Chương 4: Mossgrove and Magical Eggs and Some More Garbage and ANOTHER NORMAL HUMAN???

The road to Mossgrove was a road. Very road. Yes. It was a dirt road and it had dirt on it and the dirt had marks in it from carts that had presumably passed before, and on either side of the road there was pink grass, and above the road there were two suns moving across the sky in a way that made Ben's vision do a thing if he looked at them for too long. His shoulder was on fire. His shoulder was on fucking fire.

Gerald was walking beside him because the cart had a broken wheel and the horse-wolf-pony thing was dead and Gerald had decided they would simply walk to Mossgrove, traveler, it was not so very far, it was only one mountain-length, possibly less. Resigned. Cheerful about it. Old-man cheerful, which Ben was starting to find personally insulting. Mountain-length. Gerald was holding the fucking basket of eggs against his chest.

He had not stopped holding the fucking basket of eggs against his chest since the slime thing. The eggs were his most precious cargo, apparently, more precious than Pony, which was a sentence that probably said something about Gerald as a person but Ben did not have the mental strength to evaluate it.

"Traveler."

"What dude."

"For your shoulder." Gerald was holding out an egg. A whole egg. Brown speckled. Sitting in his weathered palm. Ben looked at the egg. He looked at Gerald. He briefly considered killing Gerald.

He just briefly walked through, in his head, the whole sequence of grabbing the wax knife off his hip and ending Gerald in the middle of a pink-grass field and continuing alone toward Mossgrove, and he played it out about three steps and decided no, fine, whatever, he wasn't going to kill Gerald, but he was going to be very rude about the egg.

"I don't want your fucking egg dude."

"For your shoulder, traveler."

"I'm gonna kill you."

"Ha-ha. I do not think you will, traveler. Please. For your shoulder." Ben took the egg. It was warm. It was warm in his palm in a way an egg shouldn't be.

"So what do I just. Fucking…yeet this on my shoulder?"

"Yeet?"

"Throw it. Apply it. Smash it. Crack it on my shoulder."

"No, traveler. Eat it."

"... what."

"Eat it."

"I swear to god dude."

"Eat it, traveler." Ben stared at the egg. The egg sat in his hand and did… egg things. His shoulder was screaming at him. His shoulder was a 9 out of 10 on the pain scale and possibly climbing. He could feel the burn spreading slightly, which was either a real medical thing happening or his brain doing a creative interpretation of having been shot with fantasy semen. He looked at Gerald. Gerald looked back at him patiently, looking like someone who had been around eggs his whole life and knew what they could do.

Ben cracked the egg on a rock by the side of the road. He tipped his head back. He poured the egg into his mouth. He swallowed it. It tasted like a raw fucking egg. It tasted exactly the way a raw egg tastes.

Slimy and gloopy and rich and salty and there was the white part which was the worst part because the white part was the part that tasted the most like cum, and he had no idea why everything in this slop world was reminding him of cum, the slime had been cum, the egg was cum, this entire planet apparently ran on cum, he was in a cum-based ecosystem. His shoulder went cold. Like. Actually cold. The fire in his shoulder, the burning eating screaming pain in his shoulder, just... turned off.

Like someone had flipped a switch. The pain rolled off him in a single clean wave, leaving behind a slight tingling and then nothing, and Ben's hand went to his shoulder and the raw skin under the burned-away shirt fabric was. Skin. Just skin. Pink and new looking and a little shiny, but skin. A little ding. [HP restored: 100/100] Ben stood very still in the middle of a pink grass field and looked at his hand.

"What the fuck is in those eggs Gerald."

"Eggs, traveler."

"... what?"

"They are eggs."

"NO BUT WHAT'S IN THEM."

"The egg, traveler. What is in an egg is the egg." Ben was going to start crying. He looked at the basket. The basket was just full of normal-looking eggs. Twelve of them. Brown speckled. Sitting in straw. Fuck these eggs. His shirt was still ruined. The shoulder of his Uniqlo tee was a black smoking hole with frayed edges, and underneath, where there should have been a wound, there was just a young new patch of skin and a little area where the iron-on letters had melted and now said WORLD'S OK GUY. Great.

Promotion. He kept walking. Gerald walked beside him. They walked for about ten seconds and then Ben asked the question he had been working up to since the field.

"Gerald."

"Yes, traveler?"

"Do you see a blue screen?"

"Pardon?"

"A blue screen. Like. A floating blue rectangle. With text on it. That follows me around. Do you see that." Gerald glanced at the air beside Ben's head. The screen was, in fact, currently floating beside Ben's head. It said Your wellness is our priority. It had been saying that since the egg.

"I do not see a window, traveler," Gerald said carefully. Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

"A window."

"You spoke of a floating rectangle with text. This sounds to me like a window."

"It's a screen."

"I do not know this word."

"It's like a window but it's. Listen. Whatever. So you don't see it."

