Dark: Fearless Pioneer
Contents
Dark: Fearless Pioneer
Chapter 1
Two Hundred to Lose
Chapter 2
Bad Neighborhood
Chapter 3
A Father’s Wrath
Chapter 4
The Spider’s Web
Race Power
Chapter 6
Technical Issues
Chapter 7
Bewilderment
Chapter 8
Stonehenge
Chapter 9
A Prisoner Again
Chapter 10
Among the Stones
Chapter 11
Bad Bind
Chapter 12
The River
Chapter 13
Self-Discovery
Chapter 14
Crippled
Chapter 15
Kingdom of Frogs
Chapter 16
A Useless Gift
Chapter 17
Back to the River
Chapter 18
Master of None
Chapter 19
Pelting
Chapter 20
A New Strategy
Chapter 21
Experienced Explorer
Chapter 22
Lands of the Ancient Treasure
Chapter 23
The Explorer
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Hesh’ell Hell
Chapter 26
The Abandoned Mine
Chapter 27
The Tower
Chapter 28
An Ancient Evil
Chapter 29
Metalworking
Chapter 30
Buzzing and Grinding
Chapter 31
Disappointment
Chapter 32
Or is it?
Chapter 33
Dungeon Dealings
Chapter 34
Unfound Treasures
Chapter 35
In Search of Ruin
Chapter 36
Evil Ethrians
Chapter 37
Under Siege
Chapter 38
The Only Witness
Chapter 39
Artifacts and Achievements
Chapter 40
Strange Affairs
Chapter 41
Blending In
Chapter 42
Mob Boss
Chapter 43
The First Task
Chapter 44
Six Days Later
Chapter 45
The Second Task
Chapter 46
Deceitful Eyes
Chapter 47
Difficult Thoughts
Chapter 48
Day in the Life of a Terrorist
Chapter 49
Black Blood Temple
Chapter 50
Hesh’ells, Hesh’ells Everywhere
Chapter 51
The Power of Light
Chapter 52
The Invisible Saboteur
Chapter 53
Army of the Dead
Chapter 54
Boom
Chapter 55
Hello from an Old Friend
Many thanks to my readers!
Chapter 1
Two Hundred to Lose
Total stat levels: N/A
Character level: N/A
Mastery: N/A
“If you die, you get sop. The Arena of Death will give you two hundred for a loss, no more. If you win, though... Well, you’ll get a thousand from the arena lords, and another five thousand from me. Six grand! Now, you don’t look smart, but I’m sure you can figure out which number is bigger. I never bet on somebody I don’t believe in, kid. I believe in you. You’re luckier than Moses, and those beautiful little battles of yours I’ve heard about are just what can make a man in this place. So just keep on your feet, and everyone will be happy. You for your cut, me for mine, and the audience, who pay to see just what you’re about to show them.”
That’s how the agent had laid it out for him. The swindler suddenly had immense faith in his successful warrior. He had calculated preciously how to make bank at the bookies’ expense. With a series of strategic bets, placed at just the right moments.
How much would the clever glutton pull in if he won? If he was this willing to pay out five thousand, he was easily able to pay out fifty. Steel flashed before his eyes, a few inches from the bridge of his nose.
A near miss. But he continued backpedaling in his defensive stance. That saved his life yet again—at that instant, the second sword cut so close to his chin that hairs fell to the floor.
Fighting a man with two blades was like that. Many who dodged the first attack succumbed immediately to the second. At the speed these monsters could swing, “immediately” meant too much time, if anything.
Today, he was “doubleblade,” too, but only thanks to the current nickname on his colorful banner: “Dark Doubleblade. One cut cripples, the other kills!” As far as copy went, it sucked. The nickname was pretty lame, too, he thought. But his agent had final say in these things. He did more than just take his twenty-five percent cut, after all. Pretty much everything that happened in his work was up to the fat man: from selecting optimal opponents, identifying their strengths and weaknesses, negotiating with the various battle organizers, and posting escrow all the way down to the shady tricks of a bookmaker. He took care of all kinds of problems, too, involving virtual police and real-life doctors both. Even costume design, including special effects for weapons and armor, were handled by him or by experts he hired.
Dark found the man a good agent. Better than Locust by a long shot. That last agent’s appearance had suited his nickname.
This was virtual reality. You were what your agent and organizers decided you would be, whether that meant slim and beautiful, or a hunchback with a monkey’s ass for a face.
Conan stubbornly came after him without slowing down. He twirled his swords in the air. Dark envied how tireless the man was. And cursed.
At what, you might ask?
At the fact that this wasn’t even a fight. It was a joke. The bastards in charge had decided to turn the conflict into a cheap parody of gladiatorial battles of antiquity.
