Wake Up, Marcus Richter

Holm walked the dirt road home with quite the brisk pace for an old coot. His steps were steady and his satchel was tucked beneath his arm—a new habit he picked up after starting his new life rather than putting it in his inventory like always.

The late sun washed the town in orange and purple tones with long shadows trailing, giving Holm a chance to let his mind wander to the most important question of any evening: what to eat before eventually falling asleep in his recliner.

Mushrooms, bone broth, celery, beans, flour, tortillas, beets, cheese, and chunks of meat. There were plenty of options with just those few items he could recall in his kitchen, but he ultimately decided that a soup sounded easiest. That way he could spend his time grading while it was cooking.

He nodded to himself, pleased with the idea. “Soup it is,” Holm muttered.

His house was a dinky, old log building that he acquired from a friend of a friend. It was one of those private deals that was more of a favor to a field acquaintance, finally wiping that slate clean.

It sat a little ways off the main road, tucked between a pair of willow trees that leaned like sleepy giants. One of these days he figured they would tip over far enough, crushing him peacefully in his sleep. A grim thought, but who didn’t have those anyway?

A chest-high metal fence surrounded the plot, a nice bonus of his free house. When Holm first moved in, he hated the damn thing, but it eventually grew on him just like his tea.

Not that many years ago, he could have bought a mansion so absurdly overboard that a king might choke just looking at the cost. These days he pretended it was his grand fence for his elite estate; delusion was free, after all.

The front gate groaned and squawked in delight when he pushed it open. He really needed to oil that—he’d been saying so for months.

Inside, the familiar scent of dry wood and old paper greeted him. Holm hung his coat, set his bag on the table, and pulled out the stack of rune worksheets. Noren’s page was already looking like a disaster and Talia’s was coated in so much eraser dust that he couldn’t even make out the doodles anymore.

He sighed and washed his hands, rolling up his sleeves in preparation for the vegetables. At least this was a nice distraction before the eventual headache.

His knife thudded rhythmically against the cutting board. Celery was chopped into thin slices. The mushrooms were split roughly in thirds. As for the meat, he left them in chunks—small pieces tended to fall apart in a disappointing way.

As the broth warmed, he added everything in and gave it a slow stir, causing some steam to rise and fog his glasses.

Holm wiped his glasses with the collar of his shirt and made his way back to the table, settling into his chair and uncapping a red pen. Teaching magic was awesome, no question. Grading magic, however, was painful.

He added a few short notes in the margins of incorrect designs where an explanation might help them improve. The routine was familiar and he allowed his shoulders to ease as the minutes passed.

After a few papers were finished with grading, he reached for his tea, then remembered that he hadn’t made any yet. Dang it, what a terrible blunder. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He stood, filled the kettle in the sink, and flicked a tiny spark of magic onto the burner as he finished incanting the spell, "[Ignite]."

Only a tier one spell, but he had to be careful not to overdo it. A mage of his caliber could ignite the entire house instantly by mistake if he didn’t regulate his mana output.

The kettle began to warm, a faint whistle forming. Holm let the spell fade and returned to Noren’s worksheet.

A backwards loop. An extra line. The rune looked more like a scribble than a rune at all. Holm sighed and made a small note: Close, revisit the examples.

He’d explain it properly tomorrow during the review block. Kids would be kids, after all.

Holm set Mira’s worksheet aside and stood, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders. Old bones were stubborn things and teaching didn’t help much with that. A little lap around the house would fix all of his problems.

He didn’t even make it two steps before a thought began to nag at him—the soup.

He lifted the lid and inhaled the earthy aroma. It was still fine, it just needed some salt. And a hell of a lot more pepper. What was it with old men liking way too much pepper in their food? He added both, gave it a slow stir, and set the lid back on.

He wiped his hands again, mostly out of habit, and stepped out to his front porch before the daylight dimmed behind the hills. Couldn’t forget about the mail, this was the most exciting part of the evening.

The mailbox creaked as he opened it—he also really, really needed to fix that, too—and inside sat a small bundle of letters. He took them out and leaned against the post while sorting.

A pamphlet from ‘The Allstars’ guild just one town over. “Seeking Adventurers! Bronze–Gold Ranks Welcome!” He nearly laughed out loud. That might have been tempting at sixteen. At his age? Not a chance.

A notice from the Merchant’s Association about a spice trader arriving next week. That might be worth a visit. Good spices were rare indeed, and he surely wanted some more in case he wanted to light up his life.

