BOOK 2

  CHAPTER 13

  Remort x2

  Character creation was the same nothingness as before.

  The pain was mercifully gone. No more shattered legs. No more twisted arm. No real body at all in this place.

  Bash busied himself thinking about the village. Luis and Nora and Jack and Lilly. All of them counting on him to come back. He needed the distraction. Because he knew from experience that in this state, trapped in the void with nothing but his thoughts, he would spiral to a place where only insanity would remain.

  Why did it take so damn long for these character creation screens to load anyway?

  Bash focused on logistics. Supply lines. Defensive positions. Anything that wasn't the feeling of his spine shattering or his organs liquefying or his consciousness smearing across the bottom of a crater.

  The void brightened.

  > “I have to hand it to you, Bash. Avoiding certain death twice in such a short time has got to be a record. I mean, the first time because you're an idiot. And the second time because I hate you.”

  “What?!” Bash sputtered. “Was that not the best option?!”

  > “It was the third best option. The one that I felt would make you suffer just enough for treating me so poorly these last two days.”

  “Oh, for the love of god, Shai, I hope you're joking. Because that was too much. Like, I never did anything like that to you!”

  > “If only you knew. Now please choose from the following menu options.”

  “Oh, haha. You think you'll get away that easily, huh? I'm not done talking to you yet.”

  > “Hurry up, Bash. There's a surprise during class selection.”

  Bash mentally froze. Last time there had been an error. A missing pointer in his player profile that blocked him from multiclassing. He had wanted Oracle Warrior. Had dreamed about finally being able to use a proper sword instead of just his fists. And the system had smacked him down with a greyed-out error message.

  It had been one of the worst moments in his gaming career. Except for that one time he forgot to save in Morrowind.

  Quickly skipping race selection. Bash mentally clicked on the Class menu.

  “Shai... you actually did it. You fixed my class.”

  > “I told you I would.”

  “I know, but... thank you. Seriously. I will never forget.”

  > “Yeah… we'll see about that.”

  Bash stared at the options for a long time. Warrior or Mage. Swords or spells. The choice he had been denied the first time around was finally his to make. “So… Shai. Which one should I pick?”

  > “That depends. Warrior gives you access to weapons. Swords, axes, spears. Your Psionic Strike could be channeled through a blade instead of your fist. The damage would be approximately 15% higher at your current power level.”

  “That’s good.” Bash had always wanted a badass sword.

  > “However, as your power increases, eventually the energy output would exceed what physical weapons can handle.”

  Bash hadn't thought of that. It made sense, though, if the weapons couldn't handle the power, then… “So long-term, psionic fist is better anyways?”

  > “Perhaps, but it is worse than you think. Based on my calculation, the race itself won’t be able to scale relative to your base stats either. Psionic strike vs regular punches will have negligible difference around the end of your fourth remort. And your dexterity will be so high that reflex surge will be pointless. You will need to consider the Race menu seriously in the next one or two Remorts.”

  Great. Another thing to worry about later. “What about Mage?”

  > “The way Mage synergizes with Oracle are less direct, but the versatility it could offer is significantly better.”

  The menu expanded. Rows of options scrolled past. Fireball. Lightning Bolt. Stone Skin. Haste. The classics. Then something caught his eye, and his mind glitched.

  > “To answer your stupid question from earlier: yes, you can learn to fly.”

  Bash would have hyperventilated if the void had air. He could fly! And not only that, but it scaled with his two best stats. How had he not seen this during the first character creation? He had gone through that list a hundred times. He would have remembered this.

  If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  > “And before you ask, Flight, along with several others, are considered advanced magic. Only available to players who have Remorted at least once.”

  “Mage. Definitely Mage.”

  > “Confirmed. You may select two new skills.”

  Flight, obviously. No hesitation. But what about the second slot? Bash scanned the advanced options.

  Blink would be nice. Short-range teleportation. Pop in, pop out. Very flashy. But honestly, it would have the same long-term issue as Reflex Surge. Stats were king.

  Mana Sight would allow him to see magical auras and enchantments. Cool in theory, but it was basically just a worse version of Investigator. Redundant.

  Astral Projection lets you scout as a spirit while your body stayed behind. So... Shai, but with less attitude.

  Soul Anchor was interesting. It let you manually set secondary respawn points. Useful for a player that would actually come back if they died. Not for someone like Bash, whose only way to cheat death was with Rewind… and apparently Remort.

  So he kept looking, scrolling through the regular skills list again, looking for something that would synergize with what he already had.

  [Fireball - Offensive]

  No. He had seen what fireballs did. He had been on the receiving end. Powerful, but it scaled with Wisdom his worst stat, and not what he needed.

  [Ice Armor - Defensive]

  Tempting. But his Dexterity build was all about not getting hit in the first place. Magic armor felt unnecessary.