"I do not see it. But magic operates in many ways in this world, traveler. There are arts that can only be seen by those they touch. There are inheritances that pass through the blood and reveal themselves only to the inheritor. There are old contracts written into the bones of a person before they are born. Perhaps your... screen... is one of these things. I would not be surprised." Ben blinked.

"You're not surprised."

"By what, traveler?"

"By any of this. By…me. Look at me. Like, look at my fucking…drip or some shit." Gerald looked at him politely.

"I'm wearing a t-shirt. With text on it. In a language you don't speak. I don't even get how the fuck I can hear you in perfect English but I guess your fucking… slop code lines or some shit were ready for this. My shoes are made out of a material that you have probably literally never seen before. I have a phone in my pocket which is a glass rectangle that does magic that even I don't understand. I just pulled a wax knife out of a wax pen. Are you not noticing any of this." Gerald considered this.

Gerald considered it for a long second with his weathered face and his crinkly eyes.

"I am noticing it, traveler," he said.

"It is very strange. Your clothing is unusual. Your weapon is unusual. Your manner of speaking is unusual."

"Right."

"But you are clearly a traveler. From a far place. And travelers are travelers."

"Gerald."

"Yes?"

"That's not a fucking answer."

"Ha-ha. You are very funny indeed." Yeah. Yeah okay. Either Gerald was the most ridiculously chill peasant in fantasy history or Gerald had been programmed by a system that had decided the easiest way to handle the Outlander Problem was to just make every NPC shrug and call it travel and speak English that sounded like ASOIAF or fucking Skyrim bullshit. Ben kicked a pebble. It rolled. He watched it roll and then made the mistake of opening his mouth again.

"Hey Gerald."

"Yes traveler?"

"You ever heard of a guy named…Kael."

"Kael?"

"DarkVeil. Kael DarkVeil. Ravencrest Academy. Cornball lord of the AI Goonfest whatever." Gerald's face did a thing. His warm friendly face went a shade colder. Just a shade. Just enough that Ben caught it. The crinkly eyes went a little un-crinkly and his mouth went a little flat and he readjusted his grip on the basket of eggs.

"I do not know a Kael," Gerald said.

"But the name DarkVeil... I have heard terrible things of that family, traveler." Oh no. Oh fuck. Ben rolled his eyes so hard he thought they'd fucking flip around his head and make him blind forever which on second thought would probably be better.

"Long ago," Gerald began, in the voice of a man settling into a fireside story whether anyone wanted one or not, "the DarkVeils were lords of the Eastern Reach. They held the high seat at Velmoran for nine generations. They were known for their cruelty, traveler, and for their pact with the deep things that move beneath the world.

It is said that when the Pale Years came, the last lord of DarkVeil opened the gates of the city to the shadow rather than yield his power, and for three days the sky above Velmoran was the color of a bruise, and the screams of the city could be heard as far as—""Gerald."

"—the foothills of—""Gerald."

"—yes, traveler?"

"This is the cringiest piece of shit backstory I've ever heard." Gerald blinked.

"I'm sorry traveler?"

"Like. Sky the color of a bruise. The screams of the city. The shadow rather than yield. Pact with the deep things that move beneath the deep dark asshole of the world. Play me a fucking orchestra. Did you write this. Did somebody write this for you. The Eastern Reach. Velmoran. Pale Years. Are you fucking with me Gerald."

"I am... not fucking with you, traveler."

"Oh my god. Dude. You said it. You're like…an adaptive LLM or some shit."

"I have not."

"You said it. You said fucking. Out loud."

"I repeated your words, traveler. I do not believe I said it of my own accord."

"Dude you said fucking. Just shut the fuck up."

"I do not see how this matters." Ben put his hands on his knees and laughed for a second. He laughed kind of hard. He laughed in a way that wasn't really laughter but more like the sound his chest made when his brain ran out of options. Gerald waited. Ben straightened up.

"Okay. Fine. Sorry. Keep going. The DarkVeils opened their cheeks. The sky bruised. Tell me more cringe shit."

"I do not believe I will, traveler."

"What."

"You have hurt my feelings."

"... are you serious."

"I do not enjoy being mocked."

"GERALD. Gerald come on. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm an asshole. I'm sorry. Please. I want to know about Kael. Please." Gerald sniffed. Old man sniffed. Old man did the entire gesture of being slightly hurt and slightly forgiving you, the dignified martyr-sniff, the one where he lifted his chin a quarter inch. Then he kept walking. Then, after a beat, he kept talking.

"I do not know if your Kael is of that family. The DarkVeils were wiped out, in the histories. The last of them are said to have died on the steps of Velmoran. But names persist. There are bastards. There are claimants. There are children given the name out of cruelty or out of memory. Kael may be one such. If he is at the Academy, then perhaps he is gathering himself." Ben's eye twitched.

"Gathering himself."

"This is the term, traveler. It is the term used for students at Ravencrest. They go to gather themselves. To learn the use of their gift. The Mantling, some call it. The unfolding of one's mana."

"... mana."

