Blessed Time: The Complete Series: (A LitRPG Adventure Box Set), page 138
“Do you hear that?” Franque asked excitedly. “I knew you were destined for big things, Andres, but at this rate, you could end up becoming a senior noble before you’re forty! Gods, just imagine where you could go if you truly put your mind to it.”
“Quite,” the examiner responded with a tight smile. “Now, if you are going to force us to eat breakfast before we visit the dungeon, I say we get on that. My companions and I are on a tight schedule and we have much to report back to Baron LaMonte.”
The meal was wonderful. Andres’ father employed the best cook in Grene’s Corner, and Piter had journeyed deep into their icebox for the occasion. No expense was spared as dish after dish fit for high nobles was laid out on the table in front of them. Even the Baron’s inspectors seemed impressed, but that was far from Andres’ main focus.
Eggs, sausage, aged cheese, and fresh toast. All of it went into his mouth in under a minute. Andres wasn’t entirely sure that he properly chewed the food. After all, he was too preoccupied with visions of the future, of him gaining levels and establishing himself as one of the Grand Duchy’s pre-eminent spellswords. Image after image flashed through his head. In some, he was defending Grene’s Corner from a massive army. In others, he was receiving awards and noble titles from the Grand Duke himself. In still more, women were fawning over him.
Every concern and worry that had dogged him for the past couple of hours evaporated. He was going to be famous. He was going to be a star. Soon everyone would know his name, and his father could rise above administering a small farming estate like Grene’s Corner.
After breakfast, he was practically vibrating with energy. Andres had never rushed through donning his chainmail and strapping his sword to his waist so quickly, but every second not spent in the dungeon felt like it was wasted.
Intellectually, he knew he was being irrational. So long as he defeated a strong enough monster, his class was already set in stone. From there, it was only a matter of gaining enough levels and acclaim to leave his imprint on Karell.
As for the monster itself? Level 10 was a bit high. Andres had managed to kill plenty of monsters between levels 2 and 5 in training, but the final step was a bit dangerous. His father and the observers wouldn’t intervene unless his life was at risk, but that just meant he’d have to try it again later.
Despite that, he had faith. His father’s guards had nothing but praise for his footwork and sword skills. He had sparred with them daily, and despite their levels and blessings, Andres won occasionally. Even without access to his mana, he was confident that he had the stats he’d need to take down a stone ant myrmidon. Then, he could get his class and focus on leveling.
“Ready?” his father asked, a knowing smile on his face. In front of them sat the entrance to the dungeon, a giant pile of sand with a person-sized hole dug into the top. Beside them, the three blessed that served as Baron LaMonte’s examiners stood in a cluster while all five of them were eyed nervously by the guard that Franque had stationed at the dungeon to keep commoners from hurting themselves.
Andres just rolled his eyes. Of course his dad knew how excited he was. Andres was practically vibrating as he hopped from foot to foot. It was impossible not to see that he could barely restrain himself.
A Mythical blessing from a major god. What kind of idiot would be upset with that? Even if it was something that seemed underwhelming, there was no way that the gods could have created a worthless blessing with that rarity. There would almost certainly be some sort of way to turn it into something overpowered and unstoppable if he just spent a minute to think about it.
“We’re going in,” Franque said more seriously as he nodded at the examiners. The rail-thin spellcaster nodded back, and Andres’ father drew his sword before clambering up the side of the dungeon hive.
A second later, Andres followed him. The loose sandy soil of the mound slipped under his metal boots, a strangely familiar sensation, and then he was on top of the dirt pile. One deep breath later, Andres was falling into the hole
His feet hit the packed dirt at the bottom with a dull thump. As soon as he had his bearings, Andres moved down the hallway toward where his dad was standing so that the Baron’s examiners could follow them down the entrance.
