7 Chapter 7: Sweet Revenge.
[Physical Conditioning has gone up a level.]
[Strength has gone up a level]
I ignored the game's attempt at motivating me, I was way too busy being mad at myself for doing the single most idiotic, unpleasant and regrettable action I could've possibly done.
"Come on kid! Five more pushups, I know you can do it." The old man cheered for me, sounding genuinely supporting and eager to see me succeed.
"You..you said that…thirty pushups ago." I struggled to speak, each syllable putting a strain on my body.
"And you managed to complete the six previous sets." He nodded with a grin "Didn't think you'd make fifteen, to be honest. But you have the knack to go over and beyond my expectations."
'What, what?' my mind froze, but my body did another pushup bringing a new wave of searing pain to my poor little arms.
[Constitution has gone up a level.]
'Why the fuck did I ask Ector to help me train?' I cursed myself for this terrible, terrible mistake.
The old man was a slave driver, but he'd be so unbearably nice and earnest about it that I could do nothing but grind my teeth and punish my body some more.
It's been like this for two days, ever since I single handedly slaughtered The Fancy's entire crew by weaponizing fruits.
A lot has changed in the last forty eight hours, we went up from lowly insurgents living in fear of discovery to the wretched forty six people stuck in a frigate with only a half a dozen fisherman and a drunk russian as somewhat competent sailors.
It was hard, worrying and we spent quite some time not knowing where in the emperor of mankind's name our ship was heading. But we were free, armed, well fed and had proper sleeping quarters for everyone.
Of course, there was still the matter of the two nerds watching hardcore gay porn in their fancy little cabin. The two cosplayers with psychic powers had sadly received their last 'food delivery', which is nothing but a literal feast, shortly before I terminated their servant's way of life. It availed them three days of opulence, according to Baldy, before they'd ever think of leaving their hole and get close enough for me to poke them with a pointy stick.
And because bad news never comes alone, the Wizarding populace's prevalent holier-than-thou attitude made it unthinkable for them to share the same food as their lessers. No, the men who made a living from touching woods only ate their own private food cooked by their servants.
Which meant no cyanide soup for Darth Virginius and his boy toy.
Not having anything better to do, and still being four days away from our destination which was obviously the closest land we could reach through safe waters. I found myself eager to test the limits of the Game, which culminated in me obtaining one of the most useful skills around.
[ Physical Conditioning lvl 4
Increases the gains in strength and constitution obtained through diligent training by 11.5%]
Since I got it by doing a few pushups and situps, I got too excited to grind it and decided to seek out the closest thing to a gym rat I had who wouldn't tell me to wrestle a bear in the tundra.
Ector.
Boy, did I screw up.
He made me run laps around the deck, play delivery boy without using my inventory, squat so many times my butt felt like mashed potatoes and practiced the basic sword strikes so many times I started dreaming about it.
Sure, I dreamed that I used it on him, but my point still stands.
And of course, he did it with so much benevolence I couldn't even truly be mad at him. Especially when the game made my gains so much more obvious, and so much easier to achieve.
'Status.'
[Arthur Black
Title: Potential Wizard.
Mana Points: 110/110
Strength: 6
Dexterity: 6
Constitution: 8
Magic: 11
Magic Control: E]
I had gained five points in my physical stats, in only two days of pain with a subpar diet and troubled sleep. That was a lot, the extra point in magic was the result of my previous stunt in the kitchen which emptied most of my reserves and almost screwed me over.
'Proof that all the emptying of your magic core lifes-hacks in crappy fanfics is nothing but bullshit, it's quite obvious that people would've eventually noticed such a thing and standardized it.' I thought with a frown, obviously not envious of such an easy way to power. 'Emptying my core would be no different than straining my soul, emptying all the metaphysical juice can't be good for my health.'
Regardless of the limits set by the world, I did obtain a nice collection of skills through my exploration of the game's mechanics. Some of them are too useless to bother remembering, like hair braiding and cleaning which avail me nothing. But many are very interesting, especially if the stories Ector told me are true.
'Skills.'
