Chương 11: The Wrong Side of the Gate

Meno had kept the stream off for this part. The river cut fast over slick stones beside Riverbend Shrine, and the orc valley smoked farther up the road, quiet for now except for distant horns and the scrape of wind through mountain scrub. [Hostile: Hookjaw Pike | Type: River Beast | Threat: Moderate | Trait: Ambush-Bite] Moderate now. That should have felt good. At Level 5, the same fish had been a horror story with fins. At Level 15, the UI had downgraded it into something he could theoretically disrespect.

Theory lasted one bite. The pike lunged. Meno stepped back onto shore, drew the Common III sword, and slashed at its head while the fish thrashed in the shallows. [Compound Swing | Chain: 1 | Damage: +10%] Damage landed. Then the pike's attention snapped loose. It twisted, kicked water into his boots, and retreated deeper into the current. Its health began recovering in small ticks as it vanished under the white chop. [Chain Broken: Invalid Target] Meno stared at the water.

"Does not evade. Great." Meno had hoped the fish would stay near the shore and evade his attacks while still giving him stacks for the chain, but apparently the AI was too smart to overlook such an obvious exploit. He tried again with a different pike and a different angle. This time he baited the charge near a mud shelf, sidestepped hard, and kicked the fish with the inside of his boot as it launched. The pike slid onto land, flopping violently, jaws snapping at nothing. For one second, hope made him stupid.

Then the fish began losing health rapidly on its own. Meno hit it anyway. [Compound Swing | Chain: 1 | Damage: +10%] Normal damage. Normal target. No special stack abuse. No immortal battery. No clever shore lock. The pike died before the chain mattered, and the system gave him basic monster XP with the emotional weight of a shrug. He stood over the dead fish with wet boots and a sword he already needed to repair.

"Finding usable exploits is hard." He turned the stream on. Viewers arrived fast enough that the counter looked diseased. 842. 1, 506. 2, 771. 3, 242. It steadied there with little jumps, a crowd large enough to ruin silence and too small to let him pretend the ban had been a boon. POSTLESS KING UNRANKEDBEADGOD lvl 15 btw rank 100 is 18 where stick show karma suspended build back online SPEAK"I tested fish," Meno said, walking away from the river.

"Fish are cowards, and the AI has considered water." he tried fish exploit offstream coward no post no rank no dignity go black market go Emberhollow go apologize to mom He muted nothing. The noise helped, in a bad way. It filled the space where his own thoughts kept replaying BrineSaint's dungeon loop, the leaderboard gap, and the fact that Rank 100 had lasted less time than the bug shirt preview. He headed toward Emberhollow. The orc valley road felt different without the post under his arm. Cleaner. Less stupid.

Worse, somehow. He had freedom of movement again and no portable stack engine to turn that movement into anything obscene. The Redscar patrols kept to their camps. He gave them distance. Fighting orcs one camp at a time was honest work, and honest work had never been his strength or his brand. The badlands opened under a hard amber sky. A notice cut across his vision before the first ridge. [World Notice] Emberhollow Colossus has fallen. Primary Contribution: Crownfall Guild Meno stopped walking.

For a while, he said nothing. The wind pushed orange dust across his boots. Somewhere far off, the ground gave a tired little groan, softer than before. The raid event he had triggered, the event that had forced him into a cave and then a catapult, the event that had made viewers scream, was over. Crownfall had eaten it while he was banned. Chat had no such trouble with words. CROWNFALL GOT IT you rang dinner bell they ate Kestrel stocks L huge L guilds win again Meno resumed walking.

In the distance, around a broken stretch of badlands where the Colossus had risen, at least twenty Crownfall players moved. They gathered around a house-sized shard of black stone veined with dead amber. Some posed for screenshots. Some sorted loot. Others held perimeter while crafters and analysts, or players dressed like those things, argued over fragments laid out on cloth. It looked organized. It looked like this had always been their route. Meno's tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek until it hurt.

He angled away from them. An Ashhide Gorer pawed at cracked ground below a ridge. Meno inspected it from cover. [Hostile: Ashhide Gorer | Type: Badlands Beast | Threat: Lethal | Trait: Gore-and-Trample]"Still lethal," he said. lvl 15 and still lethal gear diff class diff threat includes matchup maybe?

"Threat isn't just level," Meno said, mostly to himself.

"Gear, traits, class tools, expected survivability. I'm Level 15 in starter pajamas with a tired sword. The UI is judging the whole disaster." He checked the Common III sword. The durability bar had not forgiven the orc valley. Heavy Hundredfold loops, desperate parries, and repeated post taps had worn it down close to red. Not broken, but stupid to keep grinding with. Meno pulled the Common III dagger from inventory. The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

It had a narrow black grip and a short blade with a chipped but sharp edge. Knifewick's dagger. The rogue had probably liked it. That made testing it feel slightly better. The first gorer test lasted thirteen seconds. The dagger was fast. No question. The first few contacts came smooth, almost too smooth after sword rhythm. Short cuts, quick recoveries, tight wrist movement. [Compound Swing | Chain: 5 | Damage: +50%] Then the gorer lowered its head. The reach problem became immediate.

