Solo Reconnaissance

  The sun moved across the sky towards the West, its prismatic corona brightly illuminating the aquamarine sky. Wind rustled the grass and leaves of tall trees, and birds chirped in a carefree bearing. A small stream ran alongside the road, its quiet roar still audible amongst the rest of the sounds of nature. All in all, anyone could agree that it was a very beautiful day. There would always be detractors from such universally innocent statements of course, those straddled down with pessimism would always find something minor to complain about, or those simply having too bad a day to be able to appreciate it.

  Anyone who had passed through the village of Freeacres that afternoon would most likely belong to the latter camp. Visions of the death and destruction wrought by the heartless passing army were fresh in everyone’s minds, especially Artyom’s. He’d seen similar levels of destruction wrought upon humble hamlets before, and much worse suffering at the hands of true monsters. His experiences didn’t lighten the burden it placed on his mind, it simply allowed him to build a thicker shell to keep the grief at bay.

  Artyom ran Northwards, a mental shell formed through numerous experiences and mental training keeping his mind laser focused. A great tragedy lay behind him, and the potential for it to happen again loomed over the whole region. Artyom had many excuses worming their way through his mind, each one adding to his shell.

  He’d taken the time to organize the villagers and that saved several lives. The Dark Lord’s army continues to march.

  He didn’t know what this army was capable of. He could potentially take on a mundane army, but who knew how experienced, well equipped, and high leveled they were? No need for a direct attack. Their next target could be warned, and given a chance to survive.

  In the end, it all came back to a single point. A hero or adventurer would work to fight against such tragedy and prevent it from happening again! However, Artyom was neither. He was an agent with a mission, and that mission called. He wouldn’t waste days or weeks on a wild goose chase to save the villagers of this World when he was already on one that could save people from Earth. His mind was made up.

  Spell after spell, Artyom reinforced his athletic abilities to superhuman levels, allowing him to run continuously for several hours at the speed of an olympic sprinter. He could’ve gone faster, but he didn’t know how far out the next town was, and didn’t want to take any risks and tire himself out. He was used to outputting a higher level of ability, but that was only thanks to the artificial benefits from levels and a System. Unlike seemingly everyone around him, Artyom still didn’t have any levels.

  As the sun began to set, the paste stuck to his body borne from a mix of ash and sweat, was beginning to dry. At this point, Artyom couldn’t take it anymore and had to clean it off. He slowed down and walked over to the nearby stream, and jumped right in. The bracing cold of the clear water hit him like a truck, forcing him to take a breath as he was submerged up to his chest in the gentle current. He rubbed at face, arms, and clothes, washing off the grime but unable to fully cleanse himself of it. He emerged from the water after several minutes of scrubbing, still feeling the stains linger on him despite looking passably clean. It didn’t matter, and he could probably find a hot bath or shower at an inn, so he kept going.

  It was around 6 pm or the equivalent thereof when he finally arrived at the town. His mental fortitude was beginning to wane, as exhaustion took its place in warding away any grief. As Artyom ended his spells, he felt the hours of nonstop running without lunch catch up to him all at once. If it weren’t for his militaristic training, he would’ve collapsed on the cobblestone road. That was the first thing he noticed in fact, the roads here were actually paved. He began his trip into town, dragging himself along on fumes alone, as he looked for a possible lead for his mission, or at least a place to eat.

  As Artyom made his way down the cobblestone streets towards the center of town, he realized that it was also constructed in a series of rings, just like Freeacres. The outer ring was made up of lower quality housing, but still boasting an impressive minimum standard of living. Stone foundations, painted wooden walls, and brick chimneys were the construction materials of choice for these houses. They were just large enough to fit a family of five or so in a cozy space, comfortable but not luxuriant. Beyond that was what could only be described as a combination of industrial and market rings, made up of shops, restaurants, and artisans. After that, from what Artyom could tell from sight alone, was a penultimate ring of middle class housing which consisted of houses of similar design to that of the outermost ring, but of larger sizes and made with somewhat higher quality materials. Between pangs of hunger, Artyom could find the effort to appreciate that the poorer citizens of the town weren’t relegated to slums or huts like he’d seen in Gilded Worlds.

  While the center of town was made up of mansions and private gardens, Artyom didn’t bother going that far in. The mercantile ring was his limit before his body demanded he acquire nourishment. Following several wooden signs placed around, he made his way to the nearest inn, deciding to take care of all of his business at once. The three-storey building was painted sky blue, and featured a simple painting of a bumble bee whose stinger was replaced with a sewing needle. A wooden plaque hanging from the pole on the building dubbed it “The Sewing Bee.”

  Whether or not an establishment with such a name was actually an inn, Artyom was too tired to care. He staggered inside and made his way to the nearest seat. He didn’t even bother approaching the bar on the far end of the building, he simply dragged himself across the hardwood floor to a seat at the table closest to the entrance. Several patrons, wearing brightly colored cotton and wool shirts and work pants, chatted amongst themselves about various mundane topics. Even the ones sitting at tables were chatting with those sitting elsewhere, creating a room-wide discussion.