A folded announcement with sloppy ink and a drawing of a carrot. Ah, that’s right, the farmer's market. He’d forgotten that it was so soon. He slipped the letters under his arm.

Just as he turned toward the door, a voice called from across the yard.

“Evenin’, Holm!”

It was Old Rhek leaning over his fence with a tin mug. His beard was as long as some girls' hair. What a nightmare to maintain, he thought to himself.

Holm lifted a hand. “Evening.”

“Kids behave today?” Rhek asked.

“As well as children can,” Holm said. “No fires or broken windows, so I’ll count it as a victory.”

Rhek chuckled. “You’re a saint, ya know that? Never had the patience for teachin’. One brat sneezes wrong and I’d retire.”

Holm smirked. “You did retire.”

“Exactly!” He said proudly.

A small cat hopped onto the fence beside him, sniffing the air.

“Well,” Rhek said, raising his mug in a lopsided toast, “don’t let the old joints freeze out here. Night gets cold quick.”

“Always does,” Holm said, then added in case he appeared rude so far. "Good evening, Rhek."

He pushed off the post and headed back toward his door. The porch boards creaked under his weight as he stepped inside and tossed the letters on the table. He would get to today's newspaper after a moment.

The stew burbled quietly. He lifted the lid and peered inside. It looked like soup, so that was good. It was just needed just a bit more… something.

He grabbed a shaker of herbs from the cabinet labeled only with a faint scribble—he’d long forgotten the proper name—and let the leaves fall into the pot. Oh yeah, it was called thyme.

The scent rose immediately, warm and savory.

“That should do it,” he muttered to himself.

He still wasn’t going to rewrite the label. By next week he’d forget again anyway. Satisfied with his handiwork, he slid the lid back on with a soft clink.

He moved to the sink to rinse his hands, humming an off-key tune as he peered outside, the last of the sunlight thinning into dusky gold along the window frame.

A calm evening. Exactly how he liked them.

Holm dried his hands and trundled back to the table, sliding into his chair with an old man’s grunt. He flipped open the newspaper, shaking it to hold a steady shape.

Grain shipment delayed due to river blockage.

Adventurer band claims triumph over lost cat.

Local restaurant catches on fire, put out with a broom.

Holm snorted softly at the paper. That's what constituted as big news? Back in his prime, it looked more like:

Wexler Guild decimated by Hydra, no survivors.

Cheerio Guild conquers the Thorn King's labyrinth, heavy casualties.

Palamode's Prince joins the frontline.

Even now, headlines like that existed, though to a lesser extent in this minor era of peace. He did enjoy reading about broom fires rather than grim headlines, though.

Continuing down the pages, the same advertisements reiterated his mail haul. Honestly, what was the point of doing both? They send those damn things to everyone anyways, so why pay for an advertising slot each day?

He flicked to the next page, the paper crinkling loudly in his hands.

Guildmaster proposes a new tax on enchanted boots from the Crafting Association.

Well, that one made sense at least. Some boots cost more than a house these days. It was sad how many craftsmen took advantage of the populace and kept pumping the costs higher.

He turned the page.

Local Glassblower Debuts ‘Unbreakable Vase’ at Town Square.

He huffed. “I give it three days. Unbreakable things tend not to stay unbroken when adventurers are involved."

He kept flipping.

Each headline was quieter than the last, nothing like the years when every paper had a list of injuries, casualties, dungeon breaches, guild disputes, or some noble trying to behead someone for a minor infraction. Actually... that last one still happened.

Holm folded the paper closed and placed it neatly at the edge of the table.

A quiet day in a quiet life.

Soup time.

He walked back to the stove, lifting the lid once more. A soft plume of steam rose, embracing his face in warmth and comfort. He stirred slowly, watching the broth swirl with mushrooms and celery and uneven cuts of meat.

He tasted a spoonful. It was ready as ready would be, so he took it off the burner and dished it up. He ladled the soup into a bowl, the broth sloshing violently as he set it on the table. Not the prettiest meal he’d ever made, but who cared. Soup was soup.

Holm lowered himself into his chair with a soft sigh and dipped his spoon in. The first bite was earthy, peppery, and just a little too hot. He blew on the next one, learning from his mistakes, but it didn't fix the problem.

"[Minor Frost]." He incanted, finally cooling it to the perfect temp for eating.

