A Clan's Honor: A LitRPG Adventure (Rogue Realms Book 1) Read online

  ROGUE REALMS I

  by Riley Mercer

  Copyright © 2018 by Riley Mercer. All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced. Stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the author(s) or publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, live or dead are purely coincidental.

  Riley Mercer

  A Clan’s Honor, Rogue Realms I

  A LitRPG Adventure

  For more information on reproducing sections of this book or sales of this book, go to www.rileymercer.com

  CONTENTS:

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter One

  “You! Northern Paladin with the bear Shield! Get up there. We need more tanks. We’re getting murdered!”

  I’m in the middle of casting Light Blind and want to ignore his jeers, but he slams his foot on the ground. The vibration shakes away my concentration.

  The hulking, pea-soup-colored Troll waves his club at me and sneers, as if he wants to kill me even more than this battle’s opponents.

  Ahead of him, a stream of other players race toward the opposing army’s oncoming line—mostly Northern Humans, Orcs, Dwarves, and other even larger Trolls. The Army of Distal Sucirema has placed lots of Elves and Humans on the front lines. Our melee classes are up against a bunch of ranged magical classes and archers. And they must cross a hundred yards of barren battlefield to reach their enemies. Already a small team of Casters wave their arms, launching blue fireballs into the sky. The warbling blue orbs arc, searching for targets.

  An Orc falls under heavy arrow fire. The rest continue their pointless charge. It’s going to be a disaster. We’re all dead meat.

  And the leader of our temporary guild, the Army of Proximal Sucirema, stands there and watches it all with disgust, arms crossed and face stuck in a permanent scowl. I don’t see him running to join the fight. Though, right now, neither am I.

  “Get out there!” he orders again and, for a blessed second, I stop thinking of how hosed we are. He bares his teeth and drills his stare right into me. “I’m talking to you, Paladin. Use your magic and your heali—never mind. We need more healers!”

  It’s the first thing he’s said all day that makes sense. Having chosen Paladin as my class long ago, I specialize in Strength, Melee Combat, and Magic—the light kind of magic that is capable of healing.

  Barreling out from behind the line of jutting rocks that mark the Northern Sucirema side of the arena, I charge toward the hundreds of fighters who are all caught in a fray of colorful magic and falling bodies. An arrow—probably from an Elf—lodges itself into the ground nearby. As I run, in case the Elf has a few friends on the way, I raise my Shield, with a 30% projectile attack reduction. Other players duck behind short rocks just as magic and arrows rain down on them.

  With my free hand, I bring up a display of my Spells and search the stack of round icons for the top one—Heal. The one I need is a green leaf surrounded by a white star and most frequently used during these pointless battles. Using my eye movements, I highlight each Spell until I reach the icon I need near the top. Then, I turn my attention to the Northern Sucirema fighters ahead, overlaid by green usernames.

  A large group form into a defensive ring as opposing Archers and Casters pummel them with arrows and magic. A few other Paladins try to hold off our enemies with Shields, but our side’s Dwarves and Orcs still take the worst beatings. Health bars deplete at a rapid pace.

  With my eye movements, I direct the greenish-white ring—now on the ground—to surround my guild mates. I nod and the Spell is cast. Health bars rise as my log warns me of how my Mana Pool has dropped by 15%. It’ll regenerate, but not fast enough for a Level 25 Paladin like me.

  The trapped party cheers and lunges for the unsuspecting Distal Sucirema fighters. Green and red usernames mash together as they battle. Two Elves fall, clubbed to death by one of our Trolls. I run to join the fighting, equipping my weapon. My Broadsword reflects the dull light of the overcast sky as I run.

  About half way to the battleground, an arrow bounces off my Plate Armor. My Health bar drops into my line of sight as I take 5% Damage. I spot a dreaded red username to my left and twist toward the Southern Human—an agile type of Human best suited as Archers and Casters. I raise my Broadsword and charge toward my impending death. The woman, DSArcher_228, lowers her bow and dodges, using her superior Speed. With only 19 Speed points on my side, I swing and miss. She fires another arrow. This time I manage to block it with my Shield.

  My only hope of defeating her lies in my Light Blind Spell. It’ll drop my Mana Pool like crazy, but it’s my best shot among all these ranged fighters. She’s within ten meters, right?

  “Come on, Ronin,” I tell myself. “Get this stupid battle done and over with.”

  DSArcher_228 fires at me again, but I block the Damage with my Shield. I sweep my Spells tab open with my sword, and then flick my gaze over the list until Light Blind highlights. I nod to activate it. A star rises from my avatar and brightens, firing white beams at the nearby enemy players. Flashes of pure light surround DSArcher_228 and a few other enemies within a ten-meter radius. When the lights fade, a white glow remains around the enemies, indicating that they’re now blind. A red timer counting down from thirty seconds appears on the Light Blind icon. Cooldown. One of my fellow fighters, a Troll named PSWarrior_56, smashes the archer with three swings of his club.

  “Thanks, Paladin 89!” he booms, baring his fangs at me in what I guess is a friendly smile. It’s always difficult to tell with trolls.

