The Battle (6 page)

Having a blade of such caliber was like owning a nuke. Good thing there weren’t many adamant smiths. At least I myself knew of only one.

I decided to get a simpler weapon. Rarely was there a need to maim players. Adamant was the last resort when everything else had proven useless. Only then should the bloodthirsty staff come into play.

The ear-choppers finished bandaging me. I sent them away. As I walked in a circle, I avoided looking at my old body, which the warriors now pressed carefully into the sand, face down. My new body had a slight limp. There was some double vision. The tightness of the shoulder belt and the painful sensations made my posture a bit awkward.

Walking the body around like a stubborn horse, I ground my teeth and, gently pressing the wounded arm to my chest, hummed a song,

"Look below, there's our field over there,

With our one motor gone,

We can still carry on,

Comin' in on a wing and a prayer..."

I stopped short, noticing Butterfly singing along soundlessly and slapping her chiseled thigh in rhythm.
Elven music lover...

Everything seemed to be working, albeit with difficulty. My consciousness was somewhat blurred and slow. A lack of neurons, perhaps?
You were one crafty serpent, Tavor, but not too bright.

I sat down in the lotus position right on the sand and pulled up the virtual interfaces. I greedily browsed through my new goodies.

And some goodies they were! Level 300! How did he manage to get so far, Sungoddammit?! Time trick? Or by the efforts of a whole conveyor belt of slaves?

His stats were stunning: a fortress of a man! 40,000 health, armored like a secret vault and with the muscle-power of a stamping press. I knew this strategy too well: like me, he had chosen the path of the immortal loner...

But his numbers were nuts. Were they even normal for 300-level-players?
Would we all get there in some two-three years?
I wondered as I examined his gear.

No, his stats were not the result of some miracle. Most of them came from his heavy armor items enhanced with Divine Blood stones. I wasn’t familiar with them, but they filled up all the expansion slots. Tons of bonus stats!

The armor had been crafted. It had a futuristic look like something from a high-budget post-apocalyptic flick. Mithril plates, obscure-looking materials, welding marks, and molten plastic. All of various colors and bearing ancient military stamps; clearly a product of modern alchemy.

I barely made out the faded sign: "Т-51b."

It looked as though Tavor had gathered a bunch of junk from the long-gone titans to throw this set together, loosely consulting the assembly instructions of an ancient teapot. Again, outstanding numbers, but the look...

I mean it wasn’t too bad. After the Wind-Patched Cloak – Grym’s ironic gift – my dress code wasn’t so strict anymore. But alas, all his gear was labeled "no-drop." Could not be sold or lost.

His hefty shell of armor came with a comfortable soft leather lining. Carefully looking under it, I found a homely gray get-up for everyday wear. It was clean, but odd-looking. Homely, I should say.

I was rightly outraged. I mean, WTF?! I was risking so much, trying to beat the office plankton outta myself while carrying out massacres. Then, at the end, I loot a super-cool dude to get nothing! The game algorithms had unfairly sealed everything off with nails of code.

The jewelry helped cool me off. The handful of crimson treasures was worth a few million gold. Mostly amateur work. Awkwardly-cut crystals of Divine Blood on twisted loops and wires.

The interface spurted forth the stats of the divine stones,

Titan’s Ring. Artifact. Indestructible. Crafted by an unknown Barbarian.

Effect 1: +700 Life.

Upgrade: Heavily damaged Blood Crystal.

Enchanting Bonus: Regeneration. +25 HP per second.

I wondered if Tavor also had a mad genius crafter who shat on gaming world laws. Or could he craft himself? That conceited moneybag had always had enough blind faith in his own greatness and in his right to do whatever.

There were four of these rings. They cancelled out the incessant shoulder bleeding, saving him several deaths.

The earring in his right ear doubled crit chances and bespoke the currently popular sexual orientation. Or that Tavor was the last male heir of a Cossack clan, which I doubt...

Putting the rings back, I stopped my health decline along with the ear-choppers’ worried chatter. Asmodeus was right, the staff must be used with caution. One careless stroke, and you’d not only make a player’s life hell with a series of rebirths, but also make your PK-counter go through the roof. And get insulting achievements; "Bloody Maniac," or "Spawn Killer."

The weapon Tavor’d lost in battle came back into his inventory. So it was bound to the body when it lived.

Mithril butcher's hooks – surely the product of someone’s sick fantasy – dripped poison and were speckled with rust.

Tavor had fought with both arms. Just what the doctor ordered for the types of enemies he had. Very few wizards could concentrate on a Gate for six seconds while taking over a dozen damaging combo hits.

