The Conciege
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ROTLE- Chapter 106- A Convenience At Best
🕑 Added 2025-04-04 03:05:19 +0000 UTCMouth open and lungs full to bursting, Valdan let the skill rumble from him like a thousand giants on a stampede. An ear-splitting roar fled his lungs, filling the air like a thousand flies clashing against each other, if flies were like the sounds of crashing waves.
It shook the air and the world around him, took purchase in the heart of the trees and scared the starlight into silence.
[Enraged Roar] was the skill he had gained for reaching level sixty. It was a brute’s skill by all accounts. A man barking into the world was nothing but the action of a brute. A more refined man kept the chaos and noise internally.
But for all of Valdan’s primping and courtly state in the castle, he was a brute at heart, and he knew it. So when he’d gained the skill, it was all but fitting.
He had intended to use [Knight’s Reproach] at the final moment. He was certain Aiden’s final attack would be something enchantment-based. [Knight’s Reproach] was like the [Enchantment of Lesser Madness] Aiden always made sure he had. It gave Valdan greater control of the mana around, cancelling out the effects of others and rendering activated skills nigh useless. It made enchantments almost null and void and was generally bad for those who relied on magic.
But while he had known this, he had failed to anticipate what Aiden’s final move would be until Aiden had activated the enchantment.
So, he had pulled out his trump card—the one skill he owned that Aiden did not know.
[Enraged Roar].
The world shook from the force of the skill and the sound threatened to pierce even Valdan’s ears. He could only imagine what it would do to Aiden.
He had only just begun to imagine it when pain flared in his jaw. His head twisted to the side so terribly that he was sure he heard his neck crack. His brain rattled inside his skull. His legs grew wobbly, refusing his control. Then his world spun very slowly, very dramatically.
In a haze of pain and disorientation, the ground came up to meet Valdan’s face. It smacked him with a heavy thud, bouncing once.
Things grew blurry in the dark.
Valdan’s breathing came quickly, like pants from a jepat starved for water after running all day. Doing his best to calm it and his racing heart, he tried to breathe out of his mouth. But when he moved it, his jaw did not obey. It was slack, hanging loose as if it had been broken. It also stung painfully.
Valdan blinked once, then twice. He blinked some more, faster and more rapidly. He tried to move his body but it didn’t respond. He tried again, only finding success on his third attempt.
He pulled himself to his feet sluggishly. The action was grating. It escaped his mind to note that Aiden was waiting patiently for him. When he finally got up, his legs were still wobbly, trying their best to stay steady. They obeyed none of his commands and simply tried to exist.
Moving his hand to hold up his sword, Valdan realized that he did not have it. His eyes moved in their sockets, seeking it out where he had intended to move his head.
Where is it? He thought.
He didn’t see it, at least not before he saw Aiden standing right in front of him, perhaps three steps away.
Almost within reach, Valdan thought, gauging the distance. Fight’s not over.
Valdan took a step forward. A knight did not simply surrender because he was unarmed. A knight was as much a weapon as the weapon he carried. A scowl contorted his face as his forward step sent him staggering back.
The world swam once more, dizziness ruled his vision. Then the headache came. It was a banging thing, heavy and loud like a heartbeat in his head.
Valdan couldn’t remember the last time he’d had one.
What the…
He’d meant to say the words but they never left his brain. However, ever observant and listening, his interface provided the answer to his unasked question with a notification.
[You have been dealt a powerful blow!]
[You are stunned.]
Oh, Valdan thought, staring at the notification. He couldn’t read it—the words refused to come together properly—but he understood what it said.
He looked from the notification at Aiden.
If his mouth would move, he would have complimented him on the punch. But his mouth would not.
Valdan took another step forward and keeled over.
Aiden caught him before he hit the ground.
“My win,” Aiden’s voice said softly into his ear. “Aiden, one. Valdan, zero.”
Valdan would’ve laughed if he could.
I guess we’re keeping scores now.
His eyes closed and the sweet embrace of unconsciousness took him.
…
The flickering glow of lanterns cast long, wavering shadows across the fabric walls of a tent. It was not a large tent by any design. It was a simple tent. The kind of tent you would find belonging to a simple man. Still, it was large enough to hold a group of men and have some space left.
