LostLibrarian

It's rough to get back to writing. Would like to delete and rewrite the chapter three more times, but I think for now I'll just press on and fix it in the editing...

This is this week's chapter.
Backlog chapters: 12

“Thanks for your guidance.”

A light bow towards the mercenary who had sparred with me for over two hours. A simple show of gratitude, but one that had stumped them on the first day. Even without Rhoslyn here, this small troop of mercenaries followed a strict set of rules with its clear borders and responsibilities. A commander, even one in name only, should never lower his head towards a lowly front-line soldier.

Now, eleven days later, my behavior only elicited a small nod of acknowledgment. Seemed like they had accepted me as a freak without common sense. Well, there was some truth to that.

Born around the turn of the millennium and raised in a modern society, this group was full of of rules and views that appeared strange to my eyes. Their focus on ranks and authority, their obedience and servility, even little things like morning routines and hygiene. A different world. Literally.

But the truth of this matter was a lot simpler. It was plain gratitude.

These mercenaries weren’t my men. Both my orders and wishes had nothing to do with them, but they still followed Rhoslyn’s letter and obeyed them the majority of times. To them, it might be just one more man added to their daily training, but it was the difference between life and death for me.

In the game, the level of a weapon skill would determine the outcome of an exchange. Hit chance, critical chance, block chance, damage range. All these values rose with the corresponding skill level. Things like position, aggro, active skills, or teamwork might shift the flow of a battle, but a single exchange was dominated by levels.

Swinging a sword on my own might strengthen me, but the level itself was less significant in this world.

A high level would enable strikes and feints with flawless forms, but a beautiful arc was utterly useless if the sword didn’t hit its target. And an ironclad defense was useless if its preparation took so much time that my enemy’s weapon had already punctured my heart.

It was a bit like riding a bike, as one wouldn’t forget how to do it. Some people might start anew a bit shaky, but the simple act of pushing the pedals was easy enough. Instead, keeping track of the surrounding traffic or rusted reflexes might prove a lot more challenging. One doesn’t forget how to ride a bike. But one might have problems to use a bike to its fullest potential from the get-go.

The disparity between levels and actual fighting in this world was similar. Each raised level would remind me of little details that would perfect my strikes. The position of my hands and fingers, the flow of my muscles, the timing of my breathing. A myriad of small things that would create a perfect strike. Everything came back as if I had trained it years ago. In theory, this newfound proficiency, coupled with my game knowledge, would be enough to slay low- and mid-level enemies.

But my previous battles were different. Filled with the stink of sweat and blood, my heart racing a million miles an hour, my thoughts overwhelmed and disorganized. Even a hundred different strikes, perfect on paper, would be useless when I couldn’t decide which one to use in time.

Hence, my sparring with the mercenaries became an important part of the daily routine in this camp. I might have survived through my first battles, but others had to pay the price for my stumbling. Only trained reflexes would help me in the chaos of an actual skirmish, and each sparring would prepare me for it.

Still happy about today’s progress, I reached the nearby river and made my way upstream. Two red flags, constructed by me, designated the area for washing. The first rule I had put in place after I had seen a mercenary collect cooking water while one of his comrades emptied his bladder a few meters away. Upstream.

Now the river around the camp was divided into three areas, starting upstream. One for collecting water, one for washing, and the last one for excrements. Directly throwing the waste into the river didn’t sit right with me, but I also understood that this was neither the time nor the place to think about a proper canalization.

For now, I was content knowing that there would be no further surprise ingredients in my breakfast.

The icy river water completed the morning part of my daily routine. Breakfast, felling trees, sparring, washing. A rather simple cycle. But one that left me enough freedom to prepare for the future.

Last week’s supply caravan had brought Fabien’s first delivery. Sacks of wheat, dried fruits, coarse gray paper, and a quill with cheap ink. Horrible enough to make each word a giant pain in the ass, but also good enough to achieve my goal.

Page after page was filled with knowledge from my old life. The remaining bits of school-taught knowledge and formulas I remembered, the films and documentaries I had watched in the hospice, and also simple common sense. Things like cooking river water before drinking it or the dangers of filth and excrements already changed the daily life in the camp.

The city of the white horse, or rather the main hub in the game, had been a mix of magic technology and collected wisdom. But out here, in the middle of nowhere, even obvious thoughts became valuable.

Modern technology from the earth like cars was less useful. For one, I didn’t really know how an automotive engine worked, as even the earliest steam engines were complex enough to blow up all the time. An entire car with its unknown gas contents and millions of parts was clearly way above the head of a high schooler.

And this was true for most things.

But I still took my time to write down the things that I deemed useful. Not a blueprint, but rather the core idea. I would never be able to build a train by myself, but others might create something similar. A vehicle, driven by either steam or magic, that would connect to cities on a fixed track. And all these ideas had turned the focus onto the other half of my notes - the game knowledge.

If I wasn’t able to make these ideas possible, I had to find the people who could. So I wrote down every blacksmith, magic researcher, inventor, and even philosopher I could remember. A list of names with their hometown, background, weaknesses, or quests. A massive amount of information that altogether filled a single page.

I finally realized that for all the time spent in the game, my game knowledge was nearly non existent. Granted, nobody would memorize all the lore, ready to recite it half a year later, but it still felt like a giant waste to me. All that time in the game, and my knowledge was a fraction centered on my character class, the beginner area, and the sword maiden.

But I still wrote everything down.

Character names, dates - or at least years - of important events, the beginner dungeons and their positions, the monster in it, the potential rewards. Active and passive skills, their level requirements, and their teachers. Every tidbit of information that might sway a discussion or pacify a conflict.

And that was it.

A new, monotonous routine that followed my old one in the village. A constant alternation between my fulfillment after the training and the despair of utter uselessness whenever one of my plans for the camp was too much for the mercenaries. They followed me when I moved our camp to its new position near the river, but they wouldn’t build a wall around it. In fact, they made no secret of their willingness to abandon this position if necessary.

Hence, my days became filled with longing. If only Rhoslyn would arrive. A single of her words was enough to advance my ideas. I might even impress her with my rising skill level during a sparring-match. Or we might even have the time for more riding lessons.

I sighed and looked at the blank paper in front of me.

Today’s goal was a list of all the mobs I still remembered, but I wasn’t able to concentrate. Instead, my thoughts would run off towards Rhoslyn, the village, or the looming threat of the leprechauns. Two weeks of monotony were enough for cabin fever? Moving my body should help. Time to call it a day and bully some trees.

Leaving my tent, I started my walk towards the nearby forest, but one mercenary stopped me.

“Sir, you are needed.” He pressed out between deep breaths. “Your men need directions.”

“My men?” I wondered aloud, before my eyes caught sight of a ragtag group outside the camp. Meager clothing, shoddy leather armor, and a pot-pourri of additional baggage. A group of recruits that couldn’t look less intimidating if they tried.

But the view still brought a smile to my face.

I wasn’t alone anymore.

LostLibrarian

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