Monster Farmer: A Fantasy LitRPG Adventure, page 1
MONSTER FARMER
©2023 DB King
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ALSO IN SERIES
Monster Farmer
Monster Farmer 2
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Thank you for reading Monster Farmer
Groups
LitRPG
PROLOGUE
Wilhelm DeMorlin raised his arm just in time to take another hit from the weapons master. The impact shuddered up his arm and forced the young boy back a step. Nicholas Rashell’s sword was wooden, and would cause no more damage than a bruise in the weapons master’s practiced hands. But to Wilhelm, each strike felt like a great siege hammer crashing upon the heavy doors of Windamere Keep.
Here in the bailey, Wilhelm was just another young man being trained as a soldier. He wasn’t as important as Graeme or Tristan, his two brothers who’d had the luck to be born before him. No, Wilhelm was the third son of Lord Alistair and Lady Diana DeMorlin, and his place was where he could be useful. In his father’s eyes, Wilhelm could not be useful until he learned how to use a sword.
Wilhelm glanced up at the tower at the corner of Windamere Keep for a second, jealous of both of his brothers and their instruction in the ways of reading and writing. In that moment of distraction, Nicholas dinged Wilhelm with his sword right on the shoulder. The pain was unexpected and brought Wilhelm’s focus back to the duel at hand.
“You must never allow yourself to be distracted on the battlefield,” Nicholas said with a voice that sounded like a bag of gravel. Graeme and Tristan said it was because of how often the weapons master would yell at his men-at-arms.
“I’m not distracted,” Wilhelm said as he raised his shield once again. A flare of anger flickered to life somewhere inside him. He tightened his grip on the pommel of his training sword and went in for an attack.
Nicholas, the weapons master, easily deflected his attack, and Wilhelm felt another flash of fury well up in his chest.
“The worst time to attack is when you are driven by anger,” Nicholas continued.
On and on with these endless lectures. If the weapons master had given half the time and effort to training Wilhelm in how to use his sword and shield, then maybe he could put up a better offense and defense!
Wilhelm gritted his teeth and watched Nicholas over the lip of his shield. The weapons master held his shield in his left hand and his sword in his right, both the same size as the training equipment he gave to Wilhelm. Nicholas was a bigger target, so in theory, Wilhelm should be able to hit him more easily.
The big man was quicker than Wilhelm gave him credit for. He danced out of the way of Wilhelm’s strikes, blocked some, and parried some others. The boy never came close to landing a hit as his anger rose to a boiling point.
It just wasn’t fair! Wilhelm was the one who loved stories and listening to letters carried to Windamere Keep from across the Five Kingdoms on raven wing. He should have been the one to learn his letters and numbers. He could fight if he needed to, but Wilhelm’s father always told them that the best way to win a battle was to avoid it altogether.
His father’s words echoed in Wilhelm’s mind. The man who can take one life today to save a hundred tomorrow has done his ancestors proud.
A quiet focus came over Wilhelm then. His anger was still there, but his focus directed it into figuring out the best way to beat Nicholas. What is the weapons master’s weakness?
Wilhelm grinned.
No matter what, Nicholas would always pull his strikes. He’d never use his whole strength to hit the son of Alistair DeMorlin, lest he run afoul of the Lord of Windamere Keep.
The next time Nicholas went to strike the boy, Wilhelm dropped his shield and leaned into the strike. It would either land and cause him a great deal of pain and leave a bruise or break the skin, or it would make Nicholas flinch and give him an opening to attack. The shield fell, and Wilhelm grabbed his practice sword with both hands. Nicholas’s eyes went wide, and that was when Wilhelm knew he had his chance. He swung with all of his eight-year-old might and cracked the weapons master in the side of the knee.
With a great cry of surprise, Nicholas went down on one knee. Wilhelm lifted the blunt end of his wooden sword to Nicholas’s neck. Nicholas looked down, but there was no trace of anger in his eyes, nor disappointment in his loss. If anything, the weapons master looked at Wilhelm with pride.
“That’s not quite what I had in mind,” Nicholas said as he stood to his full height again. “Sometimes the only way to win against a foe that outmatches you is to outsmart them, and you did just that, lad. You knew I’d never strike you with full force, didn’t you?”
Wilhelm nodded. “It was your weakness.”
“Aye, it was. But it won’t be any longer. There’ll be no more pulled strikes from here on out.”
