The Heart is a Void: Ashes to Ashes - Chapter 119: Opposer

Chapter 119: Opposer

Crucis looked over the maps that Sharak had annotated for DicingDevil, and took some notes. He saw the waterfall which Duom had mentioned, as well as a few bosses and a large tomb to the North-West of Kruxol.

He guessed that the tomb was filled with undead, because, well, it was a tomb in an MMO.

After the war, the Kruxol area was probably the safest place to voyage into the wild. Most players were quite low-level, and he was currently at peace with DeathGang. However, since this area was low-level, it was useful to take a note of the levelling opportunities and notable locations nearby so that he could avoid falling off the pace in terms of levelling.

Meanwhile, the ability to explore freely and bleed materials from low-level spenders made this more profitable for him as a solo player than heading to higher-level areas in the West.

“I suppose you’re about ready to go now,” Sharak said to the group. “How did you find our place?”

“I was impressed,” DicingDevil said. “You and Fahiz speak much more fluently than most others from here, since the rest tend to be a bit stilted. And the work of these automatons is more advanced than most of the [Light Novel] stuff that enemies drop.”

“Yeah,” Crucis said. “I found one Light Novel, it was like, a bunch of students trying to become OP swots to level up their class or something. These automaton works are much better.”

“No doubt. And I see that some of you have gained levels from this, which is probably a help.”

“Yeah, it’s always nice to find quests in places like this,” DicingDevil said. “Here, we found a few, and with decent rewards.”

“Excellent. As far as the Light Novels you mentioned, they are terrible, and it’s a pity if you had to deal with them. Those Light Novels are typically written in the same way: a sequence of sanitised dramas chained together. I don’t know why people bother reading them, honestly, when we have so many real dramas that are less insubstantial. And with your people, that’s even more true. If someone says something even vaguely controversial, then often plenty of people will take it as a cue to have a meltdown, or go into hysterics, often causing instant drama. There isn’t some kind of shortage of drama that requires being plugged by Light Novels or webnovels.”

“It’s not surprising,” Fahiz said. “The Simpleton does not know much about the Dragon, but only the tremours of the Dragon’s presence. Controversy and drama arise from elsewhere, but simpletons wish for a diluted, domesticated form of their own. After all, what does the dead man know of life but a futile stirring? Nothing. And so such novels create a sequence of faux-drama, less impressive than simply putting two cats in a room. As Kierkegaard said in a more sanctified context, ‘the rock of offense and object of faith has become a most charming fairy‑story character, a kind of divine good old man. People have not the remotest idea of what it means to be offended by him, and still less, what it means to worship.'”

“That’s true. And one of the worst parts of such light and genre fiction novels is that they are used to make the lives of common idiots feel more meaningful. Readers live through the main character as a surrogate, and without any change in their real existence they are elevated to heroic protagonists of their own trivial stories. Every simpleton’s life becomes a hero’s journey, the hero’s journey becomes a cloak behind which the reader can hide from the demands of the intellect. If everyone has their own story, they can all retreat into dullard myopia.”

“Yes, but you cannot pander properly to dullards if you are not yourself a dullard. For if they sniff out a hint of intelligence, then they will come braying in rage. Perhaps they value ’emotion,’ but in truth they only value it insofar as it is not the intellect. There can be no worth to such stories, then.”

“And can such a story have articulation, does not the flood of the plot and moral overwhelm the dams of its individual elements?”

“Of course,” Crucis said. “Does providence not leave life destitute?”

“A good analogy, thank you. Anyway, are you all ready to leave? Feel free to stretch a bit before leaving.”

“Would you like help with moving these chessboards back?” DicingDevil said.

“No, that’s fine,” Sharak replied. “That’s what skeletons are for, after all. But, now that you mention it, I should probably place the books back into the shelves.” He waved to Crucis. “Since you helped me bring them out, would you mind helping me put some back?”

“I’d be fine with that,” Crucis said.

There weren’t as many books to move this time, so Crucis quickly carried them into the room. Sharak pointed out where the books should be kept. While Crucis placed the books in, Sharak finished with his own pile and walked back out to join the group.

As he placed the books back in place, he overheard the conversation of the group outside the room.

“By the way, do you two have any knowledge about the Kruxol Arena?” Danemy asked Fahiz.

“Specifically? No, it’s too recent,” Fahiz said. “But we do know a bit about the Arena format, which might be helpful.”

“Alright,” DicingDevil said, seemingly not fond of the topic. “It might not matter, probably the same guys will just win again this time.”

“It might be slightly more awkward for them this time,” Crucis called out. “The Hashin have it out for them.”

“Really? That explains why I haven’t seen them venture out of Kruxol much. It’s surprising, you’d think they’d at least want to go out and collect resources for their Arena weapons… But they were under-levelled last time, and still won comfortably, I doubt we’ll have a chance.”

“Are you going to be teaming up with Darys? Could be a pretty strong team.”

“It could, but you’d be surprised at how tough that competition is. Plus we’re used to PvP in the wild, so this kind of organised stuff isn’t our specialty.”

