Chương 8: Locked

They didn't bother burying the dead. Curzan, relatively unhurt from the night ambush, had originally ordered them to immediately set off. In the crew's current state, it quickly became obvious how travel was untenable, even the day's travel to Wardenhal. Instead, they moved their campsite a short distance away for safety's sake, choosing an open field. Both Boreth and Joel were in suboptimal conditions, and even Bhas had taken a bad slice. However, the real issue was Flendel.

Having sustained such serious wounds, he could hardly move, with or without assistance. At the very least, his fever would have to drop before the group could carry on. Huddled close to the campfire, Joel had tried his best to sleep. But the ache from the gashes across his chest and back interrupted his slumber. So he ate Gorum's packed food, anything to replenish his strength. While reaching for more spiced cheese in his pack, he felt the glass of a corked vial.

A minor healing potion, a gift that Gorum had slipped into his bag. Urged by his stinging lacerations, he fought the temptation to down the potion. There would be more urgent moments to use something so precious, though he had to admit last night qualified as one of those instances.

"[Status]," he said between bites. — Name: Joel Early Class: Classless Level: 1 HP: 52% MIGHT: 252 DEFTNESS: 355 VITALITY: 303 FOCUS: 145 SPIRIT: 140 RESOLVE: 145 Anomaly: 1 — Taking any tangible recovery that food and rest provided, he'd been tracking his HP's steady rise. It had been that way in First Fantasy's early access and he was glad that hadn't changed. Wincing as he adjusted his sitting position, his bandaged wounds reminded him there was a long way to go. What was the bear — No, that wasn't right.

What was that elf trying to achieve in attacking them? While picking themselves up after the attack, Boreth had identified their ambusher as a loam elf. However, he seemed plainly unsurprised that the grizzly was actually an elf. He explained that shape-shifting druids were not that uncommon in parts of this continent. But that still didn't clarify why they'd been tracking the crew. The dying ambusher's face was burned into his mind, staving off any sleep.

The elf's one good red eye — angry and desperate — greeted him in the dark. It was followed by the gurgle of a slit throat and a cascading curtain of red. Since getting stuck here, it was the first time he'd seen someone die in front of him. Not some defeated wild beast, but a dead person. A person that he'd helped kill. He felt a lump forming in his throat. Swallowing the sickening feeling, he thought of how strange it was. How real it was.

It wasn't that he was a murderhobo, but in his original time within the game, he never truly cared about any of the NPCs he cut down. He'd never given it a second thought. Heck, players didn't care about attacking other players, no less. However, with each passing day stuck here, he'd noticed how much he'd begun to simply care.

"Jo-Joel…," interrupted Flendel's feeble voice. Worried, Joel immediately came over and knelt.

"You need something, Flendel? Water?" He scanned for any discomfort that might be bothering Flendel.

"No," the burly man replied, shaking his bald head. Sweat drenched his brow and the collar of his tunic.

"I-.. I wanted to say thanks. I wouldn't have made it without you."

"Boreth's the one who really patched you up." He wiped some of the sweat from Flendel's face with a cloth. Grimacing, he noticed that Flendel's fever wasn't going down at all.

"Y-you could've ran. Left me to bleed," Flendel coughed, a raspy heave.

"The others would've."

"Save your strength." Joel felt Flendel clasp his hand, pressing a piece of cold, uneven metal into his palm. Glancing down, he saw an iron key with a dull gleam, similar to the padlock on the strongbox wagon.

"You're a better person than me." Flendel rolled to his side, turning away. Making sure no one was watching, Joel tucked the key into his bag. He'd been curious about the wagon the whole trip, unable to pry any hint from the others. All of them kept their mouths zipped whenever he alluded to it. Irritated, he decided to take a walk, stretch his legs. Hopefully it would ease his mood. He tossed a piece of aged cheddar into his mouth, chewing as he went.