Much better. The warmth settled comfortably in his chest, and for a few minutes, he ate in silence.

After finishing in silence, he rinsed the bowl in the sink and left it upside down on the drying rack. He stretched his back and let out a long, tired breath.

Now he could finally sit in the recliner aaand—

A sharp knock rattled his door.

Huh.

That's odd.

Holm blinked, confused. It was far too late for visitors—not that he would be expecting anybody anyways.

Another knock. Harder this time. Faster.

Holm’s brows lowered. That wasn’t a “neighbor borrowing sugar” kind of knock. This one seemed extra important

He stepped toward the door, hand hovering just a moment over the handle.

He opened it.

Mira’s mother stood there on the porch, breathing hard and wheezy, hair pinned up in a messy knot that had clearly been rushed into place. Her apron was still on, indicating that she had just come from supper preparation.

“Holm,” she said, voice thin and scared. “Is Mira with you?”

He froze. That was the last thing he wanted to hear from her lips.

“No,” he answered slowly. “She left right after class. I thought she headed straight home?”

Mira’s mother shook her head. The panic had finally set in for her, fearing that the terrible reality may be true but not wanting to admit it.

“She didn’t come home,” she rasped. “She always comes home on time. Always. I checked the fountain, the bridge, even the market road. She’s not anywhere.”

Holm felt the quiet of his world collapse in on itself. The warm soup in his stomach turned to ice. It all felt so sickening.

“How long has she been missing?” he asked, his voice dropping to a terrifying level. It was focused in a way that Mira’s mother had never seen in her life, one that induced an almost primal fear response. Almost.

Mira’s mother swallowed. “Since you let them out for the day, I would guess," she said, voice trailing off. "I… I thought maybe she stopped to talk to someone she knew or got sidetracked and lost sense of time. B—but she’s never this late, Holm. Never.”

That was enough to set him off. His hand flicked outward and his staff was already drawn in the same movement. "[Detect Presence]."

Holm’s eyes shifted a fraction, tracking something only he could sense. He had poured so much into the tier 11 spell that he could sense even an ant for a hundred miles, far bigger than the town.

Found her.

His grip tightened on the staff.

Mira’s mother watched him, breath trembling. “Holm?”

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, steady, and frighteningly certain, “Found her.”

“Really? Where is she, Holm?” She asked. In this moment, she felt utterly helpless and displeased that she had to rely on someone else to find her daughter.

“Go home,” he said calmly. “I'll bring her back as soon as I can."

Something in his tone—some resolve she had never heard in him—made her step back without fully meaning to.

“O—okay,” she whispered. “Please… please just get her back safely.”

Holm waited until Mira’s mother was halfway down the path before he shut the door.

The gentle, soft-spoken teacher peeled away in an instant. Shoulders squared, posture straightened. The warmth that lived behind his eyes dimmed to something colder, honed over the years he never spoke about.

He promised that he wouldn’t bring out his alter-identity ever again, not after that horrible day when he couldn’t save her, but this was above any personal convictions or vows he had.

Holm raised his hand.

“[Inventory],” he murmured.

==========

Marcus Richter

{Slayer of the Abyssal General}

(No Guild Associated)

Level 2167 Human (Berserker Archmage)

CON: 2,701,019

STR: 6,353,126

DEX: 987,674

WIS: 11,240,553

MP: 14,125,206

==========

Seeing it all again, knowing what his purpose for doing so was, brought back bitter memories. He hadn’t gone through it like this in years. He sighed so heavily that the walls around him could feel it.

He began navigating through the actual list that mattered: equipment.

A grid of items unfolded in front of him, neat and categorized. Old habits did have their perks.

Gear → Loadout Sets → Primary Loadout 1.

He tapped it.

One after another, pieces of equipment swapped onto him instantly.

The Iron Warden set.

This was one he had gotten crafted specifically after a particularly nasty encounter with a dungeon hoard of level 1750 elite orcs back when he had finally surpassed that upper echelon of level 2000. Since he was a solo adventurer, the multiple high-level enemies really pushed him to the edge.

The system granted the set ‘Legendary’ quality, a significant blunt damage reduction—swords, clubs and the likes—as its biggest pro. It also amped up dexterity by large margin, which certainly helps more than one would think, just pushing him past that boundary of fast enough to keep up.

This set was perfect for foes who are somewhat humanoid and not that much bigger than he, orcs being that upper end of the spectrum. It was also low profile, so that was nice.