Meno had to stand too close to touch it. The beast's shoulder clipped his ribs when he slipped around the horns, and his health dropped hard enough to make his breath catch. He used a bandage after disengaging behind a rock, swearing under his breath while the gorer snorted and reset its footing. He tried again on a glassback scorpion and hated it more. Fast hits meant nothing when the enemy's threat zone began where his blade ended. To reach weak joints, he had to step inside claw range.

To keep the chain alive, he had to stay there. The dagger built stacks better in theory and tried to get him killed in practice. He completely lacked the mobility advantage that rogue-based classes enjoyed. [Compound Swing | Chain: 30 | Damage: +300%] The scorpion died before Chain 40. Good XP. Some chitin. A venom gland. Nothing close to the rank gap. Meno switched back to the sword with a grimace.

"Short weapons aren't magic. They're just fast ways to stand where the monster wants you." dagger believers in shambles reach is a stat Knifewick revenge from inventory one mob at a time is too slow no post no party no rank He searched Emberhollow for something better. Dead shardling husks lay in places where Crownfall had cleared paths. Some had been stripped already, amber cores chipped out. Event nodes, or what might have been event nodes, had little flags near them and Crownfall players taking notes.

Beasts still prowled the edges. No humanoid camps. No obvious boss pocket. No clean durable target that would hold still, survive long enough, and avoid murdering him for asking. He found Crownfall scouts on ridges and avoided them. He found stripped remains and cursed under his breath. He found one ember-veined stone cluster that looked promising until touching it gave him nothing but warm dust on his glove. Then the ground ahead erupted in tiny demons.

Six of them swarmed an Ashhide Gorer, each no taller than Meno's knee, made of ash-gray skin, needle teeth, and ember eyes. They bit, clawed, body-blocked, died in little puffs of smoke, and were replaced by three more crawling out of a black ring at a player's feet. The player stood on a low rock with arms folded, older-looking than most avatars bothered to be. Gray hair tied back. Narrow face. Plain dark coat. A crooked staff in one hand.

He watched the demons work calmly, as if he had already decided how the fight would end. Meno inspected him. [Unk | Class: Ash Pact Warlock — Level 18 | Ability: Imp Swarm] Level 18. Meno hated him immediately and for bad reasons. The gorer tried to charge. Three imps threw themselves under its legs. One got crushed. Two clung to the beast's face. The warlock flicked his fingers, and another cluster erupted near the gorer's flank. The whole thing looked obnoxiously efficient.

Disposable bodies, harassment, spacing, body-blocking, pressure without pain.

"Overpowered," Meno said. every useful class is broken according to him imp swarm looks sick rank 100? Unk was rank 100 maybe PK him The warlock looked over. His eyes moved from Meno's starter clothes to the sword, then to the space above his name. His posture changed by one careful degree.

"I don't want PvP," Unk said. Meno stopped a few steps away.

"Why would you open with that?"

"You're red."

"I'm friendly." The imps kept biting the gorer. The warlock gave Meno a tired look, like he'd heard enough already.

"Red-name friendly," Unk said.

"Different species." Meno opened his status overlay. There it was. His name carried a red edge in the local player display. Not bright murder-flare red, maybe, but enough. Disreputable. Negative karma made visible because of course the game would not hide it.

"Annoying," Meno said.

"Fair. Still annoying." Unk's gorer died. The imps collapsed into ash. He looted without turning his back fully.

"You need something," Unk said. Meno almost denied it. Denial took energy, and he needed that for worse ideas.

"I need into the Emberhollow fortress without bribing guards directly." Unk's expression stayed calm. His eyes sharpened.

"There it is."

"What?"

"The ask." He rested the staff against his shoulder.

"Red players don't approach strangers for weather."

"I'm not asking you to fight." Meno pointed toward the fortress road.

"Chief Mechanist Venk knows me. Zubras know me. Tell her I'm willing to volunteer for more testing, but I need her recommendation to enter due to an unfortunate reputation accident."

"Accident."

"Administrative word." Unk glanced toward the distant Crownfall tents, then back.

"I do it, you owe me one."

"How large is one?"

"Not too big."

"That's what people say before asking for organs."

"I have demons for organs." His voice stayed dry.

"Access later. Maybe information. Maybe an introduction." There it was again. Aurelia by email. Unk in person. Maybe half the server soon enough. Black Market access without eating the karma damage. Meno smiled without warmth.

"Everyone wants the sewer key, nobody wants to crawl through the pipe."

"Someone has to test the smell first."