The scent of burning oil mingled with the damp night air, while beyond the tent’s walls, the faint rustling of the wind slithered through the entire camp.
Within the tent, standing at the head of a sturdy wooden table, Oyedi listened intently, his arms folded over his massive chest. His face, partially cast in shadows while the flames from the lanterns flickered, revealed the slowly growing impatience he was beginning to feel for the men around him.
Around him, his chiefs stood around the table. Their voices were as quiet as voices could be during arguments, hushed but urgent, loud whispers. It was as if they thought to prevent him from hearing their words, even though he was standing at the same table with them. A single map lay spread across the table, its edges held down by simple rocks to prevent it from blowing away.
One of the chiefs, a man with a scar across the right side of his jaw, a mark of his honor leaned forward, his calloused hands resting against the edge of the table. “If we do this, we risk going to war with Terlernor.”
“King Terlernor,” Oyedi grumbled in absent response.
The chief, Mbanu, grumbled. “King Terlernor,” he corrected, unhappily. “We do not want to make an enemy of him.”
Another chief shook his head. “King Terlernor is no concern of ours. An ally he may be to them, he is too far away. Before his armies arrive, we would be done and gone.”
“Nel Quan has a teleportation gate.” Mbanu shook his head. “He can arrive when he needs to.”
“With an army?” Another chief snorted, he was old, having reached level fifty at the age of sixty-nine. “Please be reasonable. Teleportation gates can only take a limited number of people.”
Oyedi stood quietly, eyes fixed on the flickering shadows that danced about the face of the map. He wasn’t even interested in the map.
“And the small town?” Mbanu asked. “Our sources say that it is where he stays when he visits. What would you say to that, Chibot?”
“A convenience at best.” Chibot, the old chief, made a dismissive gesture. “It is the closest town to Nel Quan that is not a part of Nel Quan.”
“We should sack another town,” Mbanu insisted vehemently. He turned to Oyedi. “This is wise council.”
Oyedi said nothing. Every chief thought their idea was wise council. Mbanu was just as easily correct and wrong as the next chief.
A veteran commander, who had climbed his way from the bottom of the hierarchy of soldiers with no father to guide him or mother to love him and no connections to help him, leaned forward. His hand, terribly scarred and missing two fingers, traced a path along the map. “This is the only reasonable place to set up camp in our attack,” he said, addressing the reason for their current meeting. “Any other path increases the risk of defeat.”
It did, in Oyedi’s opinion, but not greatly.
“This is an unreasonable battle,” Mbanu murmured.
Oyedi’s eyes moved over to him very slowly. “You have been saying that since I informed the council of chiefs of my intentions to invade Nel Quan.”
“And it remains my opinion on this.”
“Understandable. Every man deserves to have his opinion.” Oyedi’s voice deepened into something dangerous, just as his father used to speak before a punishment. “But know that the next time you voice that opinion, your life is made forfeit. And that will remain my opinion on this. Understood?”
Mbanu frowned but nodded respectfully. “Yes, my king.”
“Good.” Oyedi turned his attention back to the others. “You may continue your bickering.”
Frowns touched the faces of everyone present at his words. Only the commander with the scarred hand was immune to it. In fact, Oyedi’s words made him smile.
This was the reason Oyedi had invited the man into the war council. He was a soldier through and through. A warrior. When it was time for war, he did not bicker about the morality of it, only about how to win it.
Oyedi needed such men. Oyedi needed warriors.
When no one else spoke, he turned and looked to his back. Standing within the shadows was a young man.
“And what is your opinion on this, Ebube?”
The young man stepped out of the shadows. His steps were quiet as he moved. They belonged to the [Rogue] class not the [Guide].
A few of the chiefs present frowned, but Oyedi ignored them.
“He should not be here,” Chibikeh muttered in annoyance. “They should be prepared for the greater fights, not ours.”
“O’ buroh fight ha,” Mbanu muttered in his local dialect.
The air in the room cracked in a loud boom. It was the sound of thunder as Oyedi’s fist came down hard on the table. When the sound was gone, only silence remained.