Sunlight — its warmth mellowed by temperate breezes — graced the grassy plains, serene and gentle. It was as if the day had forgotten the terror of last night's assault. Staying in sight of the camp, he breathed it all in, trying to absorb the peace. The rattle of seashells clued him as to who walked up beside him. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"Think he can travel?" Boreth asked, looking down the road. Smoking from his pipe, he rested his bandaged hand on his cutlass' pommel. Despite looking like shit, the stout dwarf remained as stoic as ever. Joel crossed his arms, considering it before shaking his head.

"No, not on foot. Putting him on the wagon would help."

"Curzan wouldn't allow it." The dwarf didn't continue, another awkward silence. Never thought Boreth would've given a rat's ass what Curzan would allow.

"Where'd you learn to use a cutlass like that?" Boreth asked, breaking the silence. After a few more deep puffs, he held his pipe out to share. Grateful for a moment to think, Joel inhaled slowly. He hoped that it would make him look contemplative, enough to buy him some more time. Boreth continued, noting the lack of a response with a look.

"You used a flag guard. That's what us seafaring dwarves call the hanging guard, same principles and all. You've had formal training. That's clear." Joel figured he might as well use assumptions already established.

"I learned some things here and there from someone in the Archipelago."

"Ah, the Ahnjin Archipelago?" A distant expression came across Boreth.

"Truly spectacular place. I've sailed to parts of it myself a few times. Which of the Endless Isles do you hail from?" Damn it. More questions that required better lies.

"I moved around a lot. Never found a spot to call home," Joel replied vaguely. Handing the pipe back, he tried to divert the conversation with something somewhat obvious.

"What about yourself? Do you sail regularly?" A wistful smile emerged on Boreth's bearded face.

"Aye, I used to, back in the day. I had the honor of captaining a ship for a while. She was a fine vessel."

"Is that where you got the sword?" Joel motioned towards the ivory-handled cutlass at the dwarf's hip.

"It is," Boreth answered. Still smiling, he exhaled out a jet of smoke and tapped the blade's crossguard.

"For any true citizen of the Republic, earning one is a mark of the highest honor." Joel gave an impressed whistle. Chuckling, the dwarf shook his head.

"You have this old braggard reminiscing. I apologize."

"No need. The way you battled that bear? You can brag all you want."

"Lad, you were the one who fought it off. I said it before and I'll say it again. You should become a Freewalker. I heard the Rosnay guild might need some hopefuls. You've got the heart and skill."

"Considering I almost bit the dust last night, I don't know if I do. I might be more suited for a peaceful life. Get a farm. Maybe a roadside inn like Gorum's." Boreth scoffed.

"That'd be a waste of your talents. Go do something proper with your youth." Something proper. Honestly, Joel wasn't sure what that even meant at this stage. Usually that meant leveling or indulging whatever odd fancy the game provided. However, the dwarf's words resonated with him. After all, if he was stuck here, he might as well make some use of his time. But what was happening to his real body? The immersion technology for VRMMOs didn't sustain you.

Despite whatever occurred in the virtual world, you needed to eat and sleep. That's why the game didn't mess with certain senses like exhaustion, hunger, or thirst, encouraging you to log out when you felt so. He'd been here for over a week now. His real body couldn't have survived for so long. Yet, every time he felt hungry or tired, he was satisfied with hearty food and good sleep. Not only that, someone should've noticed his absence, found him, and pulled him out. So was this all real?

It felt real but the constant screens and menus that popped up reminded him otherwise, reminded him of the game. It'd been a conundrum that he'd been grappling with for a while. He'd used the chores in Gorum's place to distract himself from the existential dread. It was either that, or training himself till he was too exhausted to think. Last night's brutal events resurfaced the confusing reality of it all.

"I can see you considering it already," Boreth said, interrupting the thoughts. The dwarf continued to puff away.

"Just remember me when you're famous." It hurt Joel's ribs to laugh, so he stifled it to a chuckle.