  PSPaladin_89. We Drafted fighters always get handed the most unimaginative temporary usernames. We’re cogs in an international conflict and nothing more.

  A sight snags my vision. Farther up the battlefield, my Healing Spell wears off, leaving the melee party vulnerable. A Dark Elf Necromancer—a class reserved only for players who’ve reached Level 30 and practice Dark Magic—joins the Magic users from the other side. He casts a Spell on nearby corpses—both Proximal and Distal—summoning all the deceased races to rise and turn into greenish zombies. They join the fray, attacking the Proximal fighters. Though zombies fall under melee attacks, there are too many. The Necromancer stands back, black and purple robe swishing in an invisible breeze while watching his minions do his dirty work.

  I almost charge into the fray but remember my Purify Spell, which banishes evil forces around a small area for two minutes. It’ll buy us time. I highlight the Spell with my gaze and nod. But nothing happens. A buzz fills my ears instead.

  Not enough Mana in my Pool. Light Blind sucks down 50% and Purify needs 75%.

  Great.

  My Mana Pool won’t be full again for a full minute.

  Two more arrows bounce off my Shield, but a third strikes my leg. Pressure builds at the injury to let me know. Up ahead, Zombies continue to claw at our fighters. I duck behind a boulder, taking cover until my Mana regenerates. My Health bar also climbs now that I’m out of the fray.

  I peek over the top of my hiding place and watch the carnage. Why won’t PSGuild_Master send out the magical classes? We need them, but he’s keeping them back behind the safety of the rock wall. The authorities from the American Coalition didn’t think before choosing this campaign’s battle leader. But what else is new? The temporary Guild Masters of these international disputes—always solved in-game with fights like these—are the only ones handpicked for fights. All others are Drafted randomly, given stupid usernames, and told to fight the players of other countries to make their governments happy.

  What was this battle even about, anyway? Some border dispute over a canal out there in real life. I heave a disgruntled sigh. At least my Mana is almost at 75%.

  A red, flashing message appears in my log:

  DSNecromancer_42 has cast Mana Drain! 45 Meter Radius. Losing 5 Mana per second. (Duration: 2:00)

  And right on cue, my blue Mana Pool bar plummets.

  I swear. It’s as if the Necromancer senses the Paladins who are ready to counter him with Light Magic. Now I’m only left with melee attacks. Close range stuff. Even without the other Magic users, I have almost zero chance of taking down the Necromancer. He’s at least Level 30, but during these battles, our usernames don’t display our Level. Regardless, I can’t take him down alone.

  PSGuild_Master shouts another command for the magical classes to stay back. His shout is heard throughout the entire guild. Maybe he’s not as stupid as I think. Magic from the enemy explodes around me. Colored balls of light and ethereal eagles from our Trainers sail over my head, crashing into the Distal Sucirema Army. An opportunistic distraction for our
melee fighters to take over.

  And since I need all the help I can get, I’m grateful for the counterattack. I sweep my base stats into my vision and strategize.

  _____________________

  * Strength - 40

  Speed - 19

  Stamina - 24

  Mana Recovery Rate - 20

  Enlightenment - 17

  * Melee Combat - 35

  * Magic - 37

  Stealth - 11

  Luck - 10

  Marksmanship - 22

  Charisma - 15

  _____________________

  I only have enough strength in Melee Combat. My Broadsword has a Purify enchantment perfect to one-hit zombies, which I ready. The Necromancer has done a good job destroying our chances out here. The Spells and magical pets above fade as the magical players on our side run out of Mana. Only the highest levels can cast at a distance. Our Guild Master’s tactic isn’t working so well. My log fills with fallen Dwarves, Orcs, Trolls, and Northern Humans. Raising my sword, with my avatar’s muscular arm, I charge out from behind the rock, a full Health bar intact and one minute more left on the Mana Drain.

  Unfortunately, only a few Proximal Sucirema players remain standing. Nobody respawns in these government-mandated battles. However, some rise as zombies and become the enemy when the Necromancer casts a purple glow around their bodies. I charge at two rising corpses, a Troll and a fallen Elf, beheading them both. That should take care of them. My Broadsword blade glows as I hold it in front of my Shield, slicing at the undead. A few Proximal players join me in cutting down the mindless army, but there aren’t many of us left. Another Southern Human, a buff female called Ranger_432, fights beside me as the walking corpses close in. An avalanche of Distal players charges past us, now a mixture of all classes, and toward the rock wall marking the Proximal territory.

  We’re all doomed, but it’s too late to stop. All I and Ranger_432 can do is continue to hack at the zombies as my log fills with fallen player notices, the majority of them on the Proximal side. Another red message flashes, this time in the center of my vision:

  Proximal Sucirema Army: 100 Players Remaining

  Distal Sucirema Army: 296 Players

  The Ranger groans a curse under her breath. Once the opposing side has three times the players we do, the battle is automatically over. International rules.

  She hacks at another zombie and races for the Necromancer, but it’s too late and no use. The Necromancer sees her and holds up a hand, casting a Life Drain Spell. A purple beam races from her chest as she freezes and her Health bar drops. She falls and the Necromancer faces me with full Health. He stands alone, a purple-skinned Elf with red eyes. A sneer twists over his lips as I cut down two more zombies. I fight alone now and he’s watching me with amusement.

