The Gene of the Ancients (Rogue Merchant Book #2): LitRPG Series Page 10

  The final set was sold at twenty-three thousand and a half. In total, I earned one hundred and seven thousand gold, with a profit of more than fifty thousand — and that’s in just two hours. That was pretty good; more than several times as much as I had gotten for my arrows con. However, this operation, which I had tentatively called “Auction,” had warranted the month-long preparations and a lot of effort to buy the tokens, so comparing them wasn’t right. Here, it was the result of a long con that had finally borne fruit.

  I breathed out in relief. I had a hundred and ten thousand gold in my accounts — a pretty tidy sum that equaled about eleven thousand terro in real money, enough to last me three or four months, especially since I wasn’t going to stop at that. To play in the big leagues, I needed, according to rough estimates, about half a million gold.

  The funniest thing, however, happened later, when I left the marketplace and headed toward Karn’s inn, having already emptied my purse at the bank.

  A beggar was sitting on the roadside, his back against the wall, a big clay bowl with dented edges standing at his feet. Inside, I could see a scant few copper pieces. The beggar’s face was hidden under a ragged hood. I wouldn’t have paid him any attention — paupers were a common sight in Eyre — if he didn’t applaud me as I passed by. I looked him up and down and continued on my way, followed by cheering and laugher.

  Ten steps later, I finally noticed a message in the system log.

  You caught the interest of the god Tormis!

  Your reputation with Tormis was increased by 150.

  Current value: 1200/5000 (Friendly)

  Again? I looked back, but the beggar had vanished as if I had hallucinated him and his bowl of coppers. Hmm, so the mysterious god was looking after me. Had I piqued his interest? I needed to find out...and locate his temple.

  Chapter 6

  A PLEASANT CHIME informed me that the transaction was successful. The numbers displayed after the transfer warmed my heart. After the COSMOS fiasco, I took to withdrawing money from the game as soon as possible; if necessary, I could always invest it back, especially since it wasn’t that hard in Sphere.

  Alena called me, barraging me with her impressions of the first day on board the Star. Yesterday, a twenty-seat rocketplane had carried them to orbit, and now, they were enjoying all the perks of the highly popular space tourism industry. She sent me lots of photos and videos, and then the connection was terminated — the station had probably left the area where Net was available.

  In a few hours, I was to take the Watchers exam. It was the event anticipated by the entire Liberty for almost two months. I was sure I wouldn’t fail, although it didn’t prevent me from feeling mildly anxious. To relax, I turned on the hot tap, added half a cap of foam, and climbed into a bath. Having made myself comfortable, I activated the holographic projector and started studying the photos sent by Alena.

  The images were majestic: an entirely transparent dome of a huge hall, giant blue water spheres soaring everywhere, with people flying in zero gravity among them, some of the more daring swimmers diving inside, piercing the balloons right through. I saw smiles, happy laughter, people with their children having fun.

  In the background, the sky was burning black, studded with silver dots of stars, while the Earth, blue and green and white, took up a good fourth part of the view. A surreal yet gorgeous sight.

  Then came photos taken in the restaurant and the gym, inside the rocketplane — Alena, smiling, trying on an unwieldy silvery spacesuit helmet; the famous space zoo; levitating plants; my beloved grinning against the backdrop of our continent, lit up in a web of night lights, big and small.

  The remaining photos were of the Earth, from various angles and perspectives: the Star was slowly circling the orbit, right above the technicolor land sometimes seen in the gaps of the cloudy veil. Africa, Eurasia, Australia, even the Antarctic, the edges of the latter starting to grow green after being freed of the rapidly melting ice cap. In recent years, it became home to archeological excavations: with the ice sheet gone, the scientists had discovered the traces of an ancient civilization, the extent of which boggled the mind. They were already certain they had found the legendary Atlantis. It hadn’t drowned, but simply relocated to the South Pole due to the movement of continental plates, and froze for five thousand years.