I was no expert on warrior gear, but the weapon stats were impressive. I took a few screens of the armor and the giant "hole puncher" and forwarded them to the Analyst.
Let him figure it out.

Finally, I got to the inventory.

Wasn’t much to look at. Tavor did have a safe lair, after all. Perhaps he just left most of his possessions there? Probably. Not very smart, as fate can play tricks. There was always an above zero chance of a mishap. Like falling into a different dimension or the Stone Age. Personally, I always had useful things on me, even when back on Earth. From a mini first-aid kit to a gas tank to a multitool. A greedy pig nature, sure... but it had saved me more than once!

No, Tavor was no bum. Far from it. I found a fine minibar with hundreds of precious elixirs in vials. Elite grub from the Famous Masters. A huge folio with scrolls which beat my collection hands down. And I thought I had a lot.
Web-winged noob!
Warriors didn’t own their magic: they had to have scrolls for all of life’s emergencies, as many as their gold allowed.

And Tavor’s allowed a lot. A hefty bag weighing almost fifty pounds. It sounded more impressive than it actually was inside: twenty thousand gold. Not so much for someone so high up on the social pyramid.

There was also a young sadist’s kit – chains, irons, ropes, and a suitcase with horrid-looking surgical tools.
Fun...
Specially made, or sold at BDSM corner stores?

That was about it. No treasure maps, no keys to secrets doors, no crumpled up notes with passwords. Pity!

The bastard was encrypted all over! All logins timed out every hour and got archived. Whatever was unsaved was brutally deleted. Even the built-in GPS maps were password-protected. Moving your irises the right way was the only method of getting access. A move like that took but a moment, and you could really feel the difference in security levels.
Paranoid ass!

I sighed and rose. A poor profit for such a risky venture. A little loot but zero information. Shame.

Asmodeus walked up to me, held out his hand, and demanded, "The Blood Necklace!"

I frowned. The demon had every right to his share, just as we’d agreed. And the bastard had already figured out the prisoner’s most precious object.

Of course, the crystals were brutally holed and had lost plenty of bonuses. But there were about thirty of them on every wire. A vast array of stats and freebies! Plus, they were all doubled thanks to the mind-blowing "Only one of its kind" attribute.

I shook my head:

"Only after I’m back, and after you return my soul to its old container."

Asmodeus grumbled displeasedly, but technically I had the right to delay payment because the service had not yet been fully rendered.

I took the bag of goodies, saluted my warriors with a fist, and activated the transportation scroll.

So, Tavor, where is your lair?!

Chapter Six

T
he Gateway’s soft wings gently lowered me to the ground at the bind point. The magic’s glow had barely subsided, and already my sense of smell was pointing me to the sleeping god’s crypt. I recognized the range of scents, except for the carrion and... ahem... human feces?

I blinked, staring hard at the darkness in the corners and squinting at the burning torches. My field of vision rippled like a broken TV screen. My pupils dilated, shifting into night vision mode, then shrank right back, having caught the flame lights. I wrinkled my nose and tossed my head. At last, the darkness receded. My elven vision caught the scarce photons and pulled the brightness up to a reasonable level.

The pedestal with the sleeping god was still in place. But time had mercilessly swallowed up his warriors. Their reeking bones and shreds of skin were piled up beneath the walls.

What a horrid lair! And where’s my precious Hummungus?
I’d gotten worried about him since yesterday. He did not respond to the artifact’s call, nor had he come back with that mercenary in his jaws either. Years had passed in the underground over the last twenty-four hours...

I recalled putting a lot of effort into the delay command. And forcefully making that mercenary go perma just a second earlier. Or had the command I'd given in rage received the highest priority and outweighed the pet’s preset limits?

Teddy, where are you, dearest?

One of the foul-smelling piles suddenly moved. Swollen eyes shot open. Pus leaked out of the numerous wounds. The creature gave a deep moan, then rose to its full and rather large height.

Feeling for my weapons, I looked closely at the monster and gasped. Before me stood Hummungus, disheveled and swaying on his feet. He had grown a few feet, lost all his gear, and had gotten noticeably thinner and more gray-haired. Countless wounds protruded in hideous lumps from underneath the tangled fur. His back paws were bending; the once massive muscles had been partially torn out.

Seeing the ancient enemy before him, the bear growled wearily, bared his chipped fangs and moved forward.

I quickly put out my hand. "Hummungus, it’s me, Max! I’m just in someone else’s body. It’s a disguise, see? Come on, my furry friend, look into my soul! Version
I'll Rip Your Head Off,
remember?"

The bear halted, tilting its massive head to the side, then inhaled deeply with its dry, chapped nose. It let out a sob of disbelief and a childish yelp, then started avidly licking my face with its rough tongue.

