What the Shell?, page 9
Phac almost turned tail and ran. Speaking up a bit was fine, but he would rather not fight an orc who was four times his Level and much, much better equipped.
Then again, Phac did have those titles. And he was angry that this green fucker, the first person he met, seemed to look down on him so much. Worst case, he died. So what?
He walked up and grabbed the orc’s hand in a firm handshake. It was warm and sweaty, as he expected, and the skin was hard and calloused. Phac squeezed with all the strength he could muster but felt nothing. The orc’s hand remained completely unchanged, as if he couldn’t even feel Phac’s efforts. Looking up at Oreg’s face, closer than ever, Phac saw him grin as he squeezed.
Almost immediately, Phac’s strength seemed to vanish into thin air as his grip was immediately crushed. He felt his hand squished between two grinding rocks, his bones about to break. The pain was great, but he suppressed the scream that almost poured out of his mouth. He wouldn’t give this bastard the satisfaction.
He gazed defiantly at the orc’s face, only to see that it was a paler shade of green than before. Then again, perhaps the firelight was playing games on his eyes.
Letting go of Phac’s hand just before it broke, Oreg dragged his legs to where he was previously sitting and took a big, big gulp from his flask. “By the spirits,” he muttered, “it’s true! What’s your Constitution, huma—Phac?”
“Twenty-five,” Phac revealed as he returned to leaning against the tree, noting the change in how the orc called him. His hand hurt like hell but the last thing he would do was show it, so he kept both his arms leisurely hanging from his sides.
“I see, I see,” said the orc, his words trailing. “A Strength of around twenty and a Constitution of twenty-five. And I can tell you have some Wisdom, too…” Without warning, the orc grabbed a nearby rock and threw it at Phac fast. He barely had time to slap it away before it hit his chest, grimacing in pain. He’d used the same hand that Oreg had just squeezed.
“And good Dexterity, too…,” Oreg continued. He sighed. “Sorry about that, Phac. Both the hand and the rock. I just had to make sure.”
“And throwing rocks at me was the best you could do?” Phac glared.
Oreg sighed again. He then tossed his flask at Phac, who easily caught it out of the air—with his other hand, this time. “I can throw flasks, too. Drink,” said Oreg. “It's a warrior’s drink in my tribe, but you seem worthy.”
Phac eyed the flask and took a sip, all caution long thrown to the wind. A burning feeling spread from his mouth to his throat, all the way to his stomach. Good. He took another swig before throwing it back to the orc.
“Strong,” he confirmed, taking his seat by the fire, opposite the orc. “Just as I like it.”
The orc smiled, revealing more of his teeth. “Just don’t drink too much; the forest is a dangerous place. I will give you more if we ever meet somewhere safe.” He took another swig.
“Will you share my campfire, human warrior?” asked Oreg. His attitude had clearly changed from earlier. “We can take turns keeping guard, if we are more than one.”
“Sure.” Phac shrugged. “But only for another sip from that flask.”
Oreg’s smile grew wider.
After recognizing that Phac deserved his respect, Oreg turned out to be good folk.
He wasn’t worried about beasts attacking. The weak ones were no issue, while the strong ones knew better than to attack an orc, not to mention the many traps he had lying around.
They spent the next hour talking about each other and their experiences. Phac told the orc all about his waking up at the beach and fighting the crabs, causing Oreg to go through a roller-coaster of emotions. His blood boiled when Phac recounted the battle with the Beach Crab King, whistling at his success and recognizing his achievements, and he cursed out loud when Phac informed him of his Elite Class.
Apparently, it was something exceedingly rare and extraordinarily useful for the 1 extra stat point per level it offered. It also practically guaranteed the individual’s access to Evolved classes.
As Oreg explained, one’s Class evolved at Level 25, allowing for one extra Skill and one extra stat point per level. These people were referred to as Masters by most races and Warchiefs by the orcs. However, getting to Level 25 was exceedingly difficult, much more than getting to Level 5 and acquiring a Class in the first place, and only a scant few achieved it.