  Oh, even our grandfathers wouldn’t have recognized this planet. I recalled the geographic maps having been redrawn at least three times, with the borders of the continents inevitably changing. Thirty-five years ago, the Great Tremors had triggered a number of volcano eruptions, both underwater and above. Japan had disappeared from the face of the Earth, while Britain had slowly sunken into the depths of the sea. Horrible tsunamis had destroyed the Pacific coastlines of America and China hundreds of miles into the land. Almost five years of terror and suffering, millions of victims, and a global panic in the face of awakened forces of nature. Civilization had seemed to be on the brink of collapse. Ash, dust, and carbon dioxide released into the atmosphere had led to a worldwide ecological disaster. Half of the Earth hadn’t seen the Sun for a year, while the long-predicted greenhouse effect had blanketed the planet.

  Coupled with the second sun burning in the bellies of factories and the engines of cars, the stray heat generated by our civilization had caused irrevocable climate changes. It had happened in a flash, lasting only decades instead of eras. Formerly warm areas had turned hot, with already hot places becoming inhospitable. Polar caps, permafrost, and the ice of Greenland and Iceland had started to rapidly melt. The water in the world’s oceans had begun to rise as fast at dozens of feet per year.

  Humanity had fought that, of course. Stopping the video on the image of Europe, I saw the thin threads of dams protecting the Northern Union; they were stretching from Denmark all the way to the south of Norway, defending the Baltic area. The Straits of Gibraltar were blocks, while bars of hydraulic structures covered the coasts of France and Germany. How long would they last, I wondered.

  Both Americas had changed their shape, almost unrecognizable. A series of tsunamis and vicious hurricanes raging all over their shores had ruined the coastal infrastructure, while the ash of the awakened Yellowstone caldera covered the inland areas. The hub of Western civilization had barely withstood the onslaught of the roused elements.

  The Great Lakes in the north of Canada had fused together with the Hudson Bay. Florida and California had vanished underwater with the ocean invading the continent along the flow of the Mississippi, creating a new gulf. Over the last ten years, all cities of the Eastern Coast and Mexican Bay had been flooded, the hills of San Francisco turning into islands.

  In the center of South America, water had overflown the base of the Amazon, transforming it into a huge landlocked sea. Buenos Aires was gone, as was a large part of Paraguay. The Isthmus of Panama was now a chain of islands.

  All of that had taken just thirty years to happen. We had already gotten used to living in an age of permanent global warming and mass migration in the center of the continents. The news of advancing oceans was mainstream, with hundreds of thousands of people mastering new professions. The impact of the days when humans had realized they couldn’t protect themselves against nature had changed our world.

  The Courier beeped, informing me of a new message. It was clan mail saying that in an hour, a carriage would be sent to Eyre for Liberty recruits.

  The time had come.

  * * *

  A small astral ship belonging to the clan quickly transported us to the Cloud Castle. I noticed a few more sailing vessels on the flying docks around Condor, hidden amidst the clouds. It was rumored that the Northern Alliance and the Watchers, especially after the visit of Pandorum, were busily building their own air fleet.

  The rows of seats around the training area that reminded me of a small amphitheater were almost full. Almost three hundred Watchers were present, which made sense, considering what a show they were anticipating today. Each of them had once passed
a similar trial.

  Eleven of us were standing on the sand of the arena; eleven, picked from the half a hundred initial recruits. The rest had been eliminated from the running. Some had been unable to survive the rigorous training, some had turned out to be weirdos, some couldn’t spend enough time online and improve their battle skills quickly enough.

  Actually, I wasn’t especially keen on becoming a veteran warrior, either. I was accustomed to a different playing style, but my cautious attempt to talk to Komtur had resulted only in him snorting scornfully and telling me that there would be no weaklings in his clan.