  I raise my sword in a last-ditch effort and race for him, releasing a primal war cry.

  But, as if to mock me, the low blast of a horn announces an end to our battle.

  We’ve lost.

  And now I have no choice but to kneel and surrender in front of this jerk.

  * * * * *

  “None of you did well at your jobs,” PSGuild_Master says, pacing before the eighty players who survived. He drags his bare and hideous green Troll feet while towering over us. “Did you hear me screaming at you?”

  Nobody dares speak. But now I know the real reason why the American Coalition’s government—my country, which stretches from the North Pole through part of Central America—as well as the Southern Coalition’s—most of Central and South America—decided to settle their dispute inside the virtual world of Honorus today. According to PSGuild_Master, the American Coalition dared sail a ship through a canal, cutting across Central America, without paying the hefty tax demanded by the Southern Coalition.

  The nerve.

  We were humiliated over a tax our government has the ability to pay.

  I look up and down our line of assembled fighters.

  “They could have just paid the tax,” I mutter, but catch myself from saying anything further aloud. Now a penalty fee is required in addition to the tax. There are far better things we can do with this game.

  I can’t wait to get out of here and get lost in the world of Honorus. The game is mostly freeplay, with vast fantasy worlds to explore. But once Drafted for a battle—and I’ve been through many—you get transferred to a flat, boring wasteland complete with drill sergeants. Zero gained XP and loot too. The only reward for winning one of these International battles is avoiding punishment.

  All the governments in the real-world care about are ways to make and save more money. And since wars in the mundane world were pricey in the past, all conflicts were moved to a virtual world after signing a treaty. Sounds great, but now that war is easy, anyone can be forced to soldier, whenever. The last real war took place fifty years ago in 2070. People still talk about the days when both soldiers and citizens actually died in horrific wars, blowing sunshine about how lucky we are today. But I disagree. Governments have made its citizens live and breathe pointless battles. And their people don’t realize how they’ve become nothing but pointless tools.

  Guild_Master walks toward my end of the line, speaking. “Enjoy having your paychecks docked for the next two weeks, losers.”

  Now I’m getting penalized for something not my fault. What a great entry into adulthood. How am I supposed to save up for a sweet vacay on a secluded island for when I get released from my servitude? I’m already struggling to squirrel away enough to pay for a fleabag motel on the wrong side of town.

  “Perhaps next time, we will all be better Coalition citizens,” Guild_Master scolds. “This temporary Proximal Sucirema Army is now disbanded. Get out of my face.”

  Armor clanks and bows drag on the ground as players stalk off, disappointment dripping from every move. I walk toward the nearest Portal, a green, swirling light inside a stone ring carved with ancient runes. Pressing a glowing green rune—representing my last freeplay map—I step through the stone. The ground vanishes, and I sail through the ether. A message in my log blinks with my returned username: Ronin_Ironclad. Good. It’s time to blow off some steam and kill a few very unlucky Kobolds.

  Chapter Two

  THE KOBOLD WEAKLING doesn’t stand a chance when a Level 25 Northern Human Paladin swings his sword down onto its head. The short, thin creature crumples under my attack and falls to the snow. A trickle of XP chimes as it enters my Experience Pool. Leaning down, I loot a few arrows from the corpse, which I can sell for a bit of copper. My XP bar climbs at a pathetic rate from killing a bunch of Level 5 monsters. Still, grinding is relaxing compared to the battle over that ridiculous canal tax.

  Ah, the life of a Drafted player. I’m on call at all hours. Compared to this, my real-life job was the bomb. At least I knew I only had to work there for a set time. Since getting Drafted, they removed me from my data entry position and I’m now paid a flat rate from the American Coalition to be on notice. So much for going out on vacations.

  Another two Kobolds, both the blue variety, fire arrows at me from the coniferous tree line. They bounce off my Plate Armor. Equipping my Shield, I march toward the low-level lizards in parkas, not caring that my Shield reduces my Speed by 2 points. The dumb mobs continue to fire, but barely do any Damage. I take both down with my sword and then loot them.

  Just mindless grinding with little reward to help me level up soon. But never mind that. Since the American Coalition gives monetary bonuses to Drafted players who do so, the effort makes me feel like I’m off grid for a while. It reminds me of the old days when I first started playing and the vast world of Honorus was fun, not work. I spent countless hours after school exploring, finding hidden dungeons, joining raid parties, and raising XP for whatever guild I was in.

  Now everything has a purpose. Leveling up doesn’t hold the same appeal it once had. Someone else owns that achievement now. My future can be bought.

  A Level 15 Ice Warg growls while approaching from within the trees. The white beast swipes at my Shield, which blocks the attempted Damage. With four hits from my Broadsword, the beast goes down and dumps more XP into my Pool. I’m up to 610 XP points. I can allocate 1 point to a base stat for every 1,000 XP points gained, and I level up every 10 overall points. Getting Drafted sucked the fun out of that too.