[Physical Conditioning lvl 4]
[Swordsmanship lvl 4]
[Magic Sensing lvl 5]
[Stealth lvl 6 ]
[Running lvl 4]
[Archery lvl 1]
The unlocking conditions of those skills were surprisingly lax, for example, drawing a couple arrows with a hunting bow was enough to give me the Archery skill. When it comes to leveling up, however, the gains would vary with a multitude of factors.
Having an instructor obviously hastened my progress, but the amount of attention I put on the different drills or the advice I received also affected the grinding.
"My hands feel like much." I sighed, hoping to get some rest.
"Then it's time to run laps!"
'Fuck me.'
. . .
Wizards are glass cannons.
That much is obvious to everyone who ever interacted with one of them. They rely on magic for even the easiest task, turning their bodies into atrophied messes with almost no muscle power.
Hell, Ector once saw a Hitwizard from a noble house squat in the middle of their war camp, take a shit on the flour before vanishing it.
That's the level of laziness we're talking about.
Knowing that, it's not at all surprising to find that wizards essentially come in two varieties; The fat arses unable to run if their life was on the line, and the skinny ones so light and weak they'd die at the slightest fall without their magic somewhat preserving them.
That was true of all the noble scions, hitwizards, field marshals, councilmen and other wand rubbers Ector has met. From my knowledge of Rowling's more…peaceful, rendition, and my own experience with the two ponces of House Avery, I had no reason to disbelieve him.
I also knew they could disappear in seconds, stop arrows and cannonballs with a flick of their wand or reshape the very land to suit their needs.
This much information was far from ideal, but I could work with it…for now.
We were dealing with an enemy with almost nonexistent mobility, fighting prowess or resistance but who was able to transform into war machines if given a single moment of respite.
Or god forbid, preparation time.
They were essentially pawns, one move away from becoming queens.
I could spend days finding an exceedingly fancier way to describe our most important problem, further detailing every single way they could lay waste to our forces and ruin all I've achieved, voiding my second chance at life. However, it would avail me nothing.
The real question is much simpler, yet infinitely more troublesome.
How do we deal with such a formidable enemy?
. . .
3rd Person POV:
Two months ago, The Most Noble House of Avery had commissioned it's mighty ancestral vessel, The Fancy, to sail the North sea in order to protect the House's interests and undertake a highly important business venture amongst a major foreign holding.
By the words of Marshal Belligeram, in the name Lord Athanasius Baltazar of Avery; a crew of two hundred man had been commandeered from the House's finest privateers, lead by Herpocles the lesser, learned Wizard of the house and his apprentice, Timmithus the sixth.
Or at least, that was the official narrative.
The reality couldn't be more different, and Herpocles was well aware of that. This whole trip was nothing but a giant farce, a clean and good looking way to get rid of him without losing face.
Sending a two hundred years old erudite with a mastery in ritual magic onto the sea like some common hitwizard…that was utter lunacy.
Further burdening him with a useless apprentice, a brat from a branch family whose magic was so frail that paying for his admission was deemed a waste, was entirely unnecessary. He was already humiliated beyond measure, why did they have to curse a dead man's body?
'All this because of a tiny little flaw in my empowerment ritual.' He lamented, seeing his so-called apprentice mess up the creation of a damned Bezoar.
How was he supposed to know that his mesopotamian ancient rite would end up overwhelming the receptacle's own magic, shattering it's limits in an instant resulting in a particularly impressive event of spontaneous combustion?
It's part of the beauty of experimental magic! So what if a couple idiots got burned to death, turned to stone or devoured by infernal creatures? They were sacrificed for the noble cause of magical advancement, paving the way for great men like him to create the spells of tomorrow.
They didn't seem to mind him using a couple mudbloods for his experiment, even when he did end up summoning a daemon. He was hailed as one of the great minds of the house's history, he ate at the Lord's table, he was cajoled and appreciated for his achievements and the glory he brought to his family.
Everything changed with one little experiment.
Another pompous houseman came to annoy him, demanding that he perform a magic potency ritual on his sorry arse.