The realization of what that meant settled on Wilhelm like a wet blanket. He went to say something to Nicholas, but the words died on his tongue. A bright green flash lit up the tower windows—the tower where Graeme and Tristan were taking their lesson from the keep scribes. A second later, the stone tower utterly exploded in a gout of bright green magical flame.
People screamed and ran for their weapons. Nicholas grabbed Wilhelm’s arm as he stared up dumbstruck as the place his brothers were moments before crumbled into a pile of sundered stone.
The horn of Windamere Keep blew, signifying to all that there were enemies inside the keep, and they should take up arms. The horn was cut off a few brief moments after it began, almost as though the attackers knew where it would be to silence it.
“With me! Now!” Nicholas pulled the boy along after him as he retrieved his true sword and shield from a rack nearby. These were the castle-forged tools of a weapons master, and Wilhelm thought he would see them draw blood before the day was through. “We must reach the catacombs before we’re discovered.”
The catacombs were a set of ancient caves beneath Windamere Keep. The DeMorlins owed much of their wealth to the iron ore mined from those caves, but it also gave them an escape route should they ever have to flee. Wilhelm had been drilled many times on how to avoid the traps and pitfalls and reach the three exit points from the mines. Each exit point connected to a body of water, and each had a waiting boat that was stocked with supplies should the DeMorlin family ever have to flee.
Wilhelm had never thought the day would come where his home would fall to violence or magic, and now it seemed that both had come for him. The Five Kings held an uneasy truce across the Five Kingdoms, but they were all in agreement that every rogue mage must be tamed or destroyed.
Nicholas almost collided with another man-at-arms and demanded he provide a report. The soldier had a burn across half of his face; one eye was charred shut. He grunted with pain as he spoke.
“I don’t know who they are, but they’re powerful. Lord Alistair has fallen, and I fear Lady Diana has fallen too, though I did not see it.”
Wilhelm’s heart turned to ice. His father was dead? No, that wasn’t possible. His father was as powerful as a storm, and as impossible to move as a mountain! There was no way he could be…
“Are you absolutely sure that the Lord is dead?” Nicholas asked. “What of his heirs?”
Wilhelm remembered the explosion in the tower where his brothers had been taking their lessons. The man-at-arms looked down at Wilhelm and went to say something, but instead closed his mouth and shook his head.
“Then Wilhelm is the last of his line,” Nicholas said with despair. “Come, boy, there’s no time to lose. Tomas, you’re with us.”
The soldier, Tomas, shook his head. “I’ll never make it out alive like this. I was born and raised in Windamere, and I’ll die to protect the last DeMorlin. Your escape will be protected.”
Nicholas placed a hand on Tomas’s shoulder. “This is an honorable death.”
Another explosion rocked the keep from nearby, and huge chunks of stone rained down from above. Wilhelm craned his neck around a nearby door to see what was happening in the courtyard.
A black-robed figure landed in the middle of the courtyard, followed by a plume of green smoke. Their robe billowed out around them, and Wilhelm could not see into the dark hood. Their face remained shadowed as their hands traced symbols in the air.
A magic circle appeared before them, burning with viridian light suspended in the air. Suddenly, the muzzle of a luminous dragon burst forth from the magical circle and spewed a sphere of green fire.
The fireball flew into the battlements, which sent stone, soldiers, and peasants flying. Those who survived the blast writhed in agony as the green flames crawled across their bodies.
Nicholas yanked Wilhelm backwards and out of the doorframe. “Come with me, young Master. We don’t slow until we reach the boats!”
It was pure luck that Wilhelm was dressed for combat. There was nothing extra that he needed to do to get ready to leave the keep, which was both a blessing and a curse. He would never see his bedchamber again with the exquisitely carved wooden animals his father had gifted him, nor would he look upon the great hall where he and his brothers fought over who would get the best cut of meat at dinner time.
“The life you once had is over,” Nicholas growled as he pulled Wilhelm onward through the keep. “You must leave your name behind. If these sorcerers have come to kill your family, then it’s likely they mean to wipe out the DeMorlin line forever. You must forget your name.”
“I’ve only ever been me. Who else can I be?” Wilhelm asked.
“We’ll figure that out once we get to the boats. I’ll have to leave my name behind too. Nicholas Rashell died in the fall of Windamere Keep, along with the Lord, the Lady, and all their sons.”