The extra Skill was the largest benefit of evolving your Class, as an individual could normally only have up to 5 Skills and would then have to discard one to get another. Skills appeared by themselves depending on a person’s style and achievements, with Class-related Skills appearing more frequently after Level 5.
With the extra attribute points from his Elite Class and Titles, Phac’s total amount was equal to the average Level 13-14 creature. Oreg also informed him that sentient beings were stronger than their animal counterparts at the same level, mostly due to using equipment and knowing how to fight.
No wonder I didn’t feel much pressure from the boar.
Oreg himself was a hunter, part of the Barkskin tribe. It was a small tribe with only two Warchiefs and a handful of strong orcs stranded at Level 24. Apparently, getting to level 25 was quite an achievement.
Oreg was one of the tribe’s senior members, usually out hunting difficult prey to feed his people. This time, he was scouting, making sure the forest was safe for his daughter’s upcoming rite of passage. Only about eight in every ten young orcs survived this rite, though he refused to give more details about it.
Phac marveled at the orc customs, how they weeded out the weak to reinforce the strong. They were indeed barbarians, and he couldn’t say he approved, but it was their business, not his.
He also learned that orcs worshipped spirits, both those of nature and those of their ancestors. They fashioned themselves to be the protectors of the forest, and that usually led to conflict with humans, as the latter practiced excessive hunting for Levels, which would eventually lead to a forest empty of animals. Oreg mentioned the nearby town of Salom, which Phac now intended to visit, and the recently established Adventurer’s Guild that largely advocated excessive hunting.
The most hated enemy of orcs, however, was poachers, people who illegally captured animals to sell as level-up material.
Over this hour, the two men lost their apprehension toward each other, forgetting their initial and racial differences. Phac’s hand stopped hurting after a bit, and they didn’t drink too much, making sure to keep themselves in fighting shape for the night. Oreg didn’t seem to mind Phac’s almost complete nudity; they were both men, so it wasn’t a big thing, and, in his own words, he had seen worse.
“I’m taking first shift,” said the orc as he stood up. “I’ll wake you up in a few hours, princess. Sleep tight.”
“At least I’m not a puke-colored ape.” Phac grinned as he lay on the hard ground. He’d decided to trust Oreg, and, in all honesty, he was exhausted.
Within seconds, Phac had already drifted to the land of dreams.
ELEVEN
THE MATT
For the first time in months, Nick woke up feeling refreshed. “Would you look at that,” he muttered.
Getting up, he visited the bathroom before making his way to the kitchen—though ‘making his way’ may have been an overstatement as it was only a few steps away, but he walked there anyway. The former sailor lived in a run-down, two-room basement, with one of the two rooms being the bathroom. The entire house was little more than twenty square meters, furnished with nothing but a small run-down kitchen he’d cheaply bought off a college student, a drawer-sized fridge, a cupboard, a table, a bed that barely fit him, and a single chair; he never had visitors, and he never intended to.
Filling a cup with water and sitting on his only chair, Nick pulled a few pieces of hard, dry bread from his cupboard. Breakfast, he called it, the same he always had.
While munching on his humble meal, Nick’s eyes wandered about his residence. From the moldy sink to the closed window atop a wall—from where he could see the bottom of an alley—to a grayed-out piece of paper stuck under his phone at the edge of the table.
On the paper was a series of a few, seemingly random, numbers. It was his mother’s phone number, one he considered every morning and yet had never managed to dial. He didn’t even know if she still lived, though she probably did. She shouldn’t even be fifty yet, since he was only twenty-eight years old.
His phone itself was an old mobile model, one he’d received from an old colleague a few years back and almost never used. He wasn’t good with technology and only kept it to make and receive phone calls.
Done eating, Nick stood up and put on his clothes before opening the door and walking up the stairs. It was dawn; the warehouse, where he currently made a living, was waiting.