It would be a truly poor choice against a colossus worm, though. He did, however, have some other sets to deal with enemies like that.

He had gathered enough information about his foes based on the level estimate provided from the [Detect Presence]. Emerald and Sapphire adventurers, huh? This would be interesting, at least.

Another few items were imperative for him to have equipped, that being accessories. Rings were an obvious choice; the system was quite finicky in only allowing up to three accessory bonuses to apply. Anything after that was purely cosmetic.

The first was a simple blued silver band at first glance, light enough that Holm sometimes forgot he wore it. Two feathered wings were etched along the sides, another crafting spoil from a slayed creature. Surprisingly, it came out at mythic quality, something far more impressive than seeing a Ruby rank in the flesh.

The Ring of Pegasus was a very important one for Holm, doubling the dexterity stat. The nifty thing about it is that it applied the doubling before the boosts from other items, increasing potency significantly.

The second ring was the Ring of the Last Stand, an average looking design with an orange gem. He had received it as a drop from a necromancer undead priest. It increased mental fortitude by a minor amount and reduced all magical damage by a small margin.

Lastly was the Ring of Ragnal, buffing melee damage by a significant amount. Simple enough of a description. It was a band of solid dark green—a gift from his father very early on in his career.

Completing his set was his staff, the same one that would make a really great tool for a plumber. He was prepared for—probably even overprepared for—whatever they could have up their sleeves. He certainly wasn’t going to be taking any chances, not when it came to one of his students.

Marcus Richter —the man this town knows only as Mr. Holm—was awake for the first time in decades.

He stretched out his arms, examining his attire.

How many battles had these clothes, these rings, this staff see? Way too many to count, that’s for sure.

What was his plan for these guys going to be? Should he confront them head on? Maybe he could...

No, this wasn’t the time to be sitting around and planning for every possibility; he needed to act now.

His grip on the staff tightened beyond a reasonable amount. Whenever Marcus was getting serious, these were his go-to spells in any fight that might end his life.

He cast a slew of buffs and failsafes,“[Sandra’s Invisible Shield], [Zone of Deflection], [Mind Blank], [Foresight], [Prismatic Shields].”

That should have been enough, but there was just one more he wanted to cast, just in case. “[Contingency: Heal].”

It didn’t hurt to be safe, but was this going overboard? Nah.

A very misunderstood concept about mages is that offensive magic isn’t the most important part of their arsenal, but the defensive spells they have. What good was a mage if they couldn’t defend even the most basic of attacks, let alone some monstrous beast. Any mage who earned the title of glass cannon was typically avoided for the hinderance they posed.

Marcus spent years collecting the best designs, sometimes even altering them to suit his style of combat, but even he was unable to find the best out there.

He shook his head; it was time for him to move out.

“[Blink].”

His body vanished, dematerializing and rematerializing dozens of feet away in an instant.

To any person alive, the feeling of the process was disorienting and jarring, but only for that brief few milliseconds between the two points of the spell. The world may have turned into a blur at the speeds he would need to go, but his foresight would help bridge the gap in information.

“Wow, haven’t felt that one in a while,” Marucs murmured to himself, taking a second to regain his composure before repeating the spell. “[Blink].”

“Can you show us the juice spell, Mr. Holm?” Her voice echoed in his head.

Long gone was that decrepit Gold rank teacher, replaced now by the Ruby rank berserker mage that the world was glad to let fade away.

And that monster was pissed.

-------------------------------------

A harsh caw cut through the quiet of the night.

Perched atop a dying branch was a lone crow, feathers ruffled against the cooling air as it examined the landscape for its next meal. It tilted its head, glossy eyes peering into the distance. Something moved out there, but it couldn't figure out what.

The branch trembled beneath its talons as the blurs of motion closed in.

Fsh. Fsh. FSH.

A mirage tore past the crow’s perch, air ripping violently and unnaturally in its wake —the air being cut and stitched back together by higher entities.

The crow’s instincts screamed so loudly, so profoundly, that it needed to flee at all costs. It jumped from its perch and took off in the safest direction it could find, squawking as it fled. It didn’t matter where it went, just as long as it was anywhere but there.

Its wings flapped viciously, trying to escape and—

CLANG.

The crow struck an old shed window at full force, bones cracking. Its body fell limp to the ground, dirt clouds rising, it’s body twitching twice before death claimed what fear had already taken.

A predator had awoken.