He had the audacity to order him around, HIM, Herpocles the lesser, winner of three Flammel's prizes second class in the categories of Rituals and Forgotten Magicks.
He couldn't let this slide.
The old ritualist only did what he was asked, was it really that important if he used an obscure, untested ritual found in an ancient babylonian ziggurat? Heirs apparent weren't that important, were they?
The ruling Lord didn't share his opinion, arrogant foul that he was. Of course he couldn't just kill him, he was a hundred years too early to ever hope to defeat the older, more skilled wizard.
Nor could he order his men to do it, such a display of weakness wouldn't go without consequences. Especially when it ends up costing the House one of their greatest assets, ickle Athanasius would've ended up deposed in a week.
So he did the next best thing, and sent Herpocles in a glorified banishment to the House's holdings in Iceland with the worst crew they had with what might just be the dumbest orders in the history of Britain.
'Protect the House's property, and secure more ressources.' Sounded like a perfectly viable command. But when you remember that he had barely a hundred filthy no-maj, with fifty more waiting for them, it starts looking pretty ugly.
But it wasn't enough, of course. He had to be sent to one of the most contested, troublesome and violent lands in the magical world.
There were Danish warbands, Nordic raiders, rival British houses, native barbarians, the highest concentration of magical beasts and wildlands north of the Isles and the situation there seemed to get worse day by day.
It was obvious to Herpocles that he had to find a solution. He'd call up some favors, pull a few strings here and there and he'd be back in Britain in less time it'd take to say 'Conspiracy'.
There was no way in Hel he'd ever try and take on innumerable dangers for the sake of a man he hated if he had a following of trained Hitwizards, let alone an incompetent disciple and a horde of disgusting no maj.
'Filthy rats, too useless to follow a damn schedule.' He thought, leaving his cabin with a mind full of punishments for the worms who made him wait.
"Fire." He heard a youthful voice say.
What? Who's kid is that?'
Before he could even comprehend what was happening, he felt his body falling on his back. His blurred vision could see nothing but the wooden ceiling, the sound of pierced flesh resonated in his mind while he struggled to understand what in Morgana's fine breasts was happening.
By the time he took in the situation, the pain sent him into a spasming frenzy as he tried in vain to crawl back to his cabin. He did not think, did not speak, didn't even consider fighting back as he reverted to a mindless, instinct driven creature.
So died the man who spent his entire life seeking forbidden knowledge, bleeding out on the floor and ignorant of what caused his own demise.
He did not live to see a young child rush into his cabin, charging his useless meatbag of a disciple who still had his hands stuck in the stomach of a goat. But he would've been happy to see him getting sucker punched by a seven year old, who then proceeded to beat him up with the pommel of his sword until he lost consciousness.
. . .
Arthur POV
How do we deal with such a formidable opponent?
Easy enough, you take the pawn before it transforms. All it took was a well timed surprise attack, we knew when he'd run out of food, knew where they were hiding while they didn't even consider our existence a threat.
Wizard or not, Darth Virginius couldn't take a dozen arrows and crossbow bolts and live to tell the tale. Soy boy was even easier, the idiot was busy sexually harassing a dead goat.
I took the liberty to avenge my bruised ego, intent on making him faint without using any magic stick. My small body did make it harder, and more painful for him, but in the end I stood triumphant.
I quickly ordered him to be bound and sent to cells with baldy, not forgetting to store his wand in my inventory. Doing the same with the late Darth Virginus, I found that my most pressing issue was now the organization of proper celebration.
Yes, I had a force to consolidate, a mad wizard's lair to investigate and a wanded spellcasting to learn. Not to mention whatever hell Ector will put me through once he judges my swordsmanship good enough to start sparring.
'For now, it's time to party.'
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Author Note:
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New chapter! Enjoy!
It seems the Stuck In The Ship arc is about to end, Arthur has eliminated every threat abroad, or did he? Now that they no longer have a common enemy, will his men stay loyal? Will Timithus and Baldy channel their inner Arthur and enact some grandiose escape plan?
We'll say that in the next chapter of HP: War Games, so stay tuned.
Goodbye!