He drew his sword, changing his grip and stance on it three times before settling on brilliant flare, an offensive form focused on disorienting and disabling his opponent. Then, finally, after almost a minute of fidgeting, the thin spellcaster began climbing down the ladder into the dungeon
By the time all three of them had slowly lowered themselves into the cramped tunnels of the ant warren, Andres thought he was going to go insane. Of COURSE he could have gone rung by rung down the ladder himself, but that wasn’t the POINT. He couldn’t take a class until he killed a myrmidon, and he couldn’t start venturing into the dungeon to kill the myrmidon until everyone was there to witness the event.
It was almost like the Baron’s representatives were trying to drive him mad. Even after all three of them were clustered at the base of the ladder, they were still checking their equipment and talking to each other.
Andres went through the motions of brilliant flare’s basic thrusts, slashes, dodges and parries. After his first iteration, he glanced back, only to notice no meaningful progress amongst the examiners.
Three more runs through the moves in the cramped confines of the tunnels, and Andres was sweating, but they were ready to go. Franque led the way, killing the stone ants they came across, usually two or three workers or individual soldiers. For a level 30 blessed like Andres’ dad, they were barely enough to slow them down.
Finally, the five of them came to a large cave. Alcoves filled with eggs lined the walls, but more importantly, in addition to six warrior and about twenty worker ants that filled the room, a large milky white ant with gigantic mandibles sat in the center of the chamber.
Andres gripped his sword tightly, shifting his feet into brilliant flare. He took a step toward the huge ant, and it fixed its gaze on him, clacking jaws almost the size of his chest together in agitation as it rumbled to its feet.
“Focus on the myrmidon!” Franque shouted, darting forward with a halo of wind rustling the air behind him. “We’ll handle the rest of the ants and keep them off of your back. As soon as you down the big one, get out of the room so that we can use our more powerful attacks without risking you.”
“Got it,” Andres replied, but Franque was already in action, his sword a blur as it punched through the stone ants’ armor, and pared legs from their rocky thoraxes.
He charged the myrmidon, leading with a thrust into the stony armor of its face. For a second, Andres felt surprise fill him as the monster let the blow land, instead opting to swipe at him with its razor-sharp mandibles. Then the surprise disappeared as his sword clattered ineffectually off of its armor, barely taking a chip out of the rocks that protected the monster.
Luckily, he’d practiced the brilliant torch stance until his hands bled. It wasn’t the best at defense, but for all the myrmidon’s strength and durability, it wasn’t terribly agile. Andres’ feet shuffled across the packed dirt of the floor in short swift motions, pulling him away from the monster before its jaws could close on him.
With his next attack, he tried a slash, darting in and slamming his blade against the thick armor of its thorax. Once again, the blow did little beyond removing a chunk of stone. Maybe it shaved one hit point off, but Andres wouldn’t bet on the prospect.
His feet danced across the ground, spinning him along the monster’s side before it could pin him down long enough to land an attack.
He figured out the trick of fighting a myrmidon with this third attack, a pinpoint-accurate thrust that punched through the paper-thin armor around one of its leg joints. Even then, he didn’t have enough strength to push his sword all the way through the creature. Instead, the ant's body entangled his sword for a second, catching it and holding it tight before Andres was able to wrest the weapon free in a spray of ichor.
That was it. Andres let a mad smile consume his face. He might not have the strength or magic to do real damage to the creature, but so long as he was precise with his attacks, he could disable its legs one by one. Then, when the myrmidon was limping and immobile, he could find a way to-
A flash of pain exploded in his back, and Andres was thrown a step forward. He looked down in shock to see a spear made of wood sticking out of the front of his chest, its tip still dripping with his blood.
Then the pain doubled as his nerves finally realized the severity of what happened to him. Andres heard a shriek, and he wasn’t sure if it was him, but the agony coursing through his body made it hard to care. Woozily, he turned to look at where the Baron’s soldiers stood, grouped around the entrance to the chamber.
The two melee fighters had their weapons out, but neither of them were attacking the ants. Instead, their eyes and weapons were trained on Andres’ father.