“Yeah, we’re not winning, but I hope you can at least beat the last winners,” Akshel said. “They deserve it.”

“It’s a pity, it would be a nice trophy,” DicingDevil laughed.

“Don’t get hung up on it, your skills at navigating and fighting out here are ultimately more valuable,” Sharak said. “It doesn’t matter that there’s no trophy for it. Some people are simple enough that, if they climbed to a mountain peak and looked down, they would protest that they couldn’t be at the mountain peak because it had no finial to mark it. They’d ignore the experience of the peak, and instead protest that it can’t be the peak if they don’t get trophies or certificates for it. Those who would primarily seek trophies, accolades, plaudits, when they pursue a path, do not clearly see the path. They are like drunkards with blurred vision. So also those who seek a meaning of life, or a moral, like a standard flown to mark the end.”

Sharak consulted briefly with Fahiz before continuing. “Anyway, while winning it could be a tall order, we could give you some decent advice that might improve your chances. Would you be interested?”

The last book slotted back in place.

As he walked back, Crucis decided that he might as well test out the [Arbitrate] skill which he had picked up from here earlier. It could be useful on the way back, if it allowed him to move faster out of combat. He activated the skill as he approached the door.

However, instead of moving faster, he found that his movement had slowed to a crawl. Further, his motion seemed to lag significantly, making it difficult to move forwards. His hand only moved in small, occasional increments by his side, as if it was being tied back and having to struggle its way forwards by force. As he slowly made his way out of the room, he noticed that nobody seemed to realize that he was there.

He couldn’t hear the conversation any more, since during this lag it had faded into a blurred mass of noise.

Frustrated with the slow walking, he looked around the building. The columns next to each door in this building seemed to be adorned with poems and literature, written into spaces between the decorations. One of them was decorated with a pattern of intertwining red and violet spirals, with a thin white eye shape painted at around eye-level. Inside the eye, the following passage was written in white.

“The swans are singing again,” said to one another the gods. And looking downwards, for my dreams had taken me to some fair and far Valhalla, I saw below me an iridescent bubble not greatly larger than a star shine beautifully but faintly, and up and up from it looking larger and larger came a flock of white, innumerable swans, singing and singing and singing, till it seemed as though even the gods were wild ships swimming in music.

“What is it?” I said to one that was humble among the gods.

“Only a world has ended,” he said to me, “and the swans are coming back to the gods returning the gift of song.”

– From ‘The Return of Song,’ by Edward J.M.D. Plunkett.*

After about 40 seconds, he could finally move normally. The voices of the others became clearer as well.

“The Arena crams six players into each fight, without a particularly large area,” Sharak was saying. “It might seem like there’s a reasonable amount of space, but if you’ve entered a fight you’d know that the space is quickly exhausted by the players fighting.”

DicingDevil nodded.

“It’s hence typically a sharp fight, since both sides are quite vulnerable and find it difficult to shelter from attack,” Sharak continued. “Further, since fights don’t go on till 0% HP, but stop well before that, they end faster than normal ones. This means that it’s important to take priority, to strike before the opponent attacks you. As Assassins, you might not be able to sneak up on opponents as easily as in the wild, but you can still use your invisibility and other skills as an offensive weapon to ensure you start an attack on the opponent before they can strike you.”

“If it’s a small area, then won’t Dicing have a good shot at most opponents?” Crucis said. “He’s Ariston, so it sounds like it would suit him.”

“Definitely, yes.”

“Huh, didn’t see you come here,” Akshel said to Crucis. “That’s some good stealth right there.”

“I saw him in the other room just a couple of seconds ago,” Danemy said. “No wonder he ganks people, if he ambushed them they’d never see it coming.”

“Thanks,” Crucis said. “But it’s easy to overlook stuff when we’re all tired.”

“Yeah, that’s true.”

Crucis thought about the effect of [Arbitrate]. Seemingly, there was a bug with the move, and instead of speeding the player up it caused the game to lag. Maybe it was functioning as something like a built-in lag switch? While he experienced lag, other players didn’t seem to notice his movements until the lag had subsided. According to Danemy’s statement, Crucis appeared in his original position to other players as he walked, and then appeared suddenly – as if teleporting – at his destination.

This could leave him vulnerable if he used the move in a combat situation, since he would effectively just be stuck at his original position until the lag period ended. However, it could also be highly effective in the wild, or if he took cover before using [Arbitrate]. He could sneak up on an opponent without them knowing that he was there until it was too late. More importantly, it would also keep him slightly safer in the wild, since he could typically find a way out if another player had him pinned in.

The group began preparing to leave, with DicingDevil unfurling a map to make sure that he had memorised the directions correctly. Crucis saw that DicingDevil had drawn a dotted line demonstrating the path they would take back to Kruxol, probably with the help of Sharak. Grisier took a jug of water from Sharak as a gift, and kept it on hand in case there was any combat on the way back. A few members of the group paced back and forth to loosen up.

