Chương 91: The March on Tidemark

The capsule hissed open, and I pulled off the helmet, blinking in the dim light of my cottage. The exhaustion hit differently this time: it was more emotional. I felt the weight of the upcoming events on my shoulders. As usual, I opened the forums, but my time there was brief: I saw that players were already talking about the new quest posted by the Association. They were discussing the story of Tidemark, arguing about politics, and deciding whether to join the Count's retinue.

Some even said that Darius might actually be the legit heir, and the coup was in fact just a liberation. I shook my head and smiled. Despite the seriousness of the situation, I had to remind myself that I was playing a game. And right now, I was in the middle of shaping its history.

The next morning, I woke up at 7: 15 am, having slept through at least four of my alarms. I decided to skip today's workout session to grab something to eat before logging back in. At 7: 40 AM, I hit the button. I opened my eyes on the cot, staring up at the canvas ceiling of the tent. The brazier had gone out sometime during the night, and the morning air carried the faint smell of woodsmoke and saltwater through the fabric walls. I sat up, stretched, and checked my interface.

Quest Log The Seastone Throne Count Vizgrad has to reclaim his rightful seat in Tidemark. Aid him with whatever means necessary. Simple enough on paper, but I had a feeling it was going to be a hell of a day. I stepped out of the tent and into Maelridge. The village was already awake and buzzing with an energy that hadn't been there the night before. Maelridge was a modest place, the kind of settlement that probably saw a dozen visitors on a busy day. This morning, it looked like someone had poked a beehive.

Villagers moved with purpose, carrying crates of supplies and barrels of water toward the main square. A blacksmith I hadn't noticed the night before was hammering away at his anvil with a rhythm that suggested he'd been at it since dawn. Two women were hanging the silver trout banner of House Vizgrad from the windows of the tavern, welcoming new adventurers. The villagers knew something big was happening.

I found Athos at the main square, sitting on the edge of the central well with his sword resting across his knees. He looked up as I approached.

"You're early," he said.

"So are you."

"Couldn't sleep. In real life, I mean." He ran a hand through his hair.

"Kept thinking about what's waiting for us in Tidemark."

"Anything happen overnight?"

"I didn't hear about anything important. Whatever Calian's doing, he's doing it quietly." Kara appeared a few minutes later, emerging from the tent with her Lute of Abstraction slung across her back. Her red hair was tied in a loose braid, and she looked way more rested than my Swordsman friend or me.

"Good morning, soldiers," she said brightly.

"Ready to march into certain doom?"

"You're in a good mood," I observed.

"I hit level 22 last night, I have a shiny lute, and we have a huge event to play through. What's not to be cheerful about?" She stretched her arms above her head.

"Also, I may have spent my cooldown watching the forums explode. The Count's quest is everywhere. People are losing their minds." Lothras was the last to arrive, stepping out of the tent in full armor, shield on his back, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He acknowledged us with a nod.

"The traitors?" he asked.

"Still detained, according to Ser Syrak," Athos replied.

"I saw him making rounds earlier. Twelve knights under guard in the storehouse near the docks."

"Good." Lothras settled into his usual, unreadable stance, with his hands crossed.

"Then we wait." We didn't have to do so for long before the first wave arrived, and I decided to take a stroll. By nine o'clock, adventurers started trickling into Maelridge from every direction. Some came on foot from the surrounding countryside, others by boat from the coastal settlements. A handful even rode in on carriages, which I hadn't seen many players use up to this point. The village wasn't really built for this kind of traffic.

Maelridge's single main road became a bottleneck within the hour, players jostling shoulder to shoulder as they made their way toward the square. The local NPCs watched from doorways and windows, some with curiosity, others with disbelief. An elderly fisherman sat on a barrel near the harbor, mending a net with his rough fingers. He didn't look up as a group of five adventurers marched past him in mismatched armor.

"Never seen so many of your kind in one place," he muttered, loud enough for me to hear.

"Last time this many armed folk gathered in Maelridge, it was the Saltwater Rebellion. Forty years ago."

"How'd that end?" I asked. He looked up at me, squinting.

"Badly." Encouraging. I moved through the growing crowd, trying to get a sense of the composition. Most players were between levels 13 and 18, based on their equipment, with a handful of higher-level outliers. I recognized some faces from the Oakenlight tournament, though most were strangers. Near the blacksmith, three players were arguing with such intensity that it must have been very important.

"I'm telling you, the quest reward is scaled to contribution," said a Guardian with a tower shield almost as tall as he was.

"The more damage you deal, the better the loot."

"That's not how it works," his companion, an Arcanist, shot back.

"It's participation-based. You just have to be there."

"You're both wrong," the third one, a Rogue, said flatly.

"It's reputation-gated. Higher rep with the Count's retinue means better rewards." I kept walking. They were all speculating, just like the rest of us. Nobody really knew what was waiting on the other side of this march. By ten, the square was properly crowded. The quest notification had spread far. According to the forums, it had gone out as a county-wide bulletin: a rare, high-reward event quest directly tied to the Seastone Throne.