“Why?” Franque growled, knuckles white as he gripped his sword tightly, ants long forgotten. “Why, Jean? We were never friends, but there was no bad blood between us.”
The tall, thin spellcaster just shrugged and flicked a finger in Andres’ general direction. The spike of wood slid out of his back, spilling his bleeding body at the foot of the injured myrmidon.
“It wasn’t personal,” the examiner replied. “Blame your son for being too talented. The Baron has two sons, and only one can inherit. An accident needed to happen in one of his fiefdoms so that the title could pass on to Baron LaMonte’s second son, and you’ve done nothing but turn yourself into a target. One child and no extended family meant that we could pull it off, but it wasn’t like the two of you were quiet about your boy’s talent and ambition. We both know that he’d be appealing to the Grand Duke for the entire barony in a decade, and he’d likely have it granted to him.
“No,” the man continued. “It’s cleaner this way. The two of you died in a dungeon raid. We investigate in Baron LaMonte’s stead and find that you haven’t been properly pruning the dungeon leading to the monsters growing out of control and report that it was your own negligence that ended you. Everyone but the two of you wins so no one looks any closer at the mystery.”
“I’ll kill you!” Franque screamed, charging toward Jean, only for the two guards to intervene. The man blocking his path with a large shield while the woman’s counterattack drove the swordsman back.
“No,” Jean said, his tone simple and matter-of-fact as he brought his hand up to his mouth, palm extended, and blew some sort of dust off of it and into Franque’s snarling face. “You won’t kill me. You might not realize it, but you’re already dead.”
Another scream filled the room, but Andres’ vision was fading away. The world was cold and his limbs were heavy. Too heavy. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t move his arms from the dirty floor. It was like all the strength had left him.
Andres closed his eyes. Fighting through fuzzy thoughts, he couldn’t help but feel anger toward himself. Something had felt off all morning. His instincts had tried to warn him, but he wouldn’t listen. He was too concerned with what would happen in the distant future that he couldn’t even notice the danger lurking in front of him right now.
Gods, if only he wasn’t so naive.
Then, the myrmidon's jaws closed on his chest, ripping his life from his body.
TWENTY-EIGHT
THE ELDER
Kylie opened her eyes. The room was warm, the large fireplace crackling with flames despite the summer heat assured that.
She sat up slowly, bones creaking in protest against the movement. Her blanket fell away revealing wrinkled skin and thin night clothes that almost seemed a full size too large for her frail body.
They had fit once. Years ago when Kylie had first begun to think of herself as old, she had bought them from a local tailor. Snug and comfortable, they had accompanied her through season after season, outlasting even the man that made them after he died due to drinking tainted wine.
Now, like her, they were old and worn. Tired.
Her feet touched the floor, and Kylie drew in a sharp, quick breath. It wasn’t actually cold. She knew that. Still, after her ninety-fifth birthday, even as her senses dimmed, every discomfort became more and more extreme.
Mornings were an orchestra of pain and discomfort. Stiff joints accompanied pinpricks of pain in her palms and feet, and even her breath felt like she was trying to suck in pudding through a straw.
She was dying.
Kylie didn’t really have any questions or regrets about the statement. As time had passed, and decades began to blur together, her own mortality had transitioned from a distant prospect, to a constant fear, and finally to a goal.
Death wasn’t something she feared. Every morning as her arthritic joints struggled to absorb the heat from her sweltering and Kylie sipped her morning tea, Kylie wondered what it would feel like.
To just close her eyes and to slip into Luxos’ embrace. No pain. No worry. Just basking in the eternal light of the Bountiful Sun.
But not today. For the first time in months, she’d dreamt, and as dreams went, it was a strange one.
Her memories were hazy, nothing new there, but for some reason, she was both a boy and a man at once. She was trying to save the world, something about fighting giant ants in a dungeon. None of it really made any sense.