Stretching his limbs, Crucis began to look across the columns, and saw that most of them had some form of writing across them. The decorations were quite varied, with some decorated with recurring patterns, a series of totem-like paintings across one column and a painting of a waterfall on another. One column he noticed had a vine-like green pattern coiled around it and rising up, thick at the top and bottom but leaving white space in the middle which looked like it should contain writing but did not as yet. Most columns, however, contained poem extracts of some sort.

On every wind that blows I hear

The silent music of thy voice,

And, while my steps pursue my way,

My wandering heart still keeps pace.

On every leaf that falls I feel

The touch of thy skin, and thy breath

As softly blowing on my hair;

And, while my steps pursue my way,

My wandering heart still keeps pace.

– ‘Lentissimo,’ by Ramiz Shapovju.

No hymn rings out in the suffocating

Wake of its flames, and yet it needs none:

Its sky-borne terror is recorded in ash

Where the earth itself has perished.

Weeping and gnashing of teeth bray out,

Like an orchestra of mules —

O, merchant mourner, will you not rest, but reap

Tears from each death,

As if to wrest profit from the void?

Six million funerals are turned to ash,

And the fire whirls without sign of rest.

There is no shelter that will hold,

And judgement will be done.

– ‘The Phoenix,’ author unknown.

Therefore, though I long to whisper in thy ear,

And speak my grief,

I dare not, lest my grief be anew increased,

In echoing across the elegant noose of your ear,

And my sorrow beckon my death.

– ‘Love Left Me Hollow,’ by Benjas.

Yet in a circle pallid, as Icarus flew

by this bright sun, that cast its wan display —

roll’d from the sands, and half the buds of snow —

and calmly on him would infold away.

– ‘Wildest Dreams,’ author unknown.**

…though I wept and tore myself in words,

You heard them in peace, and so they become affectations.

You roam fields of gold, which I barely know

In my hopelessness, and you may soon find love,

And your life bloom brilliantly,

Even as my heart wasted away thinking about you,

Lost in yearning – I dissolved as you increased.

Thus, Laura, you shall never be a poet,

But you will still be crowned in another’s laurel.

And I hate you more than life itself.

– ‘An Old Tale,’ by Pitar.

At the head of the church where I saw you,

A crucifix stood at the altar,

And all would stare upon it in reverence —

O Laura!

Instead of taxing my pen and heart, why not rest

Your head on those beams and hang upon the cross,

Embracing the golden crown of the chancel

As your own, thus best to ensure your fame?

– ‘Missionary Position,’ by Pitar.

“I see you’ve noticed the poetry decorating our columns,” Sharak said.

“Ah, yes,” Crucis said. “It’s integrated into the design quite well. It’s quite elegant, and the poems are impressive.”

“Ah, the aesthetic element is only accidental. Their true purpose is as wards, to scare away dilettantes and the effectively illiterate.”

“A wise decision. How come one of these is currently blank?” He pointed to the column he had seen before.

“We’re planning to fill that with a poem. After reading the poems by David Park Barnitz, I figured that this one might be a good fit for that column.”

PRAYER***

IN TIME OF PLAUGE

Holy Pestilence, holy Pestilence, gird thee with might,

Holy Pestilence, come thou upon them, come thou at night,

Holy Pestilence, put on thy mantle, put on thy crown,

Holy Pestilence, come on the cities, come and strike down,

Holy Pestilence, let them all perish, touch’d with thy breath,

Holy Pestilence, let them grow rotten, moulding in death,

Holy Pestilence, put on thy garments, a crown on thy head,

Holy Pestilence, let all the nations fall at thy tread,

Holy Pestilence, let them all perish, let them be dead.

Holy Pestilence, then shall the cities sink with thy might,

Holy Pestilence, they shall lie desert, plague-struck at night,

Holy Pestilence, then shall the rulers, crown’d with a crown,

Holy Pestilence, feeling them stricken, reel and fall down,

Holy Pestilence, then shall the nations faint with thy breath,

Holy Pestilence, then shall the valleys be cover’d with death,

Holy Pestilence, peasant with ruler, body with head,

Holy Pestilence, all shall be stricken under thy tread,

Holy Pestilence, all shall be rotten, all shall be dead.

“Quite a good poet,” Crucis remarked. “I don’t see why not. I’m sure that plenty of people will die in the months to come, so it would help to set up an appropriate ambience.”

“Precisely,” Sharak replied. “In fact, this poet has impressed me, and I’m sure that reading his works will benefit the automatons. If you want, I can send it to you through the library after this.”

“That would be fine.”

“Anyway, looks like you guys are on your way.” Sharak began to address the group as a whole. “Hope we see you again.”

“Thanks,” DicingDevil said. “It’s a bit chilly out here, it was nice having somewhere to rest.”

“No problem. Your route should be fine, I think you picked it out quite well, so good luck.”

The group queued up through the door.

After a brief stop at the settlement, where Crucis picked up some high-quality tools for Blacksmithing and Crafting, the group got onto their Mounts and rode off towards the site of the mink dens.