For most players in Tidemark, this was the biggest thing to happen since the start of the game. A Bard near the tavern was playing something upbeat on a wooden flute, and a small cluster of players had gathered around him, clapping along. Two Lancers were sparring in the open space behind the blacksmith, drawing a modest audience. A merchant NPC had set up a temporary stall selling potions and basic supplies, suggesting that the local herbalist had run out of wares.

I found Kara sitting on a low stone wall, watching the activity with an expression somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

"This is wild," she said as I sat down next to her.

"I counted at least seven different guilds setting up recruitment banners. In the middle of a war quest."

"Opportunists." Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

"Capitalists," she corrected.

"You can't blame them. What is this, like eight hundred players in one place? That's a recruiter's dream." I noticed Athos near the Count's pavilion, deep in conversation with a group of players that must have been future Second Wind members. He was gesturing toward Tidemark's general direction, his expression serious. Guild Master mode, clearly. Lothras, meanwhile, had found a quiet corner and was maintaining his equipment, running a whetstone along his blade with the kind of focus that discouraged conversation.

I wonder how he feels about all this. Is he worried that his ties with us will conflict with his allegiance to Crimson Court? A young woman in light leather armor approached us, a Ranger like me but at least five levels below me.

"Excuse me," she said, a bit nervously.

"Are you Orion? The one from the Oakenlight tournament?"

"That's me." Her eyes lit up.

"I watched your matches on the VODs. The fight against Athos was incredible. Could I—would you mind if I asked you something about the Ranger class?"

"Sure."

"How do you manage your cooldowns in prolonged fights? I keep running out of options and having to resort to basic attacks for ages." I thought about it for a moment.

"Don't think of basic attacks as a fallback. They're your bread and butter. Skills are just punctuation, not the sentence. If your basics aren't threatening enough to pressure your opponent, your skills won't matter either." She nodded slowly, processing.

"That… actually makes a lot of sense. Thank you."

"Good luck out there," I said, and she left with a small wave. Kara was watching me with a warm expression.

"Look at you being a mentor."

"It was one question."

"You gave a good answer. She'll remember that." At noon, Count Vizgrad emerged from his pavilion. The square fell quiet, almost a thousand voices dying to a murmur as the Count stepped onto a raised platform that his men had assembled sometime during the morning. He wore his traveling armor now, practical steel with the blue and silver of Tidemark across the surcoat. The circlet of white gold rested on his brow, and in his right hand, he held the Tidemark Trident. The weapon was unmistakable.

Even from across the square, I could feel its presence, a deep pressure of power that made the air heavier. The three prongs crackled with faint blue energy, and players nearest to the platform took an involuntary step back. Captain Vern stood at the Count's right, while Ser Syrak was positioned at his left. Cathe was behind them, her expression composed and alert, constantly on the lookout for threats. Twenty-eight loyal knights formed a perimeter around the platform, their armor polished, their faces grim.

"Adventurers of Tidemark," the Count began, his voice carrying across the square with an authority that silenced even the last whispers.

"You answered my call, and for that, you have my gratitude." He paused, letting his gaze sweep the crowd.

"I will not dress this in pretty words. Tidemark has been betrayed. My own nephew, Darius Vizgrad, has conspired with traitors within my guard to seize the Seastone Throne. As we stand here, his forces most likely hold the city. The very knights sworn to protect our people have turned against them." Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Some players had clearly read the quest description and understood the situation, while others were hearing the full story for the first time.

"Today, we march on Tidemark. Not as conquerors, but as liberators. I ask no one to fight who does not wish to. But I promise you this: those who stand with me will not be forgotten. The Seastone Throne remembers its friends." He raised the Trident, and the weapon responded, blue light surging along its shaft and erupting from the three prongs in a pillar that reached toward the sky. The crowd erupted. A thousand voices roared in unison, and the sound washed over Maelridge like a wave crashing against the shore.

I felt my hair stand up on my arms. Even knowing it was a game, even knowing we were playing characters in a virtual world, the moment hit different. This was what MMOs were supposed to feel like.

"Form ranks!" Captain Vern's voice cut through the cheering.

"Knights at the vanguard! Adventurers, fall in behind! We move in ten minutes!" The road from Maelridge to Tidemark cut north, through the village of Mudhelm, then along the coastline, passing through farmland and occasional forest patches. Four hours of marching, give or take, depending on how fast this many players could move in a somewhat organized fashion. The answer, as it turned out, was not very fast.

The vanguard set a steady pace: the Count's loyal knights were in formation, their armor catching the midday sun, the silver trout of House Vizgrad snapping in the coastal wind. Behind them, our party fell into step alongside Cathe and Ser Syrak, who had been assigned to coordinate with us directly. At the back, the main body of the host stretched back along the road in a column that had less in common with a military march and more with a very enthusiastic hiking club.

"This is chaos," Lothras observed, glancing back at the disorganized mass of players.

"Of course," Athos said.

"Most of these players have never been in a large-scale event. Give them time."

"Time is exactly what we don't have." Neither of them were wrong, but thankfully, the crowd sorted itself out. Within the first hour, the column found its rhythm. Soon-to-be-Guilds naturally clustered together, and the solo players filled in the gaps. Someone toward the middle started a marching cadence that caught on quickly. It was a silly song about a goblin who stole a pie from the market.

