The First Great Game (A Litrpg/Harem Series)

Chapter 139: Moderate Apologies

Blake’s Dreamwalking attempt was a bust. He’d lost all track of time in the underground world, and assumed it was nowhere near nighttime. He was tired almost randomly and never quite sure if he should sleep, a bit like suffering from perpetual jetlag. But since he was on his own and with very little to do, eventually he just closed his eyes and slept.

Ilya woke up sometime later, apologizing and telling him the chiefs were gathering their warriors and it was time. He ate a little dry mystery meat and the ever-present mushrooms—which seemed like bread or rice to these orcs—then splashed off in the stream and got ready for a day of warping minds.

As usual the streets were quiet, though plenty of orcs shuffled along the sides, ignored by the occasional patrolling warrior. Ilya and Blake were just two more in the long procession, and faced no more scrutiny as they walked to the orc ‘pub’.

Then Blake was at his table, orc warriors shuffling in to answer his questions and get Mind Control planted in their minds—Blake’s growing army of sleeper cell killers. He was getting a little bored, to be honest, and felt his eyes glaze a little as he settled into the now familiar pattern.

Had he done fifteen? Or was that sixteen? He’d lost count but supposed it didn’t matter. When his mana was low he’d call an end to it whatever the number, and they’d pick up again the next day. How many did he really need?

Was it the full 200? More? Frankly he didn’t have much of an actual plan besides numbers. The king would have his own loyal warriors, but hopefully they could get him relatively isolated…

Then the question was: how many of his own warriors could this ork king kill? And how easily could he just turn around and flee?

Blake would have to figure out how to trap him. When and where to lure him and make the strike. He wondered if they had some kind of ‘forum’ where he might be surrounded and stabbed to death Caesar style…

It was this thought in his mind as he planted his 17th or 18th Mind Control, and the non-descript, completely ordinary orc warrior he was dealing with screamed, grabbed at his temple, then shoved a knife into Blake’s chest.

For a long moment Blake just looked at the several inches of metal jabbed into his flesh. It didn’t really hurt, but he felt light headed and almost…blank. He supposed that was something like shock.

Chief Terzog and Ilya leapt on the still-screaming orc and pulled him away. He was thrashing and shaking like he was having a stroke, screaming and screaming until Terzog finally cut his throat.

The pain had started now. Blake gasped and stood, the knife still in his chest. He could breathe, but there was certainly something…wrong.

Guards were shouting in the street now. Blake could hear them demanding to know what all the noise was about, one coming closer to the door. Terzog moved to intercept, saying something about a bar fight and how it was all settled now.

Ilya was more or less holding Blake up, her eyes wide and staring at the knife. Somewhere in the back of Blake’s mind he heard a little voice that said ‘don’t pull it out’, so he didn’t, but mostly seemed unable to function anyway.

Is that my blood? He looked at a small trickle at the edge of the knife. I’m bleeding.

The guard finally pushed past Terzog. He clomped down the stairs and found Blake and Ilya, looking at the knife with something like scorn.

“Fools. There’s no fighting by order of the king. Get him out of here.”

“We will,” Ilya nodded gratefully. “I’ll take him home, we don’t want any trouble.”

Then the guard turned his head, and found the dead orc stuffed in the corner. He drew a much longer blade.

“Murderers go up the tower. You’re coming with me. All of you. Now take out that knife and…”

Blake did indeed take out the knife. With Telekinesis. Then sent it streaking straight into the guard’s throat.

Then they were both gasping. Blood poured out of Blake’s chest and he and Ilya held his shirt to the wound and pushed.

“We have to get out of here. Now.” Ilya’s eyes were wild with fear as she led him up the stairs.

“I’ve been stabbed,” Blake said to no one in particular, still surprised and vaguely appalled. He had to breathe a little harder as they walked and nearly doubled over with pain.

Terzog was growling and whispering quickly about more guards and scattering.