"I hate that I like you a little."

"Keep it clean," Unk said.

"I still don't want PvP." They traveled together without forming a party. Unk kept ten paces of distance and summoned no imps unless a beast drifted too close. Meno kept his red name away from the road's center. The fortress guards saw him regardless. Both straightened. Spears angled down. One guard's mouth twisted like he had smelled grave dirt and paperwork. Meno stopped outside easy stabbing range. Unk walked ahead alone. Ten minutes passed.

Meno spent all of them standing outside the fortress, watching Crownfall markers in the distance and imagining Unk walking out with guards, a warrant, or a bill large enough to dent his future. Unk returned with a folded paper slip.

"Mechanist likes reckless volunteers," he said. Meno took the slip and approached the guards. The left guard drew a sword.

"Stop there." The right guard lifted his spear.

"You carry unlawful death on you."

"I showered in real life."

"What?!" Meno held up the paper.

"Recommendation from Chief Mechanist Venk." The guard did not take it. He shouted toward the wall.

"Commander!" Arven Dask came to the gate with the expression of a man who had known this day would get worse and had resented being correct. He read the slip, looked at Meno, then looked at Unk.

"You are up to no good," Dask said.

"Your engineer is the same." Dask considered that.

"Unfortunately true." The gate opened.

"You enter under warning," Dask said.

"Draw steel on lawful hands, and I will save the paperwork by slicing you myself."

"Appreciated."

"It was a threat."

"Still." Inside, the fortress felt smaller with Disreputable status hanging over him. Soldiers watched longer. One vendor crossed her arms before he even reached the counter. The old woman with the soft voice and weaponized pricing stood exactly where he remembered her, surrounded by roots, packets, cracked flasks with the quiet confidence of never having paid fair value in her life. Meno put a pile of orc junk and miscellaneous loot on her counter.

Teeth, straps, crude charms, chipped beads, broken spear heads, bits of hide, cooking wraps, and things he had picked up because empty ground offended him. He kept the looted weapons. She sorted with brisk fingers.

"One gold, twenty silver." Meno stared.

"For all that?"

"For most of that, I am charging myself labor."

"Some of this is from higher-threat orcs."

"Threat to you. To me, it is a smelly bracelet." Chat hissed scam so hard the overlay shook. Meno took the money anyway because arguing with her felt like PvP against a wall. At the armorer, repairing the Common III sword cost fifty silver. He paid. The armorer took one look at the blade and snorted.

"You cut a road with it?"

"Several."

"Stop that."

"No promises." The repaired sword felt better at his hip. That alone made the trip worth the humiliation tax. Unk followed at a loose distance, saying nothing. He wanted to see the next bad idea form, and Meno could not tell him to leave without confirming there was one. Chief Mechanist Talla Venk stood by the Zubra Launch Array with a slate in one hand and soot on her cheek. The Zubras saw Meno first. The reaction was immediate and terrible.

The zebra headed gnomes chirped, squealed, rushed in circles, and swarmed him with measuring tapes, chalk sticks, and slates. One pointed at his sleeve where he had burned during the capital launch. Another held up a diagram showing a stick figure on fire under the heading THERMAL BEHAVIOR. A third proudly unfolded a fire-suppression sketch involving buckets, a net, and what looked like prayer. Venk looked up.

"Ah. The successful arrival."

"Your catapult set me on fire." She turned to the Zubras.

"Thermal complaint confirmed." Three Zubras scribbled furiously. Meno pointed at the launch platform.

"Capital landing has already been tested."

"Correct. With valuable flame data."

"For safety data, you need the opposite direction." Venk went still. Unk, behind him, made a small sound. Not a word. More like a man seeing the bill before the waiter arrived. Meno continued.

"Rotate the array away from the capital. Launch over the gate. Past the locked road. You need to test range, trajectory, and whether the catching alignment fails differently when the target is not a prepared capital square." Venk's eyes narrowed with interest. Meno added the part that made the Zubras freeze.

"At maximum power." The entire Zubra cluster turned toward Venk. They did not speak. They did not need to. Their eyes shone with the shared faith of tiny striped cultists hearing scripture. Venk's mouth twitched.

"Maximum power," she said, tasting the words. Unk stepped closer.

"He is insane."

"Ambitious," Meno said.

"You land in a locked high-level zone, you may brick yourself into a death loop. Monsters kill you, shrine returns you nearby, monsters kill you again. The gate will not open from the wrong side without a pass. The capital is behind you. The fortress may refuse a red-name idiot coming back over the wall. Your gear is zero." Meno looked past the launch platform, past the sealed steel gate, toward the colder plateau beyond the pass. The leaderboard had moved while he was banned. Crownfall had eaten his world event.

BrineSaint had turned dungeon exits into a factory. The Zubra Launch Array sat there like a bad idea with a ramp.

"That's a future problem," Meno said.