I didn't know whether it was pre-existing music or whether the player came up with it on the spot, but I had to admit it was quite catchy. We left Mudhelm behind, and the countryside rolled past us, golden fields stretching toward the horizon on our left, the sea glittering under a clear sky on our right. It was the kind of scenery that made you forget you were marching toward a potential civil war. A farmer stopped his cart on the roadside as we passed, his mouth hanging open at the sight of our host.

His two children climbed onto the cart's edge to get a better look, pointing at the knights and whispering to each other.

"Is the Count going to war?" the farmer called out.

"He is going to serve justice," Captain Vern replied from the front of the column, loud enough for the man to hear. The farmer took off his cap and held it to his chest. He didn't say anything else, but I saw him bow his head as the Count's banner passed. Small moments like these were scattered throughout the march. A shepherdess guided her flock off the road to make way for us, while her dog barked at the column of armored strangers.

A village elder was standing at the entrance of a hamlet called Brinehill, offering water to anyone who wanted it, and an old woman threw wildflowers from her window as the vanguard passed, petals catching in the wind. The residents of this world knew their Count, and they had the utmost faith in him. Around the second hour, Kara fell into step beside me.

"You're quiet," she said.

"Thinking."

"About?"

"Calian. He's level 70. Whatever's waiting for us in Tidemark, he's going to be part of it. And a couple hundred players between level 15 and 22 aren't going to change that math. And Darius and the dark mage are still unknowns." She was quiet for a few steps.

"The Count has the Trident. He's also level 70, wielding a legendary weapon."

"Yeah, but Darius and Calian are still challenging him. That means they aren't worried about one weapon. They have something up their sleeves, and one weapon doesn't make an army."

"No, but a symbol does." She gestured behind us at the column of players.

"These people came because the quest told them something important was happening, and they wanted to be part of it. That's not nothing." I considered that. She had a point.

"Besides," she added with a half-smile, "we've beaten the odds before. Two dungeons with a four-man party, remember?"

"Barely."

"Barely counts." I couldn't argue with that. A couple steps back, I could hear Athos talking with Blue. Mostly about guild coordination, deployments, who would cover which approach to the city. Second Wind had sent close to eighty members to this march, a significant chunk of the total force. Lothras walked in silence for most of the journey, but at one point he stopped to help an NPC cart that had gotten stuck in a rut on the road.

He lifted the wheel free without a word, nodded to the grateful driver, and fell back into step with us. Nobody commented on it, but Kara caught my eye and smiled.

"I wonder why he's not marching with the rest of Crimson Court," she pondered for a moment.

"Well, those guys are led by Lorrando, and we both know how he feels about him."

"Fair point." The third hour brought clouds rolling in from the sea, heavy and grey, casting the landscape in a muted light that felt appropriate for what lay ahead. The temperature dropped, and players who'd been complaining about the heat an hour ago were now pulling cloaks tighter around their shoulders. I summoned Lune. She materialized at my feet with her usual shimmer of bronze light, her star-like eyes blinking up at me before she settled into a comfortable trot at my side.

"There's the fox!" Kara reached down to scratch behind Lune's ears.

"I missed you, little one." Lune leaned into the touch with a swaying tail. A passing player, a Cleric who couldn't have been higher than level 16, stopped and stared.

"Is that a pet? How do you have a pet?"

"Long story," I said.

"That's so cool. Can I pet her?" Lune looked at me, and I looked back.

"Ask her, not me." The Cleric knelt down carefully, and Lune sniffed his hand before allowing a tentative pat on her head. He grinned like he'd just found a legendary drop. The small interactions kept the march bearable. Someone organized an impromptu trivia game about Godsrealm lore, shouting questions down the column.

A Berserker near the rear was apparently carrying a portable cooking setup and had started grilling meat on skewers while walking, the smell drifting forward through the ranks and making everyone hungry. Two Arcanists were having a debate over mana efficiency that had attracted a crowd of spectators, taking sides. It almost felt like a festival rather than a military march. Almost.

Because every so often, the laughter would fade, and you'd see players checking their equipment, sharpening blades, and checking on their potion supply. They knew what was coming, and most players knew what it meant to fight NPCs. The road curved inland during the fourth hour, climbing a gentle ridge that overlooked the eastern coastline. The column slowed as we crested the hill, and then, one by one, people stopped. We had arrived at Tidemark.

The city sprawled next to the coast ahead of us, its walls catching what little sunlight pierced the clouds. The harbor bristled with masts. The Knight's Tower rose above the skyline like a dark blade against the grey sky. And from here, even from this distance, I could see the banners. They weren't the silver trout of House Vizgrad. New banners flew from the walls. Dark crimson, and a black bird of some kind. With a trout in its beak. Darius had made his move.

The Count stepped forward to the edge of the ridge, the Trident in his hand, and stood there for a long moment, staring at the city that had been stolen from him. Nobody spoke. Then Vizgrad turned to face his army of knights and adventurers, and his expression held a mixture of anger and sadness that I hadn't seen from him before.

"That is my city," he said.

"And we're taking it back."