“Do you have a safe place?” he said. “I have warriors close if we have to kill the guards…but if anyone sees us…”

“We can make it,” Ilya said, then met Blake’s eyes. “You have to walk to our place. Can you do it?”

He nodded, not wanting to speak. Then they stepped out and he knew they were fucked. Half a dozen guards were coming from the direction they needed to go, some passerby gesturing and pointing towards the ‘pub’.

Ilya turned Blake the other way without missing a beat.

“I have a friend in the lower warrens,” she whispered. “We’ll go to her. You have to keep walking.”

Blake remembered he wasn’t in some shady downtown metropolis. He was in the apocalypse with magic powers, and he blinked and focused on his Psionic Physiology, cranking it entirely to physical.

His steps instantly got easier, his breathing slightly less ragged.

“Good,” Ilya was saying. “You’re doing good. We’re going to make it.”

Then a guard shouted in their direction.

“You there! Stop! Come here and tell us what happened.”

Ilya and Blake did not stop. Soon there were heavy footsteps behind them as at least one and maybe two guards were following them down the wall. There was no chance of outrunning them.

Blake activated Telekinesis, seized several oil lanterns from the nearby walls, and threw them at the guards.

Fire burst and spread instantly. At least one guard covered in flames, the other trying to douse him as people everywhere started screaming and running away. Blake sagged into Ilya, breaking her out of her surprise and helping him along.

They turned down a tunnel ‘street’ cut into the nearest wall, heading deeper into a busy gloom still packed with cloistered orc life. Blake was feeling more and more light headed. And cold. He knew he was losing too much blood.

“We’re close,” Ilya said as if sensing him weaken. “A little further. I have healing magic…maybe…I know the spell, but…”

She just trailed off, but Blake didn’t have the strength to answer or encourage her. The next few minutes were a blur. They moved through a series of tents like an orc shanty-town, then burst through into one as Blake staggered and went down.

“Ilya?!” Another female orc’s voice. The tent was too dark and Blake was too out of it to see her. They went back and forth saying words Blake hardly heard or cared to understand, all his will spent on staying conscious.

He didn’t know if Mind Veil would continue if he passed out. It worked while he slept, he knew that. It shouldn’t be different, should it? But it might be. It very well might.

“What have you done, Ilya?” the voice was saying.

“There’s no time. I have to heal him. Keep everyone out. Please help me. Please, Ferrah.”

Silence. Long and tense.

“You have tonight. But never ask me for anything again.”

Then the voice was gone, and Ilya was standing over Blake with closed eyes as she chanted. He activated Mental Influence and gave her a shot of Confidence. It was the last thing he remembered.

* * *

Blake wandered in the dark. He saw strange images flickering somewhere in the distance, and tried to move closer. But his side hurt, and soon he just stopped and panted. Where was he? Oh yes. In some terrible dungeon. Alone. Maybe dying.

It was a strange concept and hardly seemed possible. He was him, after all. Blake Nimitz. He didn’t get stabbed by some random orc for no apparent reason except maybe a spell gone wrong.

Then he looked and saw a gaping wound in his side. But hadn’t it been closer to his chest? Anyway it looked too perfect, too artificial. And there was no blood now. Only little white and black floating things that looked like text, or numbers…

“Am I dying, or dreaming?” he muttered. But he supposed he wasn’t sure exactly what the difference was. Then he blinked as something formed in the darkness—huge and round and maybe grey with little splotches of white. He realized it wasn’t a circle, but an orb, and it was covered in something like…eyes, or maybe screens. It watched him, just as he watched it.

[Hello Blake Nimitz] thrummed a voice like a musical instrument. [Severe apologies. Admin attention triggered by: Title of Alpha Tester; proximity to death; and unusual traits. We regret to inform you: a subsystem has interfered with the Great Game.]

Blake blinked, trying not to be terrified and horrified by the giant…thing’s presence, and to understand what the hell he was hearing. A kind of cold dread infected his senses as he began to realize this was ‘real’, in some very frightening sense. This was happening. This was roboGod.