"There, there....It’s gonna be all right! Sorry for leaving you in this tomb," I said as I wiped the huge tears off the bear’s muzzle and let my own fall on it too. "How long’ve you been here? Twenty years?!"

"Twenty-nine..." someone’s hoarse voice came from behind.

I turned my head sharply only to get a mighty whack on my right cheek. It was as if a pellet had exploded in my head. My facial bones cracked nastily.

Crit! You received 1.356 damage points in hand-to-hand combat!

Slight injury! Right facial muscles paralyzed. Duration: 15 minutes.

Recoiling, I breathed in through my broken nose, whipped out a butcher’s hook, and went for the swift stranger.

The skinny, bearded hermit with insane eyes wore a bear hide loincloth barely covering his privates. He moved like a legendary ninja, lazily dodging my mighty blows, a spiteful grin upon his lips. I slashed with all the power and agility of a 340-level warrior. The mithril blade brushed against the air molecules, making them grow hot. But I could not even touch the bastard!

Dammit! It’s the mercenary! The same one I had forced into the AlterWorld! Still a pitiful level 12. But how?!!

Finally, I got the good side of the randomizer. The enemy failed to dodge. He had to block my next attack. Instantly one of Tavor’s passive abilities kicked in. Part of the potential damage went through the block and got the bare-ass sucker. And you didn’t need a lotta damage for someone who was just under level 20!

The mercenary lost a third of his HP. His sparse beard shaking, he muttered something indistinctly and started punching.

Oh, brother! He fought like a motorized sledgehammer. Eyes couldn't follow the two to three blows that he dealt in a row. A bloody mess filled the room as if a rat had crawled into an industrial fan. I dodged the best I could as I flew through the combat interface, trying to find a vial of something powerful. But all in vain.

In ten seconds, I got turned into tender minced meat with crumbled bone. Finally, a mighty uppercut sent the mercenary flying. But as he left the ground, he rammed his feet into my liver. I spat blood as I fell back, spinning.

Bam!
My face crashed into the sarcophagus, then slid off with a nasty squeak, leaving a thick scarlet stripe on its surface.
Shit! What kinda monster is he?!

Hummungus howled, stepping forth and shielding me with his body. The bear trembled as if doomed, his stubby tail tucked up shamefully.

The mercenary said indignantly, "Bad Canfood! Why you fight? Fighter meat’s hard to chew! Want me to bust yer bones and rip out yer spine again?"

The naked man and the two-thousand-pound bear clashed within a foot of me. Their outlines instantly blurred as they reached insane speeds. The deafening blows resembled the incessant rattle of a SPAAG.

In two seconds, the battered bear was thrown against the wall and collapsed on the ancient bones.
Goddamn, they’re all bear remains! Tens, hundreds of corpses, all at different stages of decomposition. Hummungus?!

The mercenary spat in disappointment and stomped his foot. "Stupid Canfood! Now I gotta eat rot for another week. It gives me diarrhea."

"Bastard!" I wheezed and charged at the madman.

Wham!
A kick threw me back, breaking yet another rib and adorning the divine sarcophagus with a second scarlet blob.

The mercenary squatted leisurely. His horrendously large pupils fixed upon me. He hugged himself and began to rock excitedly,

"A Yummy! Now the Iron Lord has a new Yummy! A feast! Another feast! Oh, but life used to suck! Pain, death, Canfood’s heavy paw... I punched the snotty nose, then died, then came back and punched again... And I got a Strength point for each hit I dealt... The Lord grew stronger! Like an LM-432! A hundred and nine thousand deaths! Blood, iron, broken gear!"

The mercenary ripped a piece of meat out of the bear’s side which was still warm. The bluish, pointy teeth sunk into the bloody flesh. The bull terrier-like jaws ground monotonously.

"Five years of the same thing... It took so long to get strong! Pain! And then, I tried Canfood for the first time. Delicious!"

As I listened to his mumbling and tried to remember what he was saying, I was quickly searching for a way out of this shit which I’d voluntarily gotten myself into. Thirty years of accumulating points really showed, and now this deceptively low-level freak could have any top tank for lunch.

I knew why he'd got stuck at 12: no XP for pets or players. If he killed a god, he still wouldn’t get shit due to the huge level difference.

But the asshole’s done well. Found a way to level up! I could’ve foreseen this. I got an Agility point myself while somersaulting out of the Sun God’s crumbling temple! Had I danced like that for three decades, I wouldn’t be swimming in my own blood right now. I woulda massacred the shithead!

So, this is the AlterWorld’s future. Fart attacks from rotten meat, corpses piling up instead of vanishing, and battle wounds for life.