As he opened the door of the apartment building, a few rays of sunlight fell on his dirty face, causing him to stumble at the intense headache that suddenly assaulted him. He’d had a rowdy night, and even though it had greatly abated, the pain from his head getting smashed on a table was still there.
Picking a fight with seasoned sailors is never a good idea, he reminded himself, grabbing his head. At least I fucked them up a bit, too.
A tired bark alerted him to the presence of a dog beside him—a Labrador-looking brown stray, one that often hung around the neighborhood begging for scraps. “Shoot off,” he muttered as he waved a hand, and the dog dejectedly left to find food elsewhere. For the first time ever, Nick eyed it sympathetically as it departed. I’ll buy you something when I’m back, he promised, surprising himself. He wasn’t usually the soft type.
Grumbling something about manning up, Nick headed off. He had a ten-hour shift waiting for him and no desire to be late.
Darkness was already creeping over the sky by the time Nick returned home. His ten-hour shift ended up being a twelve-hour one—with no overtime payment, of course. There were more crates than usual, something related to those worldwide protests that were constantly occurring these days, though he didn’t particularly care. He only cared about doing his job, which he hated but needed; nobody else would hire him.
Nick approached the building next to his. There was a small fast-food restaurant there, named ‘Smelt’ after those small fish that always swam about, and run by a small, kind-looking Asian woman—Susan. The restaurant’s name was fitting for a place close to the docks, if Nick had anything to say about it. Susan was nice, too, occasionally giving him some extra pieces of food, though he never returned the kindness.
This place was where he always got food from; it did takeaways, and the food was cheap and good enough. Just before walking through the sliding doors, he noticed the stray again. It was the same dog he’d met in the morning, looking even more starved, if that was possible. He grumbled as he remembered his earlier promise.
A few minutes later, Nick walked out of the restaurant holding a bag in one hand and a few pieces of bacon in the other. The mutt was still there, looking at him expectantly as if the damn animal knew he was about to give it food.
Just a damn motherfucking animal, Nick repeated to himself as he threw the pieces of bacon over. Why should I care?
The dog barked happily and grabbed the bacon off the ground, but not before licking his leg in gratitude, shocking Nick. He stood there and watched the stray dog he’d never fed before desperately gulp those pieces of bacon down, remembering how it had just licked him full of gratitude.
He tried to control himself, he really did, but recent experience had made Nick more—he paused to consider the best word for this feeling—susceptible.
“All right, come with me,” he told the mutt when it was done eating.
It tilted its head but followed as he moved toward his house. He opened the apartment building’s door. “In,” he ordered, pointing inside while keeping the door open with his bag-holding hand.
The dog just stared at him; it had learned not to step inside buildings lest it get beaten. Nick frowned. “In,” he barked another order while staring the dog down, and this time it hesitantly complied, a ray of hope shining deep in its brown eyes. Nick closed the door behind them and led it to his basement, where it entered with noticeably less hesitation. “You stink,” he commented.
The next hour was spent with Nick trying to put his new companion under the shower and wash it, finding little success. The mutt initially resisted going under the running water and especially resisted the retired sailor’s efforts to wash it, whimpering every time his hands approached its fur. But Nick wasn’t a nice guy, using his loud, strict voice to command the dog. A light warning slap at the back of its head, and another when it bared its teeth in response, was all it took to convince the unruly animal to do as ordered.
Now in the company of a somewhat clean dog, Nick sat down to eat, not forgetting to set some food aside for the dog and a glass of cheap whisky for himself, poured from the bottle he kept in the cupboard. He never went a night without drinking if he could help it, a habit left over from when he was a sailor.
He’d bought some fried crab from Smelt—it was the restaurant’s specialty, one he seldom had the luxury to enjoy, but today he was feeling good—whilst chuckling at a joke that only he understood. He knew next to nothing about what dogs eat, so he didn’t give it any crab, only some beef jerky he kept in his small fridge. He would have to ask his coworkers tomorrow about what dogs do and don’t eat. That, and a roof above its head, was all he could offer.