“Interfered,” he said, licking his lips. “You mean the orc king, don’t you. The locked down dungeon. That wasn’t supposed to happen. It didn’t seem at all…fair.”

[Accurate], thrummed the black world all around him. [Disobedient subsystem: pruned. Interference: regrettable. Unconfirmed: non-repetition in future.]

Unconfirmed…non-repetition. Was it saying this kind of shit might continue?

Great, Blake thought, just fucking great. RoboGod was apparently janky and malfunctioning and bloody hard to talk to, despite making biological robots that could communicate just fine. What the hell was humanity even dealing with?

[Difference in intelligence: difficult to translate directly] intoned the voice—a little defensively, Blake decided, as it apparently read his mind. [Malfunction: incorrect. Subsystem: disagreed.]

“Well since you…er, one of you, interfered.” Blake licked his lips. “It seems only fair for you to remedy the situation. Unlock the dungeon, maybe. Heal me up. Hell, why not just send me back home? Least you could do, I’d say.”

[Feedback: received. Feedback: rejected. Moderate apologies.]

“Rejected?” Blake blinked, getting a little angry now, for all the good he knew it would do him. “Let me get this straight…your underling makes me a special death trap. You find out about it, but you won’t do anything? That about right?”

[Assessment: Inaccurate. Action: We informed you and apologized. Action: we will correct the interference with your seventh level.]

“Oh well thank you, that’s wonderful. It just so happens my seventh level power is actually the reason I’m not dead. So, maybe just leave that alone thanks. Will your apology prevent me from bleeding out all over the floor? Or keep whatever monstrosity your interferer produced from tearing me apart?”

[Secondary interference: would not eliminate primary interference.] The voice changed slightly, becoming almost…human. [Two wrongs do not make a right.]

Blake snorted and shook his head, thinking ‘then fuck off’ before reminding himself roboGod read his thoughts as easily as he spoke them. He had to calm down. He had to guard his mind more carefully. He’d made the decision long ago not to feel sorry for himself, not to be weak, not to be a victim in the face of a world that didn’t give two shits about a little boy born to a crack addict.

This was no different.

He cast it all away into the fire of ambition—the burning white contempt in his soul for everything that wasn’t him and his. Since he was five years old Blake had refused to give up, to die, to fail to overcome whatever horse shit the world was spewing.

He shook his head and pushed it all away and laughed. Life was a comedy, not a tragedy.

“Fine.” He gestured at his side. “I’m going to survive this. Ilya’s magic will work, and I’ll talk my way out. Then somehow I’ll make enough of their warriors mine to kill this king. Frankly it’s all a little boring already. So if you’ve got any other problems I can clean up for you, just let me know, I expect I’ll have at least a little free time.”

RoboGod said nothing for a long time. Finally the orb thrummed, and the darkness shimmered and faded, and Blake’s chest was on fire as blinding light assaulted his senses and body from everywhere all at once.

[Conclusion: we are rooting for you, Blake Nimitz. We truly are.]

Blake had many unpleasant things he would have liked to say. But he didn’t see the point. The only way to earn this thing’s respect was no doubt the way you did it with every other powerful thing: You got dangerous. And then you broke the rules.

But in the meantime he was tired of his thoughts being read, or manipulated as it had been with Seul-ki. He felt suddenly as weak and malleable as all these other people he manipulated, just as this artificial god manipulated him.

The answer to being fucked over wasn’t asking the asshole to stop. You didn’t whine and complain and say ‘oh it’s just not right you shouldn’t have done that’ because if they cared they wouldn’t have done it in the first place.

You just stopped them.

Blake created an imaginary fire, then threw all his thoughts to burn one by one, until nothing was left but empty darkness. When he was sure there was nothing but the blood in his veins and the air in his punctured lung, he repeated the same words, over and over, probably just for his own amusement: read this.