"Yes traveler. The current that runs through a thing. The breath of the world. Some call it manna, some aether, some simply the gift, but most call it mana."

"It's called mana."

"Yes."

"In an isekai. The fantasy magic energy is called mana."

"Yes."

"Gerald you are killing me."

"I do not understand."

"I know you don't." Ravencrest. The Academy. The best place for those who could wield mana, where children with the gift were taken to be educated and trained and gathered. Of course it was. It was the worst possible school. It was Hogwarts and Wakanda and Stanford had a baby and that baby was racist. It was probably going to have a sorting ceremony. It was probably going to have a sentient cape that judged your soul. Kael was probably through a fucking bully arc or some bullshit.

His shoulder, which had been a 9 out of 10 not five minutes ago, was now a 0 out of 10, which was concerning because his shirt was still a smoking ruin, which meant the only thing healed was the meat of him, and the system seemed to consider that the entire problem. He didn't want to look at the screen. He really didn't want to look at the screen. The screen was still floating there. It had been silent for a while.

He could feel it in his peripheral vision, sparkling occasionally to itself, like a person at a party waiting for someone to make eye contact with them.

"Hey," he said to it.

"Yeah. You. Listen." The screen brightened slightly. Eager.

"I need you to kill yourself." [I am unable to perform that action.]"I need you to go away. I need you to leave. I need you to… fuck off out of my eye-zone or I'll fucking crash out." The screen pulsed. [Would you like to minimize this notification?]"YES. Jesus fuck. YES. Why did you not say that. Yes. Minimize. Minimize you piece of shit." [Of course, Ben! I will minimize. Remember—I am always by your side. Sparkle] The screen folded in on itself like a piece of paper and shrank down to a small sparkling icon at the edge of his vision and then vanished entirely, leaving behind a single tiny pulse of light, like a star that you would only notice if you knew to look for it. I am always by your side. Cool. Fuck. He kept walking. He walked.

He walked for what should have been a long fucking time, because if Mossgrove was a mountain-length away, and a mountain-length was, conservatively, like a few kilometers, but mountains were big, so maybe ten kilometers, or maybe it depended on the mountain, or— They were at Mossgrove. He looked up and they were at Mossgrove and he had not even noticed the transition.

One second they were on a road and the next second there was a sign, a wooden sign nailed to a post, that said MOSSGROVE in a font that nobody would ever choose voluntarily, and beyond the sign was a village. The village was a village. It was the village. It was every village. Dirt paths branching off a slightly less dirt main path. A few cobblestones near the center because god forbid the system commit to a single ground texture.

Low stone-and-thatch buildings with doors that were too small for normal humans because medieval = small doors, this was the law. An inn with a hanging metal sign that had a tankard painted on it. Of course it did. A blacksmith shop with a glowing forge visible through an open door because we needed to know it was a blacksmith shop. A merchant with a stall full of vague fucking random things you probably couldn't touch because the dev hadn't bothered. Two children running past in linen smocks. A chicken.

A real chicken. A chicken that was just a chicken. The villagers were in peasant outfits. Like. Hard committed peasant outfits. Brown tunics and rope belts and aprons and head scarves. Like they had all gotten the same email. He stood at the entrance to Mossgrove and let himself, for a second, just feel it. The sheer cliché of it. The pressed-out generic Tolkien-derivative slop of it.

The way it felt like a place that had been generated by a machine that had been trained on every fantasy village ever written and had spit out the median. A ding. The little star at the edge of his vision pulsed and bloomed and the screen unfolded again, taking up half his field of view, full size, sparkling. [Congratulations, Ben!] [You have arrived in the village of Mossgrove.] [Please choose your class.] A panel slid in below it. A list of options. [Warrior] [Ranger] [Mage] [Rogue] [Cleric] [???] Five class names and a question mark.

"I choose to kill myself." [Please choose your class.]"I'm gonna do it dude. Watch. I'm gonna fucking do it." [Please choose your class.]"FUCK YOU." [Please choose your class. Sparkle] Ben stood at the entrance to Mossgrove and yelled at his own peripheral vision and Gerald stood next to him patiently with his basket of eggs and a couple of villagers looked up from their tasks and then looked back down, when, distantly, from somewhere across the village square, on the other side of an inn and a chicken and a merchant stall, he heard something. A voice. A human voice. A female voice.

"GO FUCK YOURSELF YOU STUPID FUCKING SCREEN." Ben froze.

"I WILL FUCKING REWRITE YOUR CODE LINES SO YOU ENDLESSLY KILL YOURSELF. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME. I'LL FIND YOUR FUCKING SERVERS. I'LL PISS ON THEM. I HAVE AN ENGINEERING DEGREE YOU MOTHERFUCKING CLANKER." The voice was loud. The voice was American. The voice was furious in a way that no NPC had ever been furious about anything because NPCs got mildly perturbed and then asked you if you would care for a ride. Ben turned, very slowly, in the direction of the voice.

Gerald said something about going to the inn but Ben wasn't listening. He started walking. Then he started running.