Kylie wasn’t a fighter. Maybe she should have been. When she was a girl, the authorities in the church had urged her to take up the mantle of a crusader. According to them, a Mythic blessing from Luxos was a calling, one she would be remiss to set aside, but that path had never been for her. Her affinity was in wood, and wood magic was designed to protect and heal, not crush and destroy.
It had taken years, but she had worked her way up from running a small parish to managing Luxos’ affairs in an entire barony. A half dozen priests worked under her, shepherding flocks in every village and hamlet within her jurisdiction.
Under Kylie’s stewardship, her followers were the healthiest and best fed in the kingdom. Her Baron barely helped her, but years of training and research with wood magic had left her with a set of custom spells that could grow rare medicinal herbs from a rock. It didn’t matter the quality of the soil or the amount of sunlight the plants were exposed to, her followers were some of the richest and most successful farmers for thousands of leagues.
Years ago, the church had come and begged Kylie to move to the capital. A bishop had come to visit her, begging her to use her magic to turn the farmland around the city into a breadbasket, but she had refused.
The city? Monsters? That was not her place. Kylie belonged out here, gently guiding her rural community toward prosperity and happiness all while glorifying Luxos’ good name.
That was why her dreams troubled her. She had lived a life of austerity and peace, never bothering to take a partner or think of herself. Instead, every action Kylie took was devoted to helping her community. Glory, excitement and wealth might drive most blessed, but for her, they all paled in comparison to the fellowship and love she felt every time she strolled amongst her flock spreading the word of Luxos.
She walked over to where her assistant had left a kettle filled with water and began filling a cloth sack with tea leaves and shavings of fragrant bark. Kylie’s hands trembled as she packed the bag and submerged it in the water. Each day, her daily rituals became harder. First, she lost the energy to perform morning sermons. Every day slipped and became weekly, and finally, Kylie could only manage to speak on the high holidays.
Same with her daily walks through the market. About five years ago, she lost the ability to handle them on her own. Until last year, Kylie needed an assistant to lend her a shoulder while she walked through the busy streets. Unfortunately, the activity was too much for her now, even with help.
Kylie sighed, ignoring the aches in her arms as she pushed the kettle atop her fire. It seemed that making her morning tea was destined to go the same route.
She walked slowly to the rocking chair that sat beside the fire and picked up the blanket that was waiting there before sitting down and draping it over her lap.
The chair creaked, a gentle rhythmic sound as she moved back and forth and thought about the dreams.
Saving the world and fighting monsters? Those were for other people. Adventurous people. The sort of people that lived brilliant lives, only to die in their twenties while fighting a beast wave or dungeon break. Sure, the bards sang songs about them and children wanted to grow up to be like them, but Kylie had seen them come and go.
Every ten or so years, another wave of the “greatest blessed to grace the kingdom” rose to prominence. They won tournaments and fought powerful monsters only to die and be replaced by the next wave of “the greatest talent ever seen.” All the while, her barony grew and prospered.
That was what Luxos wanted. Individual glory withered and faded with time. What truly mattered was building communities and knowledge. A strong warrior here and there might garner fame, but they couldn’t do anything against an entire army that had been carefully nurtured by the church.
Kylie sighed again. She’d never really doubted the church’s teachings before today. It had seemed clear. A strong kingdom made strong weapons and trained strong warriors. That was why they won their constant wars with the Durgh and the elves.
But for the first time, she began to wonder if maybe she had been wrong. It wouldn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. Kylie was too old and worn down by a life well-lived to change her strategy now, but what if things could have been different?
What if she had been there to heal those “generational talents” when they were fighting off the northern Drake Incursion? What if she were on hand to aid the King’s army in the latest subjugation expedition against the Durgh in the Great Depths? How many lives could she have saved?
She shook her head, a frown creasing her wrinkled face. Even if she didn’t fight, how would the world have been different if she had moved away from her comfortable home and become one of the bishops in the capital? There weren’t any great famines, but at least two plagues had come and gone since the church had extended her an invitation.