  It didn’t matter what you were, a trader or a scroll-maker, a portal builder or a minster: you had to be a pro fighter, no “buts.” Such was the clan philosophy.

  Yep, Watchers were a pretty hardcore clan. Many wanted to join them, but few could make it. Only those who lived inside Sphere met their requirements; you had to be a seasoned combatant who had mastered all necessary weapons, a PvP killing machine, ,who most importantly, had the requisite temper. Carebears, the players mostly interested in farming dungeons and mobs, would never be embraced by the clan. PvP forever! It was the Watchers’ main line of activity.

  Balian the Raccoon took the floor. He was our boss, the leader of Liberty. In a few words, he congratulated us on finishing the training and explained the rules of the exam.

  Each of us would fight a random opponent from the audience — one of the Watchers: in melee, at a distance, and in the saddle. We were unable to use buffs, potions, enhancements, and archetype abilities and would be restricted to wearing the same gear without any bonuses. Only plain iron could show our true skill.

  The winners had to win two fights out of three. The only advantage the newbies got was choosing their weapon second, which allowed them to pick a counter against their opponents. It was a huge perk, which also probably tested the recruit’s tactical thinking ability.

  I felt ill at ease. True, I had dueled at the Eyre arena thousands of times and knew most of my potential adversaries, plus had the benefit of Liberty practice battles. Still, against a pro, I had managed to win two or three times out of ten, and mostly thanks to my luck. As for archery combat...now that was shameful. I had always been one of the worst among the academy when it came to handling bows and crossbows. In short, I very much doubted that I could pass the exam. Anxiety crept up my spine.

  Nico got to be the first to fight. Komtur launched a random pick of an opponent, and in a few seconds, a nickname appeared in the chat: Tooth. I didn’t know that player.

  Nico was one of the best Liberty recruits. He was a veteran player who had almost a year in another clan under his belt. He had had pretty advanced skills even before the training, and under Balian’s tutelage, he managed to grow several times as strong. Now, Nico was one of the pro fighters who could easily match one of the full-fledged Watchers.

  I don’t know if Tooth was a middling combatant or Nico was at the top of his game, but our headliner smashed the Watcher to pieces, leaving no chance for him to resist. Balian clapped him on the shoulder, a wisp of a smile on his face, and Nico, beaming, climbed over the railing and sat among the clan warriors, now one of them.

  Shaga was next. He was to fight Brontosaurus — a powerful opponent, a frequent customer of the tilt-yard in Eyre. Still, Shaga was no weakling himself: a seven-foot-tall sapphire orc favoring warhammers. His strongest points were power, speed, and aggression. But here, he met his match. Unexpectedly, Shaga lost the melee battle, then won archery, and barely defeated Brontosaurus in mounted combat. Two against one: he passed.

  I was surprised at Valkyrie’s performance. She was the third. I worried for her, but Maria, after predictably losing the swords, calmly won the mounted challenge and crushed her opponent in the shoot-out. As an archer, she was one of the top players I knew, matching some of the top Watchers, even.

  “Svenn coached her well lately,” Flame whispered to me. “He’s a pro when it comes to horses. Helped me, too...”

  “So, where’s he? Did he change his mind?”

  Flame shook his head. Svenn had left Liberty after the incident with the PROJECT, disappointed in the clan. Too bad; he seemed like a pretty smart guy. The Watchers had lost a player with a true gift for mounted combat; even the teachers were envious of his skill. But nobody was going to persuade him to come back.

  “HotCat!”

  Crap, it was my turn. A few hands at once poked at my back, pushing me to come out. Balian and Hermione, who was standing next to him, were smiling.

  I stepped forward. Once again, Komtur activated the random match mechanism, and in ten seconds, I saw the name of my opponent.

  Khaman.

  The audience gasped, and smiles vanished from the faces of my trainers.