  A waiter approached Artyom holding a paper notepad and menu. He handed the latter over to Artyom while introducing himself and the establishment.

  “Welcome to the Sewing Bee, sir! My name is Arthur and I shall be your waiter this evening. Let me know if you would like anything, and I’ll get it as soon as possible!”

  “Thanks, Arthur,” mumbled Artyom, using his remaining energy to take the menu and begin pointing to what he wanted to order. “I’ll have… this, this… and that,” he slurred, his exhaustion overtaking him.

  “Very well sir,” said Arthur, twirling his moustache with some hesitation. “Sir… it is policy to point out that if you are unable to pay for your meal, you will have to work off your bill in the kitchen or as a dishwasher. We have a strict code to never deny a hungry guest, so feel no fear in staying if you must.”

  In response, Artyom reached into his survival pack and pulled out an unmarked gold coin. Arthur gave it a once-over before nodding with a look of guilt.

  “Apologies for my earlier presumptions, sir. Your clothing is more commonly worn by outer circle citizens whose budgets are usually insufficient for establishments in the middle circle.”

  “That’s fine, just get me some food, please.”

  “Very well, then sir,” said Arthur with a genuine smile on his face, one of relief for Artyom’s favorable situation, rather than of avarice for his wealth.

  To Artyom, time passed much more quickly in his head than it did in the real world, and before he could really process much beyond his surroundings, his food had already arrived. In front of Artyom lay a feast fit for a sprawling family reunion. A massive bowl of macaroni and cheese that could easily feed four gluttons, a fancy variation made with two types of cheeses and topped with breadcrumbs and caramelized onions, was the first thing Artyom dug into. He speared several noodles alongside the toppings with a light stab from his fork, and lifted them to his mouth. He scraped the food off the fork with his lips and began chewing, his face slowly gaining life at the sudden acquisition of carbohydrates. He could taste sharp cheddar and camembert cheeses, or this World’s equivalents, coating the elbow-shaped noodles with a perfectly melted consistency. Several bites in, Artyom was getting back some energy, at least enough to hail Arthur and order a bottle of Sparkle to help wash down the food.

  He switched from the macaroni after eating half of it to a massive submarine sandwich the size of his arm. He took a massive bite out of one of the quarter sections it was sliced into when Arthur arrived with a bottle of grape Sparkle. Artyom wasn’t particularly a fan of grape, but he accepted it anyway. He would need the calories, and it was his fault for not specifying the flavor. He chugged a third of the drink directly from the bottle, still enjoying it somewhat, before finishing the section of his sandwich. Enough energy had returned to Artyom that he could start thinking again. The first thought that came to his mind was how in his attempt to force emotion away from his decisions, he ended up in this situation where overexertion made him incredibly vulnerable. If it weren’t for this inn, or if the distance he ran was any longer, he would’ve collapsed on the road!

  Artyom took a deep breath and considered his frustrations in a moment of self-reflection. Having a mostly-filled belly and time to disconnect from previous events made it easier to do so. While he wanted to keep his thoughts to practical matters, his guilty conscience pushed his treatment of the people who called him a teammate to the forefront of his mind. Artyom internally cringed.

  “You have to admit, you did treat them very harshly, telling them that they weren't that important,” he thought to himself. “It wasn’t their fault they were in the way of the mission.”

  Artyom signed and took another bite of his sandwich.

  “But they were in the way, there was no choice but to drop them like that,” Artyom concluded. He regretted how he ended things, but nothing beyond that.

  “Just like I didn’t regret vetoing the council on protecting other Worlds from Earthers.”

  There it was. Artyom stopped eating for a long moment. He cared about people. Anyone who’d met him or witnessed his actions could say that. Even the party he left behind that morning, for the most part. But what he cared about most was Earthers. People like him who’d been spirited away into a life they didn’t ask for, where their quality of life would be considered by a coin flip.

  “Kind of like being born,” Artyom joked to himself. “But at least babies have a chance to learn the rules before anything’s expected out of them.”

  It was a philosophical quandary that Artyom wanted no part in. He shook his head before coming to a simple conclusion.

  “They didn’t ask for any of this, this isn’t their home nor their life. Any scum that takes advantage of them must be stopped. That’s why we founded TOAL, and those resources should be devoted to helping Earthers, not the Worlds that brought it upon themselves by kidnapping them.”

  Artyom finished another portion of his sandwich, biting into it angrily. His stomach still rumbled. He’d put away enough food to feed a small family so far, but the hypermetabolism brought on by his magic demanded more. He switched to the third dish present, which could only be described as a taco salad. It was a fried tortilla bowl filled with cooked beans, fried meat, shredded cheese, sour cream, tomatoes, and lettuce. No guacamole in sight though, avocados probably didn’t grow in this climate. Artyom didn’t mind though, and chipped off a piece of the bowl to scoop out a large portion of the fillings. Artyom thought it was good to mix protein along with all of those carbohydrates and praised himself for his healthy eating habits. With his belly starting to fill, his previous exhaustion and emotional numbness began to fade. His newfound energy kept the guilt and pain dull.

