gasps akin to the noise of the sea, going around in waves. "Stop your men, Frundsberg. Your officers attacked me first!" Ardent blurted when he reached the German.
"M-Morlako?" Frundsberg stuttered, reining back his horse. "What is this devilry?"
"This what?" Ardent looked around. "Oh… I see… What are you doing here, Meanwood?" he scolded the Mimic. "You're scaring my father's friend."
"W-anted… to w-warn y-you, M-master… you h-have… s-something in y-your eye," Meanwood stuttered, panting heavily.
Patting his face, Ardent discovered the reason for his half-blindness and why he was tilting his head to a side. Planted in his eye up to the hilt, a side sword exited through the back of his cranium. Red notifications were blinking in a corner of his vision.
My HP must be low… but… I guess my brain is still over fifty percent intact.
Gripping the handle, Ardent extracted the blade inch by inch and threw it on the ground. It hurt, but as soon as it was out, he started casting a [Minor Heal] and felt his face reconstructing itself by the second. "Devilry has nothing to do with this. It's magic."
Ardent's voice was now calm, and he walked his gaze around, beginning to see with the growing eye too, albeit like through a fog. The Landsknechts whose eyes he met shivered and avoided looking at him, crossing themselves.
"Listen, you pimp-dressed bastards," he yelled as loud as he could, pushing Dragon closer to the landsknechts ranks. "I was trying to save your lives when those mad dogs jumped me without a warning. My bad. I should have listened to the saying: doing a good deed is like fucking your mother. Hear me well, as from now on, I'm no longer your brother in arms. Make your choice. Are you men or arseholes? If men, you'll go back to your home. If you're arseholes, I'll fuck you today and tomorrow. Whoever crosses this line, will die here and now."
He prepared to spit on the ground, as he had no way to make a line, but Meanwood came to a timely rescue and snapped his tongue on the dirt, making a clear demarcation in the muddy soil. Again, as one, the mercenaries took a step back. Silence fell on the field, and it was so thick one could cut it with a knife.
"Go home, Frundsberg," Ardent said, looking into the older man's eyes, then turned his horse and went up the hill again, at a trotting pace.
"Master, can you carry me in the storage?" the Mimic wailed at about half the way.
"After we're out of sight. For now, pretend you're a tireless killing machine," Ardent sussured through his clenched teeth.
"Eeee…" the monster whimpered.
"Why? We could have killed them all," Mickey shouted at him as soon as they were back.
"Are they running?" Ardent asked. Turning to look would have meant he was unsure of himself.
"Without even going back to their camp to pack. I'd bet they never marched so fast in their lives," Salvatore said. "Sorry I took my leave, but it was to bring help. I'm useless in combat."
"Because it's better to have them run and spread the news of our invincibility than losing men, time, and ammunition. That was not a fight to win without spilling our blood too," Ardent growled at Michelangelo, who jeered back but kept his thoughts to himself.
"Good thinking, son. Peace is the best solution," Francis interjected, giving Ardent a thumbs up. He looked in pretty good shape for having been stabbed in the belly minutes earlier.
"Sure…" Ardent grimaced, looking at the corpses around. Now that he was out of combat, the 'why' questions assaulted him. Did the Germans attack him because of Bourbon's death? To capture the gun? Kill a wizard? With a shrug, he chased away those worries. Id didn't matter anymore. Instead, he took a look at his notifications. He was now level twelve, a hairwidth away from the next level.