  Luck wasn’t on my side. Shivers ran down my spine, and I felt a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach. Honestly, I had hoped to get somebody weaker than him. Khaman, a quiet giant, was a master of the two-handed sword and one of the oldest and seasoned warriors of the Watchers. He was a real rock; once, he had tutored our instructors just like they had done to us. Against him, I didn’t stand a chance in any type of combat. The worst thing was, he was a man of principle and would never go easy on me. Well, whatever. The Watchers would have to make do without a merchant, and I would have to live without access to the clan resources.

  Khaman nodded at Olaf, who was whispering something in his ear, and slowly descended to change into no-stats leather armor. He stopped at the equipment stand, reviewing its contents — polished swords, spears, and halberds. Duelists could pick any one- or two-handed weapon. He lingered and finally chose a plain wooden stick, a six-feet pole, the simplest and most primitive weapon available.

  What was he doing, giving me a head start? Showing that even a stick would be enough to kick the ass of a wanker like me?

  Well, it couldn’t be helped. In turn, I grabbed a round wooden shield and a one-handed war axe. The blade — curved like a hawk’s beak — gleamed viciously. An axe was harder to handle compared to a sword, but its hits couldn’t be blocked and parried with a stick — it would break, its durability gone. Khaman would have to dodge and evade my blows. As for the shield...well, it would make defending myself against a much stronger opponent easier.

  Fighting in Sphere was a simplified pseudo-historical fencing, a hyper-realistic simulator of medieval warfare. If characters were wearing the same gear and weapons, it was a battle of skill and speed, and even level didn’t play a key role.

  We stepped into the center of the arena opposite one another. Khaman’s face was close. He had a careless smile on his face, and suddenly, he winked at me.

  Khaman (Watchers) challenges you to a duel! Yes/No

  5..4..3..2..1!

  The duel begins!

  Khaman’s stick shot forward, aimed at my face, and with a dry crunching bounced aside, repelled with the edge of my shield. That was fast; I barely managed to do that! The Watcher, utilizing his weapon’s higher speed, started pressuring me back, checking my reaction with a series of attacks, both feints and the real deal. Good thing I brought a shield; if not for it, Khaman would have crushed me right off the bat.

  He was too close to me, so I used Shield Bash and immediately charged forward, trying to reach my enemy with a quick sideways slash.

  It was a trap. Khaman exposed himself, baiting me. My blow fell wide of the mark, and his pole struck my knees, mercilessly knocking me down. The first thing I did after hitting the ground was to raise my shield, protecting myself from a blow from above, but pain once again stung my shoulder. A third of my hit points bar was gone with the wind, and my shield lost twenty percent of its durability. I couldn’t keep this up.

  Finally, fleeing his grasp, I scrambled to my feet. Khaman was in no hurry. He was circling me, having lowered his stick, and beckoned to me with a half-bent palm.

  Rage started to consume me. I couldn’t see the audience anymore. My view narrowed down to a small patch of the arena, w
here it was just me — and my enemy.

  “Do you know what your problem is, Cat?” said Hawk, once again helping me to my feet. “It’s not that you fight poorly. You fight conventionally — a block, a blow, a feint... Only newbies buy such techniques. Players who live in the arena can see right through it. You won’t defeat them with this stuff! Relax! Think outside the box! Dance, feel the combat rhythm! Let the sword lead you! Surprise the enemy!”

  I knew that Khaman was waiting for my attack, but lunged at him anyway, raising and lowering my shield, trying to confuse him with a series of feints. Following Hawk’s advice, I surrendered myself to the song of my sword, allowing it to control me. No calculations, no proper maneuvering: only forward! Each and every strike would become the final one for Khaman if I was able to reach him.

  The swooshing of iron, the crisscrossing blows... My enemy spun around, my blade cutting the air. Don’t let him rest; keep pushing! That’s it! Come on! A feint, another one, a whirlwind attack, a jump, an undercut, more, more, more! I sped up, funneling all my energy into this attack, trying to reach Khaman’s dodging figure.