Oyedi was younger than a few of the men present. They were chiefs passed on from his father’s time. In a land where age was basically venerated. The older you were, the more respect you garnered. Some of these men had watched him grow up, and now they bowed to him.
Every day he saw the dissatisfaction in their eyes whenever he did not listen to them, like a father who watched his son disobey him in his own house. It was pitiful. Pathetic.
But what could they do? They could try to usurp the throne, but Oyedi was stronger. His father had made sure of it.
So, they couldn’t take him. They could try, but a lot of them would lose their lives. And the kingdom was not ready for another usurper. Killing him would bring nothing but anarchy.
Oyedi looked at each man in the room. They were silent, watching, waiting. On some faces, he saw fear. He knew it, felt it. They had always thought of him as a bit of a volcano waiting to erupt.
Some faces simply held the expression of waiting men. Oyedi was not inclined to make them wait too long.
“Mbanu,” he said very slowly.
Mbanu bowed his head slightly but met Oyedi’s gaze. “Yes, my king.”
“You will not speak in a language that our guest does not understand.” Oyedi gritted his teeth to calm himself. “You will not disrespect our guest. It is not their fight, as you have said. But it is a way for them to train, to practice, to grow. You cannot grow on Nastild without risking your life. This is nature.”
Ebube stood quietly to the side, saying nothing.
“It is natural,” the chief with the scarred hand said. “It is the way.”
Oyedi nodded once. “Now, seeing as he has actually interacted with the people who live there, I believe his opinion matters. Does anyone have an objection to this?”
No one spoke. No one objected. They kept their dismay to themselves.
Oyedi looked back at the boy. “You may speak.”
“Thank you,” Ebube said. He spoke in the general dialect of the kingdom, a tongue everyone, regardless of tribe or ethnicity spoken. “I have been among the people these past few days, spent time with a small family. A brother and his sister, to be precise. I have made something of a friendship with them.”
Oyedi saw some faces change. Mbanu looked pleased.
The fool.
“And what say you, child?” Mbanu asked. “Should we move on to another town?”
Ebube looked at the man as if he was simple. “Why?”
“Why?” Mbanu was startled.
“The town holds a strategic advantage for us,” Ebube said as if he was simply pointing out that the color blue was in fact blue. “Only someone confused would move elsewhere.”
“But you made friends,” Mbanu said.
Ebube cocked his head to the side, puzzled. After a while, he looked at Oyedi. Oyedi saw his request for permission, and he granted it.
“Speak freely.”
“I have made friends of them,” Ebube said, speaking freely. “But you do not sacrifice your life and the lives of people simply because you like your pet, do you?”
Oyedi’s lips stretched into a smile at the horror that crossed Mbanu’s eyes. The man was left in disbelief.
“Good.” Mbanu slapped the table, drawing everyone’s attention back to him. “Now that the matter is settled, we may move on to the threats we face.”
“King Terlernor,” one of the remaining three chiefs, Nedu said. He was tall and lanky. He had the [Spearman] class.
“A problem we have discussed already,” Chibot said, unhappy. “He cannot send enough troops to cause an issue through the portal.”
“And since we don’t intend to occupy Nel Quan once we are done with them, he will have no reason to push his luck to us in Mba-chukwu,” the chief with the scarred hand said. “It takes determination to attack us in our home. The roads are treacherous, and the journey unfair. It would cost him too much.”
“Yes,” Nedu agreed, “but we all seem to forget that he has a one-man army of his own. The man’s very presence could very well turn the tide of this fight if Nel Quan garners his assistance.”
Oyedi shook his head. “The Immortal is not a threat.”
“Are we certain?”
“Terlernor would not so willingly send him away from his company. The man is too paranoid for it.”
“But there are times…”
“The only time the Immortal leaves Terlernor’s side is to claim the [Crystal of Existence],” Oyedi said. “Or the [Heart of Nosrath].” He tapped a finger against his chest. I have the heart. And the crystal will not be making an appearance for at least another year. The Immortal is not a problem we will have to deal with.”
“Only the unwise look to the best and ignore the worst,” Chibot said in a sagely tone. “The wise pray to the gods for the best but prepare themselves for the worst, my king. What happens if the Immortal does make an appearance?”