They dressed Dark up as a merman of some kind. The trident and the net fit the part, but in place of a helmet, he wore some nonsense head wrap with straight silver wings adorning it. His left arm sported what only a jester might call a shield: a couple of flimsy strips of metal strapped to his forearm with ostentatiously yellow straps. A leather skirt of the same color completed the set. All in all, zero protection. In fact, it barely covered his privates from the full view of the audience. This decision was a bone thrown to the latest ludicrous fashion trend, or perhaps to the spectators, female and male alike, who watched the games because they found the male form arousing.
Dark lost the net moments into the fight, watching hopelessly as it sailed off to the side simply because he was unskilled at using it. His only weapon was the trident, then – and still, it was much more awkward than a spear. Slimy overlords couldn’t even spare me a dagger. What gladiator would have gone into a fight without a dagger? Curious organizers decided that he would pass for a fisherman even without it, and at the same time it would change the odds in the necessary direction.
Bastards. Dark had no idea how much getting rid of the net dropped his multiplier, but he was nearly certain that the reduction was much more significant than the soulless kings of this castle had account for.
Now he just had to somehow skewer the walking meat
grinder ahead of him with this awkward oversized fork. Conan was decked out with quite a different interpretation of gladiatorial tradition, armor protecting him from the neck all the way down to mid-thigh, plus leg wrappings. Thankfully he had no shield, at least. But that was only because both of his hands were occupied holding swords.
How could he kill an opponent this dangerous?
Yet fighting the enemy head-on was not the only option here in the Mortal Arena. He could try provoking his opponent to chasing him around the rough terrain until the weight of the man’s considerable armor and weapons exhausted him. Then, Dark could finish him off, with much better odds. But that was unlikely to work here. One single misstep, one dodge poorly executed, and Dark would either meet a quick death at those twin blades or be torn to pieces by the roaring tigers straining towards them on their chains staked around the perimeter.
Beasts of prey were as effective as concrete walls when it came to arena barriers.
Dark moved away from the maw of one of these predators reaching for him, collapsing into a roll and changing direction as he went for his net. Conan seemed to be a smart fighter. Abandoning the hopeless pursuit of his lighter quarry, he took up position in the center of the arena.
After all, experienced warriors knew how to anticipate the opponent’s movements.
So both of them stopped, five yards apart, sweat dimming their eyes and panting interrupting their breath. No scratches marred Conan’s form, but Dark had already earned a scrape on his right forearm and a slice in his right thigh, gushing blood. What could he do with a trident? How did the ancient gladiators do it? Maybe they had, but Dark couldn’t figure out how to mount a decent attack, never mind a defense. Things might have been different had his opponent wielded only one sword against him.
If he was a fisherman, he had caught the wrong fish today.
So should he keep giving the man the runaround? Time was playing in Conan’s favor, actually. No matter how much he ducked and wove, sooner or later Dark would make a deadly mistake. He was wounded, with the first symptoms of blood loss, and disadvantaged in the armament department.
And this was just the start.
The beginning of his inevitable end.
His window of opportunity for some saving course of action was closing rapidly.
Dark would only get a measly two hundred and fifty if he lost. His current debts were six times that. If he went down here, he had no idea when his agent might forgive him enough to put him in the ring again.
Damn trident! Damn agent! Damn animals who invented this perverted circus!
Conan twirled his weapons with a wry grin and taunted him in a voice lower than the moral standards of the people in charge. “Aw, baby’s about to get a boo-boo!”
Dark nodded. “One baby will.”
“Enough babble!” Conan propelled himself at Dark so suddenly that jets of sand shot up from where his feet had been.
But instead of dodging out of the way, as Conan would expect, Dark did something unexpected. He rushed towards the opponent and gave an ungainly jab with his trident which had no hope of reaching the enemy, despite the shrinking distance between them.
Thankfully, the enemy was not his target. It was doubtful that the trident would get through anyway, with all of the man’s armor.
Dark’s target was different.
His bronze trident loudly collided with the sword, locking it in between two of its teeth as it continued spinning. Conan always had the spectacle in mind, and he was in the middle of an attack dressed in a predator’s grace, twirling his blades carelessly. The audience found this beautiful, but it was a reckless way to charge into combat.
When you’re holding a weapon, hold it tight.
One sword flew out of the man’s left hand, but that was not enough by half, since Dark would imminently receive a blow from the weapon in Conan’s right.
Once again, he doubted this was a move his opponent would expect.
Not only did he refuse to dodge – he stood in the very place he was guaranteed to die from the blow should it connect.
To meet the oncoming slice, Dark threw up what he held in his left hand. Which was, precisely, nothing. No weapons, just a pair of narrow steel plates running from his elbow to his wrist.
The blade struck him exactly where he intended: between his pointer and middle fingers. Yet he continued to move, red splashing everywhere as the blade cut through his wrist with a sickening crunch, struck medal, and wedged itself further in between those “protective” metal strips, cleaving his arm in half as it went. Splitting it like string cheese. It was a monstrous wound, flooding his body and mind with agony. The kind that would put him into shock right away, or at most half a minute later, as his heart pumped the contents of his veins onto the sand.