They reached the entrance to the catacombs, only to find their way blocked by one of the sorcerers in the black robes. It was almost as though the sorcerer knew where the entrance to the catacombs would be and sought to cut them off before they were able to make their escape.
Through strange yet deliberate hand movements, a circle of light lit up beneath the sorcerer’s feet. His hand movements quickened when he realized Nicholas was armed and dangerous.
Before the ritual could be completed, Nicholas drew his sword and rushed forward with his shield held high. He slammed into the black-robed attacker and knocked him out of the magic circle. With the ritual broken, the magic dissipated into harmless green sparks.
“A sealing ritual?” Nicholas asked as he stood over the prone sorcerer. “You should have sealed the exit before your attack.”
The sorcerer’s hood had slipped back off his head, revealing a young face covered in black tattoos. The young magic user went to say something, but the weapons master gave him a swift end at the point of his sword.
“Come,” Nicholas said, beckoning Wilhelm to step over the body and follow him into the catacombs. “We need to disappear before they send another.”
Numb with grief and terror, Wilhelm followed. Memories of his father showing him the escape routes through the catacomb tunnels floated to the surface of his mind. Of the three exits, the most well-hidden would deliver them south of Windamere Keep. There, they could follow the river into the wilds and disappear.
Wilhelm didn’t want to disappear, and he didn’t want to become someone else. Nicholas pushed him onward through the catacombs, but Wilhelm was worried that he’d trip and fall if he was made to walk any faster. He thought back to the explosion from the scribe’s tower, where his brothers were. If he’d been the first or second son, he’d be there right with them. He’d be dead, just like they were.
Lord Alistair DeMorlin’s words echoed in Wilhelm’s mind as they ran down labyrinthine passages.
Only a fool will accept his death as though it cannot be changed. The wise man will flee, for a new day brings another chance to pull victory from the jaws of defeat.
Running before the terrible might of this attack was not cowardice. Wilhelm would live, and when the time was right, he would take his revenge.
By the time they reached the waiting boat, Wilhelm’s feet ached with raw blisters. These combat boots were not meant for running through darkened tunnels. They’d found another trio of terrified soldiers within the catacombs, and Nicholas enlisted their help by promising them safe passage and a fresh start as free men.
Nicholas lifted Wilhelm up and placed him in the boat, then barked orders at the other soldiers.
Soon they were underway, and Nicholas addressed everyone aboard as they headed toward the rushing river. “The DeMorlin line has ended. Our lives as we know them are over. From now on, we can only trust each other, and our sole purpose is to protect the boy. His name is not Wilhelm DeMorlin. From this day forth, his name is Erron Vangian. Now put your backs into the oars! We’ve got a long night on the river ahead of us.”
CHAPTER ONE
Erron Vangian didn’t feel right without a shield in one hand and a sword in the other. Fifteen years of training under the tutelage of Fendral the Slayer taught Erron one unassailable truth: the only person you could trust was the one you saw in the mirror.
The moment he’d grown into a man, Fendral had him working for The Exiles. They weren’t a bad bunch, as far as mercenary outfits went. Fendral was driven by a sense of honor that other groups lacked. He wouldn’t shy away from taking jobs that required the shedding of blood, but he would never ask them to commit evil acts.
As a result, The Exiles attracted a ragtag collection of powerful people across the Five Kingdoms, all of whom had a certain moral fiber that drove them. They were exiles, it was true, but they chose to use their collective strength to make the Five Kingdoms a better place, not a darker one.
Erron’s current squad included three others under his command. Agatha Mothica was a powerful dark magic user who had forged a pact with the monster under her bed to escape her beast of a father. Then there was Jenath Darkstar, a half-elf shunned by her elven family after they slaughtered her human father who was said to have shamed them. Jenath was a skilled tracker and was always accompanied by her hawk companion Lyra. Sellis Trell, a normally diminutive halfling, ambled along next to the group in the shape of a giant grizzly bear.
Their target this time was a magical experiment gone awry. If Erron played things just right, it might be his opportunity to finally break out of the mercenary life and go it alone. He didn’t want to betray Fendral and The Exiles—they’d given him a life after all. But at the same time, Erron didn’t want to walk through a life that wasn’t his own. The spell scrolls he held in his pack hung heavy like castle-forge ingots. If he did this, there would be no going back.