The dog didn’t seem unhappy at the jerky; it even barked happily, if hesitantly, a few times. It licked Nick’s hand while he petted it, catching himself smiling. Goddamnit!
Done with his meal, Nick stood up, his eyes sweeping over the phone and the paper under it before darkening and looking away. He rudimentarily washed the dishes; he didn’t want them stinking or the mutt licking them for leftovers while he slept.
Getting out of his clothes, Nick threw them on the chair and lay in bed, setting his alarm for six o’clock. It was still early, but the sky was dark, and he was tired. He eyed the mutt that was huddled in a corner.
“If you take a single step on my bed or break anything, I’m throwing you out. Are we clear?” he asked, to no response. Nick closed his eyes, only to reopen them a second later.
“I’ll call you Matt,” he said to the mutt, surprising himself. He rarely, if ever, made jokes. Smirking, Nick closed his eyes and fell asleep almost immediately, a skill he’d had since his sailing days.
“Corruption!?” yelled Oreg, dropping the cutlery he was holding. The fire had long since burnt itself out. It was currently morning, and as the orc was packing up his stuff, Phac had inadvertently mentioned his ‘Save the Forest’ Quest.
Quest: Save the Forest
You have discovered worrying signs of corruption in the wildlife, a phenomenon that should not exist in this place. If left to spread, the entire forest might soon become a husk of its previous self, nothing but a collection of rotting corpses between dead trees.
Track down the source of the unnatural corruption and stop it before it’s too late. Save the forest.
Reward: Depends on performance.
Do you dare accept?
“That’s…” The green warrior seemed lost for words. He closed his eyes for a second before reopening them, looking straight at the human. “We must go, Phac. Corruption is one of the most dangerous things that can happen to a place, especially a forest.”
Crossing his arms, Phac raised a brow. “We?”
“It’s your Quest, isn’t it?” Oreg narrowed his orange eyes. “Unless you plan to ignore the situation and take your sorry ass to safety.”
Phac kept his mouth shut. Honestly, that’s exactly what he’d been planning to do.
The orc growled in disappointment before trying to convince Phac in his deep, rumbling voice. “Quests are rare. When they do occur, it doesn’t only signify great urgency, but also great rewards—and most importantly, they aren’t impossible. You may be ahead of the curve now, but if you’d like it to stay that way, you’d better get brave. Opportunities come with risks.”
Phac, still crossing his arms, didn’t reply. He did want to get stronger, but was this worth it? He’d already been through one impossible Dungeon, didn’t he deserve to rest a bit and enjoy the spoils of his victory, namely being alive?
Letting Phac consider it, Oreg finished packing up his stuff, which only included some cutlery and other cooking accessories. Anything else was unnecessary for the orc as he could make do with what the forest offered—of course, he did have a longbow and a greataxe, both strapped to his back already.
Stashed inside the orc’s backpack were a few pouches for collecting herbs, one of which Oreg had gifted to Phac after drilling two more holes in it. It had been clean and unused, and it could function as underwear—uncomfortably, sure, but much better than his previous attempt at improvisation.
Apparently, running around the forest naked wasn’t very healthy. Who would have thought?
Finished with latching the hooks that kept his backpack closed, Oreg placed it over the two weapons he already had strapped on his back. He was a strange sight, then, with the weapons crossing under his backpack, as well as his limbs, making him look like some sort of strange green spider.
“Are you done thinking and ready to act, human, or will you keep being a dirt-colored turtle?” he growled. “Because I’m going with or without you.”
“I thought we were over the ‘human’ calling by now,” Phac snapped back.
“We were, up until you decided to think like a coward,” replied the orc, looking the other way. “Are you coming or not?”
Where’s the cowardice in not rushing to death? thought Phac, snorting, but as he considered it, he decided to join along. Opportunities did come with risks. Having already experienced being weak, he didn’t plan to repeat that feeling. He wanted to be strong.
