I sit atop a sea of rubble, wiping my mouth clean.
The cerulean blood smears against my skin, freezing everything it touches like it was made of liquid nitrogen. Yet, the raging inferno in my core combats the cold, stifling it. To me, it just feels like typical ice water. Or a particularly sour ice cream. It's not comparable to Frostbite's flesh, which was almost dangerously cold.
"Never did like eating food straight out of the fridge." I say out loud to nobody in particular. My free hand messes with the little trinket I found while I gorged myself on an ice dragon's carcass, flipping its seemingly brittle body about between my black armored fingers. "I always preferred to microwave it first." The uncut crystal, shaped similarly to a thin shard of glass, houses a swirling soul within; it doesn't take a rocket scientist to know what it is, considering I found it within Frostbite's chest.
"What about you?" I ask the crystal; my own deep blue gem in my chest comparably brighter. "You ever tried hot food before?"
Unlike Apollyon, I don't begin to hear a male dragon's voice talking in my head. Either Frostbite can't hear me, or he's ignoring me. Not that it matters either way. "I guess not."
I slide down my rocky rest, snatching my helmet off the ground. I don't know where to put the new crystal, and for the life of me, I can't open my inventory. It's like I've been forsaken, rejected by the game that seems to completely permeate this world. Many things come to mind when I think about that; most of it being what Apollyon either said or alluded to. But what really takes up the most space in my head, is that last message I saw, just before I stopped "feeling" the game entirely. Scribbled in shaky red lettering, like it was hastily carved into flesh with a broken knife.
HOW DARE YOU. It read.
Since then, everything feels more real, like how things were before I passed through that doorway, back when I first stepped foot into this world. I'm an impurity in this realm now; that's what it feels like. An invader. A disease… Whatever.
I give up, and stick the crystal into the back of my helmet, before slipping my head in, wedging it in place. It's not the most comfortable thing, but the crystal does waft out a chill, just like how Apollyon's exuded heat. It feels nice, on the back of my neck. Still, it's rather unconventional.
"Then…" My voice sounds partially muffled behind my helmet. "I guess the first step, is to get my hands on a satchel."
I'm a little short on funds, which means I'm flat broke. But as I scan the ground, between the broken scales and loose stones, little specks of gold peek out from the fallen snow, like stars studding the night sky. Frostbite's large mound of treasure was blasted all across this crater and the mountain; some might've even left the range entirely. But still, a single gold coin is probably worth a fortune.
Behind my helmet, I smile. As to why, I can't be sure. Maybe it's because I'm fed and relieved, maybe it's because half of my soul now has a dragon's desire for riches. Or maybe, it's because, I can't wait to get started.
I fish a coin out of the snow, wiping it clean with my thumb and admiring its untarnished beauty. What a gorgeous metal. Gold, that is.
"These'll do."
. . .
Anna has never been one for adventuring. In truth, she would've loved nothing more than to spend the rest of her years in her home village.
Find a nice young man and settle down, though the boys around her age are all spineless. Buy out a lone home on the outskirts together, somehow convincing one of the elders with a foot in the grave to move out, who are too stubborn to give up their prized woodlands. Raise children, regardless of the hassle. Grow old, despite the fear of wrinkles. Die together with her betrothed, even when most men die before they reach the age of 50.
She makes it sound bleak, but that's simply her nature. In truth, she'd love nothing more than the quiet life. Yes, adventuring is too high of a calling for her.
So, why does nothing ever go her way?
. . .
Anna takes in a deep breath, staring out into the dark and dreary wilderness ahead of her.
A worn path, more of a game trail really; it snakes into the mess of timber and pine needles and bushes and brambles, mottled with weeds and mud and the like. It's not a very welcoming path, and the stories mother used to tell her about what happened to travelers taking it never helped.
She used to dare the other village children to brave this path in the forest; they'd make a game out of it. "See how far you can go in before you get too scared and run back", that's how it usually went. It was among the other challenges Anna frequented so readily, along with spending the night in the creaky mill down by the river, or shouting your name three times atop the abandoned watch tower near the open fields.
Those were scary to Anna and the children because villagers said the places were haunted. This lone trail is scary simply because it looks so. Anna never truly wanted to take it ever in her life.
She lets out the breath she was holding, gripping at the straps to her backpack with whitening fingers. Her full health, date and time, and the measly Lv. 4 next to her seldom active exp bar hang in the top left of her vision; it's been there every day since she was born. The inventory and skill tree button arrived when she reached five years of age, as it does with every human from here to the eastern isles.
Her inventory can't hold much, so she carries everything else on her back, which shifts and clinks and rattles as she turns, looking back at her life.
"Good luck Anna!" Her mother calls waving her off. "Make us proud!" Her father adds, crossing his arms like he always does. Her younger brother, too young to have an inventory of his own, is prompted to wave by mother, who coddles him close to her bosom. George is his name; the next time Anna sees him, he might be unrecognizable to her.
And it's not just them, because most of the village is here to see her depart; all of them suddenly acting like she's the pride of the village somehow. "Knock 'em dead!" "Bring back some souvenirs!" "I've always loved you, Anna!" She can't make out who said that one, but it sounded like it came from a teenage boy, who hides like a coward somewhere amongst the crowd. A few of the elders send out muttered prayers to the Great Creator, children whose names Anna never learned watch her with beady little eyes.
The guard atop the watchtower on this northern side gives her a salute, and the village chief claps his hands together, bellowing in that deep voice of his that used to frighten Anna. "Don't let the heroes down, young lady!" He declares. "Show them you're a Danarr!"