“Simple.” Oyedi smiled happily and balled his hand into a fist. He thrust his fist into the air in a show of power. “If he makes an appearance, then our battle will be legendary.”
…
Derel spun away from the heat. Jak had used his fire skill again without giving warning. But what warning could be had in this chaos. This wasn’t even a fight worth calling a fight—only a one-sided massacre.
No one stood a chance. In fights, tensions were high, adrenaline filled everyone’s blood, and the blood madness took most people as they took each other’s lives. But this was not like the fights Derel knew. Nine out of the fourteen men who had been chased down were already dead.
Elfa was pinned to a wall by a spear that had run her through the head. Derel could still remember how it had happened. She had been the first of them to die. The spear had come from nowhere, moving with so much speed. Just like that, Elfa was dead. Derel had been planning to finally marry her once they were in the clear, safe from the paranoid king now that the rebellion had failed.
Now she was gone, and a handful of others with her.
Spinning away from the heat, Derel raised his hands and cast a spell. His [Mana manipulation] skill didn’t have a very high mastery, but it was enough to cast the simple spells if he put his mind to it. There were also the spells he had gained as skills by virtue of consistent practice and his class as a [Mage].
[You have cast spell Lightning Strike]
Lightning danced from both hands, scarring his fingertips black. There was a small flicker of pain, ignorable like the pricking of a needle. Then the flash of lightning, white as snow shot through the air. His aim was true, and both streaks struck their assailant square in the chest.
Their assailant stuttered mid-fight as the lightning crackled through him. He wore heavy armor and stood as tall as six feet. Half his armor was painted green while the other half had been left a metallic grey. But most of it was covered in blood now.
As he froze, stuttering for only a slight moment. Edi, who had been in his clutches, stabbed him with a knife. He slipped the blade up into his armpit, finding a chink in his armor.
“Burn!” the old man screamed like a madman as blood from the stab splashed all over his face.
He has the blood madness, Derel noted.
With Edi’s words, a blast of flame exploded from where his knife was still stuck in their assailant. It blasted out, licking against a part of Edi’s face. The old man’s face contorted in pain, but he didn’t seem to care.
Not yet level fifty, Edi didn’t just look like an old man, he also moved like one. He was not as quick as the young, and he spoke carefully. Derel had never seen the man so active as he was right now. But pain and madness and the fear of death would do that to anybody.
Their assailant’s reaction to being struck by a lightning spell, stabbed, and burned from within was completely unnatural. He turned his armored head to Edi and grabbed him by the head with one hand.
Fear ripped through the blood madness, and Edi’s eyes went wide as saucers a split moment before their assailant squeezed his hand.
Derel watched Edi’s head cave in like a popped leather ball. Blood squirted from different parts of his head, spilling from between the fingers of their assailant. Just like that, Derel knew that he would never speak with Edi again.
The old man was dead.
“Jak! We have to go!” Derel barked at his companion. They were now two of the only four people alive.
Their assailant turned and tossed Edi’s corpse. It flew through the air and slammed into Jak who’d been standing near a wall. It was night and dark and those in the village had since perished by the hands of the soldiers the king had sent earlier in the day. Derel had come in with their group to salvage what they could only to find their assailant still waiting in the chaos.
He knew it now, as Jak was pinned to the wall by the corpse of an old friend. This was the paranoid king’s gift to them—a show of power. This was him telling them that they could not hope to win in their rebellion.
Derel refused to accept it. He moved to Jak only to stop himself. Their assailant in his giant armor had crossed the distance in a single step, placing himself right in front of Jak.
Raising his hand from where he was pinned under the weight of Edi’s corpse, Jak used one of the skills Derel had often seen him use. The wall behind him morphed and spikes of clay and brick erupted from it. Five spikes slammed into the assailant. They went through him and he stopped moving right above Jak’s seated form.
Blood spilled from his armor in pools. The man coughed and blood spilled from the visor of his helmet. He reached down and grabbed Jak by the head.
“No!” Jak screamed.
Spikes shot up from the ground and impaled the armored man, stabbing through his armor as if it was made out of nothing but parchment.
Jak died in the same way Edi had, his skull caved in, crushed in an armored grip.