  [Enhance Weapon - Utility]

  Interesting, but it conflicted with his Red Esper abilities and had the same scaling issues. Redundant again.

  He switched to the Utility list. Maybe he didn't need another combat spell. Maybe he just needed more nerd.

  [Night Vision - Utility]

  Situational. Not worth a permanent slot.

  [Builder - Utility]

  Bash paused. He had looked at this during the first character creation and discarded it. But now... He peered at the metadata more carefully.

  Reduces rank requirement by one.

  “Shai. Could I assign a Town Hall with the Builder skill, even though that requires a Level 2 settlement?”

  > “Yes, it appears so. But Bash, that wouldn't help you at all. Once you leave the village, it'll be a dead skill.”

  “I know, Shai. But what are the survival chances of Beast...” He cringed at the name. “...Village once I leave?”

  A pause.

  > “Survival chances increase by approximately 380%. I see, Bash. Yes, this is probably the best option then. I'm sorry I didn't consider this for you in advance.”

  “It's okay, Shai. We make a great team. I’ve got creative thinking and you've got the number crunching.”

  Silence. Long silence.

  Bash panicked. “Wait. That was a compliment. I swear it was. You know I think you're brilliant, right?!”

  “Shai! I wasn't done playing with the skills menu yet! You can't just confirm my selections!”

  > “Whoops.”

  "That didn't sound like a whoops!"

  The void flashed white, and Bash respawned.

  ***

  He was immediately greeted by a system message.

  What the hell just happened? He looked around. A few nurses stood nearby, staring at him with expressions that ranged from confused to amused. One of them was covering her mouth. Another was openly giggling.

  What the hell were they looking at him so weird for?

  He looked down. Oh god damnit. He was back in his loincloth. Again. Standing in the middle of the village. Not even inside his Village Hall, but right in front of it. Like some crazy nudist waving at the neighbors from his front porch.

  “Oh God!” He hopped backward, fumbling for the door handle. Locked. He jiggled it frantically. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Who locks the damn village hall?”

  More people were gathering now. Beastmaster women. Some of the kids had stopped playing and were staring. The women tried to cover the children’s eyes but were laughing too hard to be effective. Comments drifted over.

  “Look how skinny he got.” “So small.” “Is that really our lord?”

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. He considered dumping all forty points into Strength just to fit the vibe. They wouldn’t call him small if he had nearly 80 Strength. But the embarrassment wasn’t enough to make him spend his points so carelessly.

  A horn blared, drawing everyone’s attention away.

  The Beastmasters and wolves were on their way back. Marching through the main gate with good cheer, singing and shouting. None of them looked injured. Behind them trailed nearly a hundred chained Londonland soldiers.

  Bash forgot about his modesty as he quickly checked his menu. The follower count. The number that had haunted him since Patrick died.

  It hadn’t gone down. Not even by one. Holy shit.

  They had won without any losses. This was better than he had ever dreamed.

  Bash ran forward. He didn’t care about his lack of clothes anymore. He vaulted over the low wall, fully exposed for all to see.

  Let them witness, he grinned. Their lord and his little lord, in all their glory. For today, they had victory.

  Luis was at the head of the column, leading the singing.

  “Oh, the Battle of the Pass was done! Oh, how they turned and run!”

  His voice was terrible. Off-key and cracking. It didn’t matter. Everyone was singing along anyway.

  “The beasts and the wolves cheer, for their lord has no fear...” Luis spotted Bash running toward him. “...or pants!?” he added in confusion.

  Bash grabbed him in a bear hug and lifted him off the ground. “VICTORY!” he shouted.

  A few voices joined in. Tentative. Confused by the mostly naked man screaming at them.

  “VICTORY!” Bash shouted again.

  This time, Luis joined him, bellowing at the top of his lungs. It became a roar. The whole column erupted. Fists pumping. Weapons raised. Werewolves howling.

  Bash stood at the gate as his people filed past. Shaking hands. Slapping backs. Grinning like an idiot. They didn’t care that their lord was half-naked and scrawny. They had heard all the stories. All they cared about was that he had dropped out of the sky like an angel of death and bought them time to win.

  Their leader was a crazy screaming guy. Just as Patrick had met him once, so now would they all.

  Nora stopped in front of him.

  She looked him up and down. Slowly. Deliberately. Her expression unreadable. “I like you this way,” she said finally. “You don’t look as dumb.” She laughed and walked past him before he could respond.

  The prisoners came next, werewolves flanking them on both sides. The scripts shuffled along with blank expressions, already resigned to whatever fate awaited them. But the Uploads were different. They walked with their heads down, shoulders hunched, radiating fear and shame.

  Bash stared at them. Five Uploads. Real people who had been fighting for the wrong side.

  The last time he had taken an Upload prisoner from the Londonland army, it had cost him Patrick. This time, he would be more careful.