That's her family name, which the village chief says so casually. Anna has heard stories from father, about how notorious the Danarr family is. As to why they hide out in this village, in the shadow of the Space Cap Mountains, father would never say. But the existence of her last name seemed to be all the villagers needed to accept her as one of the Great Creator's chosen. Chosen to assist the heroes in the coming Calamity.
The fact she got that notification now, means Calamity is now just under a year away. That news terrifies her, more than this unwelcoming path she's about to take. Will her village be alright? Will she ever see mother and father again? Will she ever see little George again? The uncertainty of it is sickening.
She has no words she can think of to say, so she waves. With a shaky first step, she sets off, backed by the cheers of her fellows, as she delves into the unknown, leaving everything she's ever known behind for the first time in her life. If it wouldn't embarrass to death, she'd probably throw up right now.
Just think about the future. She tells herself, as the shouts of the villagers drown out, and the shadows of the forest consume any light left for her. Think about the adventures you'll have, the friends you'll make. She fights to control her breath. Think about the love you might conjure...
That gets her going.
She can almost imagine it: an elegant knight in shining armor; a hero from another world. With dashing looks and an unconditional sense of justice, sweeping her off her feet, away from the danger. Gazing into her eyes with his, which gleam like stars in the night sky. His soft voice, iron temperament, and a presence of a spine, unlike the village boys. A hero, through and through.
She goes about daydreaming, clunking along with her heavy backpack down the dreary forest trail, oblivious of the large monster with eight legs and an octet of eyes that watches her from the treetops, slowly creeping along…
. . .
Gregor, Julian, and Martha trudge along down a steep spiral of stone steps, somewhere deep below the capital.
Before they entered this place, the darkness of the early morning still hung over everyone's heads, though that alone isn't enough of an excuse to define Julian's sluggish movements. He practically trips down these steps, occasionally bumping into Gregor and causing Martha to hiss whenever she needs to dodge his sways. Julian himself moans and groans, clutching his head with one hand, and gingerly grasping at the smooth wall with the other.
In the sparse torchlight of the King's servant -a different one this time-, Julian looks like a mess. "Ohhhh… How long are we going to keep, just, winding around like this? It's making me feel sick." "Not much farther!" The King's servant, who keeps a steady pace, answers, leading the way with a swinging lantern.
He's much younger than the servant yesterday, in his early forties, with a slick goatee and mischievous brown eyes. He wears the same green robes and red cap though; they all seem to. "Apologies for the cramped manner of things, but we wish to keep some secrets better hidden than others."
"Doesn't have to be this hidden though." Julian grumbles, which Martha sneers at. "Could you be any more annoying? Stop stumbling so much." "Shut up." Julian retorts, though he slurs it, so it sounds closer to "Shaddup" than anything else. Martha recoils at his breath, which has begun to choke the air as he spoke. "God, have you been drinking? How old are you again, five?"
Julian seems to find something funny, because he chuckles, nearly smacking his head off the wall. "Not on Earth anymore, missy. They don't got a drinking age here." Martha arches her eyebrows, kicking Julian in the haunches. He practically growls. "Why you mangy little-"
"Enough." Gregor barks, giving the two an eye behind him.
Despite their differences, they both react to Gregor's glare in a similar way: awkward silence. "Julian," Gregor says, exasperated. "If we're ever ambushed, and you're too drunk to fight, I'll kill you myself. Lay off the alcohol." Julian swallows, and stoops his head. It's like he partially sobered up already. "Yeah… Sorry."
Martha scoffs.
"He has quite a leash on you, doesn't he." Julian's subservient attitude is as fleeting as the wind; he bites the inside of his cheek. "I only listen to people I respect." He declares, before giving Martha a side-eye, grinning like a fool. "Now what were you saying? I'm sorry, I wasn't listening." Martha scowls something fierce, and they go back to bickering. Gregor's remarks may calm them down for a few seconds, but it's like herding cats. Actually, it's worse than that. It's like herding teenagers. If Gregor cared at all about the King's servants' opinions, he'd try harder to placate his rambunctious comrades.
When they finally reach their destination, their arrival is announced with the loud groan of a large set of doors, letting the four into a peculiar room. Two guards with flashy looking armor and large halberds close the doors shut behind them, locking it with a thick piece of timber.
The room itself isn't very large; Gregor could reach opposite wall if he stood in the center and held out two of his battleaxes in each hand. Yet, it is tall. He can't see the ceiling; it extends up into incomprehensible darkness. Despite the closed nature and lack of windows, the room's air isn't stagnated, but fresh. A constant updraft wafts out of the solid brick floor, wafting up into the darkness. It must be a spell; Gregor isn't sure this could naturally happen.
The shape of the room is strange, but its contents are the most peculiar. There is a tall ladder kept near the doors, which hangs on a rail with a set of brass wheels. The round walls of this room, which is shaped like a grain silo; they're covered with inlaid shelves of cut stone, which wrap nearly around the entire room, stacking up to the unseen ceiling.
And in those shelves, is hundreds of glowing raw gems.
Crystals populate the shelves, all in different colors, shapes, and sizes. Some glow like molten gold, while others are dimmer than a crescent moon. Something about them is supernatural, like holes in the game, or an untouched plate at a family dinner. It's off-putting.
Julian and Martha alike fall silent, gazing up into the hundreds of solemn lights. The King's servant takes the opportunity, clearing his throat. "Worthy heroes. I, Jordaane, welcome you, to the Inner Chamber." He passes his lantern off to one of the guards, turning to Gregor and co. with arms open wide.
"The kingdom's greatest secret. And its greatest power."