He was still conscious, though, and he still had his other arm. The trident was worthless now, its mockingly clumsy points jutting far past the opponent. Conan would never let him strike with such a lumbering weapon at this close range. He released the trident. Then he struck. Everything was riding on this blow.
The entire winner’s purse of 5,750.
His fingers hit where intended, stabbing deep into the man’s eye sockets with a satisfying squish. Both of them screamed together in pain and rage. Dark voiced most of the pain, and Conan most of the rage.
Dark circled around. His enemy could no longer see him. Though his arm had been severed in half, so had the odds against him.
He bit his lip tight to avoid giving away his position with the sound of his gnashing teeth, then bent down to seize the sword his enemy had dropped. As he raised it, he evaluated its balance. It was simple, straight, maneuverable. Much better than an oversized dinner fork.
Dark spun to face the barbarian. Conan was still screaming, swinging his sword every which way in blind fury and he vainly tried to regain his sight by wiping the snot and blood from his face with his free hand.
Throwing up the sword in his hand once more, Dark spat out the red liquid in his mouth. He fought back the urge to yell, and instead spoke coolly, without a hint of mockery.
“I’ll pay you what I owe you after this battle, Conan. Since I’ll have money, you know.”
“Fucking goat!” the blinded giant erupted as he dove at the man’s voice.
But his bestial roar died a moment later, severed along with the neck producing it. Dark’s blow wasn’t quite strong enough to sever the man’s skull from his spine.
Beheading an opponent with a one-handed attack was near impossible, especially when a pair of that hand’s fingers were still throbbing from an eye-socket jab.
The victor, more scantily clad than ever, shifted to the side as the body collapsed towards him, then he took a knee. Now he was free to clench his teeth as he gave in to the agony. But he could not succumb fully until the ten-second count had passed. Why did they even have that stupid rule? How could anyone think that a man with a mostly-severed head might find the strength to get to his feet again? Never mind ten seconds. Give him a day and that wouldn’t be enough. Some people believed that a similar event had occurred once in human history, but that was after three days, and no beheading was involved.
Ten seconds... Yes, they were idiots.
Or perhaps just sadists.
Attention: The battle is over! The victor: Dark! Congratulations to the winner! Location hibernation in progress. Victor and loser, prepare for cleanse.
The red victory message blinked out as quickly as it had blinked in, and Dark’s vision filled with an impermeable incarnation of his namesake. The pain vanished, as if it had never existed. But this was another sort of illusion. It was far from the end. After all, his virtual body was inextricably synthbound to his real body. The negative mental and emotional effects of having your arm severed in two could not simply be flipped off with a switch. It was biologically impossible to ignore the consequences.
Which were, needless to say, not good.
The phenomenon was called “cleanse,” am
ong other things, and it was most pronounced when coming back to the real world after trauma like what Dark had endured. Sometimes, it was easy enough. Other times, not so much.
Sometimes, agents had to hire doctors and synth technicians to fix you up.
Or even pay one final expense: hiring a cheap burial service.
Chapter 2
Bad Neighborhood
Total stat levels: N/A
Character level: N/A
Mastery: N/A
“Dark, you’re not too mad at the whole ‘fucking goat’ thing, right?”
It took a moment for the question to pierce through the pharmaceutical fog. The champion pushed down the drowsiness assaulting him and barely managed to shake his head.
“I’m not Dark, you know.”
“And I’m not Conan. So what? You telling me that none of that stays with you after cleanse? Never had some of what hits you in there stick with you out here?”
“It’s ... this medicine. Too many chemicals. Cheap foreign chemicals.”
“It was a pretty cheap battle, too,” Conan said. “A beautiful fight in the end, though. A remarkable fight.”
Dark nodded. “I agree with you there. But the names they gave us kind of suck.”
“We have no names, my friend. Only stage names. Today, I was Conan. Tomorrow I’ll be Rambo, or whatever. Half an hour ago, you were Dark, and now you’re as fair as a Swedish maid. But you know that, inside, you’re still Dark. And Dark you will remain, until your next battle.”
“You’re right, Conan. Until the next battle. Until the next stupid name.”
“So, back to the ‘fucking goat’ thing. You really OK with that? No offense taken?”
Dark rose from the cracked plastic bench he had been sitting on, careful not to let his balance topple, and walked over to the virtual mirror hanging on the wall. It was a cheap interactive device with intolerably gaudy RGB cycle backlighting, and it had a knack for covering you up with ads you had to acknowledge just to get a look at yourself. After all, this was a seedy half-finished basement, the kind they always converted into rooms for the poorest of the warriors. Perhaps some bathed in reflected light set in the medieval silverwork of Venetian frames. To put it mildly, anything that chic was far out of place in this hole stinking of sweat. The most valuable item in this whole space was a high-speed router tapped into the high-speed fiber line. That was enough to link a couple of fighters into an illegal virtual arena, and that was enough to pay rent. All of the dumbbells were just a simple front and a way to launder money.