Well, it was uncertain if we’d all get there. The time anomaly was a micro universe for three creatures: bears, the mercenary, and the sleeping god with his disturbing dreams. Much of what was happening was a reflection of their thoughts and their perception of reality.

And now, this wild hick was sitting before me, feasting on raw meat. I was like an ancient KV tank against the latest Т-90 model. Same technological gap, same construction difference: all of my power was derived from leveling up, and his – from constant training.

My proud level 340 paled in comparison to the mercenary’s outrageous Agility, Strength, and Hand-to-Hand Combat stats.

I did not want to die, for the spawn point was right there. I did not want to follow in Hummungus’ footsteps and become a Sweet Can.

They wouldn’t start missing me on the surface right away. Plus it’d take them time to get to the castle, bust through the defenses, and find passages to the crypt. I was in deep shit.

Overwhelmed by bad feelings, I began to squirm, trying to sit up. The crystal shards littering the floor around the sarcophagus cut painfully into my palms. I wondered if someone had been nibbling on the lid.

I looked and saw that the sarcophagus was indeed in a terrible shape. A web of scratches, cracks, and dents covered the thick, once transparent surface. Through a particularly large opening, I discerned a huge, lacerated wound gleaming through the yellow skin over the exposed ribcage.

Divine flesh. Divine blood.
Blood?

Wincing at the thought, I turned around and rammed my hand into the opening. I wished that Tavor hadn’t thought of this before me, or it wouldn’t work.

The mercenary stopped short and jumped up. "Whatcha up to, Yummy?! Quit yer foolin’ around!"

The sharp edges of the opening shredded my forearm. I howled with pain. Putting my whole weight into it, I finally forced my poor limb inside and sunk my fingers into the damp gash.

The mercenary grabbed me by the collar and easily threw me aside. But it was too late! Turning away and holding my head down lest I should give away one of the clan’s most precious secrets, I crammed my blood-spattered fingers into my mouth with a triumphant moan.

Status alert! You have tasted divine blood again! Another particle of divine essence will remain with you forever. You are now another step above other mortals in your skills and abilities.

But beware of arrogance and don’t deem yourself equal to the gods! The stairway to heaven is long and fragile. Some even think it has no end...

The damn thing actually worked!

I met the punitive blow to the liver with an insidious smile.

Status alert! The divine essence particle is reacting to the first hostile impact and is dissolving in your aura in order to preserve itself and its bearer.

Partial hand-to-hand combat immunity received: 90%.

Chances of getting a crit and an injury are reduced threefold.

Now I could fight!

I jumped to my feet, took the Massive Healing vial from my belt and downed the refreshing elixir under a hail of minor blows.

The mercenary was enraged. His callused fists knocked the dust out of my armor with a ringing sound. But his blows felt like a child's weak slaps.

I was beginning to enjoy this game.

My one good arm was broken in two places. This affected my strength and agility. But this weakling didn’t need much. The mithril hook began to slice the air again. Cursing, the mercenary started dodging while I picked up new warrior abilities.

I decided to try one of them.

"Vengeance" – 30% chance of blocking enemy attacks and counterattacking. Duration: 20 seconds. Recharge: 10 minutes.

And one more from the war cry set:

"Cry of Rage" – instills terror into the enemy, decreasing their agility by 150 points. Duration: 30 seconds. Recharge: 15 minutes.

I activated both abilities. The effect was instantaneous! The mercenary’s dodging jig failed. I hit the bare-ass bastard twice. The blocks made his bones jingle. The asswipe’s health plummeted into the red. That'll teach him to fend off steel with his arms!

With a perturbed groan, the mercenary jumped aside, activated stealth, and made for the low arch in the far corner of the crypt.

I lowered my weapon with a sigh of relief.

He said he’d be back, damned Terminator. The low underground vaults still echoed with his cursing and promises of a plethora of torture.

I couldn’t catch him on my broken legs. Not that I wanted to. This situation called for magic with its precision and long-distance damage. I wasn’t about to engage that meat grinder in hand-to hand combat again.

But the problem had to be solved. To leave the fucker in the crypt another day meant twenty more years for his strength to increase. That’s the sort of rat I wouldn’t be thrilled to have in the castle's bowels.

But I had to put it off, having other business to take care of.

I carefully pulled a Portal Beacon out of my inventory. Activating it, I hid it safely between the stone tiles and piled some random junk on top.

The first task was done.

The clan’s on-duty wizard was casting spells every minute, trying to open portals to wherever the Beacon was. The assault division was sweating in full battle gear, ready to come to its commander’s rescue within seconds of their transportation. The only problem was that a minute for them was a week for me.