Derel found himself stuck between fighting with the two people that remained or fleeing by himself to inform the others of what had become of them. With Jak’s death, the spikes that had once impaled the armored man retracted back into the wall and the ground beneath. They were gone as if they had never been.
The blood spilling from the man was slowing, reducing. One of the remaining two of Derel’s companions, held his hands out to his side. His name was Vanel, and he was one of the only two members of their information gathering group that was over level fifty. At level seventy-eight, he had gained some level of experience fighting with his manifesting skill.
“Everyone run!” he barked as the world around him exploded in a wave of deep frost. Ice gathered to him in the form of spears that erupted from the ground. The ground was white at his feet in a wide range.
Derenel counted thirteen spears of ice sticking out from the ground. Vanel had the [Spearman] class. His forearms were white with the frost now, and he ripped a spear of ice from the ground.
“Face me, Monster!” he bellowed, holding his spear with its sharp end pointed at the armored man.
Another single step carried the armored man to him. The moment the armored man stepped within the range of Vanel’s frozen grounds, his speed slowed and Vanel ran him through the head. As was the case with his armor against Jak, his helmet gave way as if made out of parchment.
The spear burst out from the back of his head covered in his blood. Vanel abandoned the spear there and ripped another from the ground. With the finesse and speed of a man who had spent his life mastering the spear, he drove it through the opponent’s thigh. Another spear was already in his hand.
Derel didn’t see what happened next. He had already turned and started running. The last member of the group. Janizak was right beside him, eyes rheumy with tears and half-wide with the fear of a near death experience.
They had only gone as far as two buildings before an ice spear ran Janizak through the neck. The man dropped to the ground, clawing at the spear as he drowned in his own blood. Derel reacted immediately. He dove to the side, falling into a roll before coming back up. Fear fueled him but logic was right beside it. Rather than run straight, he ran to the left, then ducked to the right.
As he had expected, a spear of ice zipped past his head and shattered against a wall. Even in that luck, he had no hope. Tears filled his eyes, and he knew his chances of survival were too low.
I won’t make it back, he thought.
As if supported by the universe, pain flared in his thigh, and he fell to the ground. His leg was weak, refusing to listen to him. All there was to it was hot, white pain. He pulled himself along the ground, praying for survival yet knowing that the gods were deaf to his pleas.
Still, he crawled until he heard a snap in the ankle of his good leg. New pain filled his head and he cried out in pain. At level forty-nine, he was weak, useless in this fight.
He turned, looked back at the man who had just broken his ankle by simply stepping on it. The armored man looked back at him from behind a ruined visor.
Behind him, Vanel stood in his domain of frozen spears, propped up by nine of his own spears of ice running through him. His domain of white ice was stained crimson in his own blood. It was a beautifully ugly sight to look upon, a poetic display of despair.
Derel looked back up at his assailant. He opened his mouth to speak only to be cut off by the sound of footsteps.
A soldier stepped out from behind a building holding a rolled up parchment. He walked casually, approaching the armored man in the chaos as if he had simply stumbled upon him during an evening stroll.
In the scene of blood and death, he took a knee next to the armored man.
“A message from the king,” he said.
It was as if Derel did not even exist, and yet, Derel knew that to cast a spell or use a skill was to face certain death.
The armored man cocked his head to the side. “What are his instructions?”
His voice was surprisingly simple. Deep, but no deeper than the normal man’s. There was nothing of the evil he walked with in his voice.
The armored man walked over to Derel’s head and simply stood there, an executioner waiting to bring death upon his victim. Even now, Derel knew that there was nothing he could do to save himself.
“The king,” the soldier said, “has instructed that Sir. Baragon, return to the castle at once. There, he will be presented new armor and weaponry.”
“Where am I to go?” The armored man was looking at Derel.
The soldier’s words were simply spoken. “To Trackback.”
“I see.”
Sir Baragon. The name hit Derel like a boulder.
It made sense now.
The armored man looked down at him as if noting that Derel had just realized who he was.
“Yes,” he said simply, confirming what Derel now knew. “I am him. Now take it to your grave.”
The rebellion was well and truly doomed.
As Sir Baragon’s foot came down on his head, Derel had only one thought in his final moment.
The king had sent the one they called the Immortal to extinguish them from the face of Nastild.
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