  “How big is your stomach?” asked one of the patrons, his expression one of simple curiosity. He had a light blue shirt and dark wool pants.

  “As big as it needs to be,” replied Artyom, not bothering to look up from his meal. “Magic does that.”

  “Must be some spell you cast,” replied the same patron. “I bet you could even out eat Kurv, and that glutton really is a [Glutton]!”

  “No way, you haven’t seen Kurv really try,” replied another patron. He wore a red shirt and a treated leather apron with similar pants. His stockiness and terse voice contrasted with the others’ lank. “If he uses his skills, he could eat out this entire inn!”

  For the first time in this World, Artyom was able to listen in on some actually interesting gossip.

  “But he only eats local food. I mean, I like macaroni as well, but there’s no way he could handle anything spicy. I’d like to see him try the strongest Tecca stuff they have here,” said the first patron. “You there, it looks like you’re handling the spice well yourself. Do you think you could handle more?” he asked, pointing to Artyom.

  “Yeah, sure,” he said halfheartedly. The taco salad didn’t taste spicy at all to Artyom. It could’ve just been that he was used to eating stronger food back on Earth like Pad Thai or Indian Curry, but it looked like none of the people here had much of a taste for capsaicin.

  “See? I bet he could take Kurv on.”

  As much as Artyom welcomed the first gossip session he was able to participate in, he would rather eat. But instead of driving the patrons away, he decided to put their gossiping skills to the test and make it useful to him.

  “So, have any of you heard much about the great hero?” asked Artyom, no longer fearing stigma for asking about a nonexistent figure.

  “I doubt he’d be able to take on Kurv in an eating contest, if that’s what you’re asking,” replied the second patron.

  Everyone burst into laughter at the terrible joke. Artyom being so thoroughly unimpressed only expressed a painful grin.

  “Besides that, I heard he was nearby,” said the same man. “Also heard the Dark Lord’s army was close too. The town guard should be big enough to scare them away, though.”

  “What’s he doing here?” asked the first patron. “As wonderful as our town is, I don’t think there’s anything here that’ll help him on his quest.”

  “He is here for a piece of the holy key,” said a third patron, this time a lady dressed in white robes with a wide blue horizontal band down the center, very similar to Skeya’s clothing. “The church I serve at held a sermon last week about it!”

  The other guests nodded in only halfhearted interest, ready to change the subject to something more topical, but Artyom decided to indulge her.

  “What’s the key for?” he asked.

  “The Goddess locked the Legendary Sword that the hero is destined to wield behind a lock that can only be opened by this key,” she continued, happy that someone here was interested in her sermon. “She split it into three separate parts, and the Goddess proclaimed to the head of my church that two of the pieces have already been found by the Hero!”

  “Oh wow,” said Artyom with feigned exuberance, yet legitimate interest. “Where’s the last one?”

  “In a cave overtaken by great danger, Crystal Kobold Crossing!”

  “Oh, leave the poor lad alone,” said the second patron in his gruff voice. “We all came here to get a break, but here you are giving him a sermon!”

  The woman began to pout, but then focused her emotions into frustration and leveled her voice at the man. “He’s clearly interested in what I have to say, unlike some people. Who are you to speak out against this young man’s interest in our Goddess? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re still upset about being caught falling asleep during the last sermon!”

  The man’s face turned beet red and he lifted his finger in indignation, but declined to say anything. He hung his head and admitted defeat, going back to his meal.

  “Thanks for the information, miss. It really was interesting,” said Artyom. He could appreciate how gossips made for great expositors.

  “No problem, it’s just nice to have more people interested in the Goddess outside of the clergy or during sermons! She truly must have blessed you for you to have such a good head on your shoulders.”

  Artyom nodded in acceptance of the compliment and returned to his meal. The other patrons did too, their conversations returning to more local affairs. Why they weren’t interested in a living legend was a mystery.

  After 15 more minutes, Artyom had finished all of the food in front of him. Upon noticing this, Arthur the waiter returned, ready to serve him more or take payment. Artyom handed him a gold coin, and was immediately handed back change in the form of a menagerie of silver and copper.

  “Thank you,” said Artyom, putting the coinage in his bag. “You know, you calculated the change really quickly. It couldn’t have taken you more than a quarter of a second.”

  “Calculate? Oh no,” replied Arthur. “We waiters and shopkeepers all have the [Calculate Change] Skill which we get at a very early level. Otherwise, we’d be spending more time doing math than our actual jobs!”

  Artyom nodded, as if his curiosity was sated, but only to be polite. It was another strange quirk of this particular World, it seemed. Artyom was never a fan of cramming arithmetic. His parents enrolled him in one of those cram school style services brought over to America from Japan, but he never liked it. Even if the ability to perform arithmetic in mere milliseconds wasn’t necessary, Artyom considered having a Skill do all of the math for you was overkill.

  He decided to file it away for now, and got up to leave the inn. He would be back later to rent a room for the night, but in the meantime, he’d learned enough about the Hero situation to come up with a very interesting plan.