"Boreth, we need to talk!" yelled out Curzan from camp. Still playing with her dagger, Bhas stood next to him, whispering something in his ear. Boreth sighed before turning.

"Well, don't wander off too far from camp. We've lost enough people." The dwarf tapped out his pipe's ashes, joining Curzan with a scowl. Deciding on a light jog, Joel circled the encampment. His condition wasn't ideal for anything too strenuous. He needed to clear his head, but he'd heeded Boreth's words by staying near camp as he ran.

"[Homebrew]," he said. Glancing down the menu, he saw his available EXP. 300. The extra 200 made a decent amount to spend. Gritting his teeth, he remembered how he'd earned it. The alert had called it 'shared EXP'. That'd surprised him because shared experience was usually doled out between player party members. This meant that the game was recognizing the people he fought alongside last night, though he wondered whether they could even utilize the EXP.

If anyone would've got the majority of the points, it would've been Bhas. The terrifying lunar elf appeared to revel in slitting their attacker's throat. That said, her knifeplay wasn't what was truly dreadful about them. It was her magic. She utilized some spell to control binding vines, bursting forth from the ground. It wasn't that dissimilar to the [Root] spell from the now-defunct Mage class. A relatively low level but potent spell, especially to an exhausted opponent.

Considering all the nature magic, Joel assumed Bhas was a druid herself. It explained strange animosity from the dead loam elf. Perhaps some peculiar druidic grudge? Also, it clarified why half the crew was frightened of her. As far as he could tell, magic was rare. In his time at the Berrygood Lodge, none of the passersby seemed capable of it. Back in the early access days, seeing magic was commonplace. The original spellcasting classes — Mage and Priest — were obscenely popular.

You'd frequently come across all sorts of fun spells. Noticing the new classes, he'd been tempted to dip into some spellcasting himself. However, EXP was hard earned and magic was a particularly expensive investment. You had to not only purchase the spell itself, but also the spell charge to utilize the spell. On top of that, you would require the [Channeling Focus Proficiency] and a channeling focus, such as a wand or an amulet. It was a significant amount of upfront EXP to even get a single 1st level spell.

Even cantrips — levelless spells — were costly. Simply, it was more prudent to keep upgrading the way he already was, with skills and abilities he could use regularly. Magic would be a bonus he'd earn in the future.

"Oi!" Curzan shouted from a distance. Boreth, Bhas, and Perri stood next to him, arming themselves near the campfire.

"We're hunting that other bear down. Quit mucking around! Keep your eyes on Flendel and camp." Joel raised a hand, signalling his acknowledgement. As he turned back to camp, he saw only Boreth return the wave. He slowly made his way back, enjoying the warm wind. Taking a moment to check on Flendel, he found that the feverish man was asleep. He tossed another branch into the campfire while watching the others disappear back to the crags, beyond the crew's cart and its grazing horses.

Chewing on another piece of cheese, he peered over at the nearby strongbox wagon. Reinforced with iron-bands, the carriage looked like a vault on wheels. The aged oaken planks were ancient and foreboding. An unsettling feeling permeated from it. There were no windows and the only entrance was the hefty rear door, also constructed with dense timber. It was the perfect time to check it out. After patting himself down, he picked up his quarterstaff — it'd been an endeavor to locate the stick after the night attack.

He remembered Gorum's old story of spotting a jaguar while peeking. Better safe than sorry. He looked around, making sure he was in the clear. He rummaged through his bag for the iron key, palming past bundles of clothing and rations. Finally locating it, he tossed his bag aside. With a twist of the key, he unlocked the heavy iron padlock. Placing the lock down on the cart step with a thud, he pulled the door's handle. Its hinges, crusty with rust, let out a high-pitched creak like a surprised lark.

He leaned back, yanking with more force. When the door swung open, the first thing he noticed was the smell. A foul odor, akin to overflowing sewage, spilled out from the entrance as sunlight poured in. Light revealed a scattering of dirty hay that covered the cart's floor. As Joel looked up, his throat went dry.