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TO&FQ: Book 2 - Chapter 3 (RAW)
🕑 Added 2025-01-24 04:48:48 +0000 UTCBook 2: Chapter 3 - Abattoir
"Tragedy springs from the mortal struggle against the inevitable—sickness, strife, and the certainty of death. Comedy, however, arises from the absurdity of our own pursuits, as we are blinded by love, consumed by greed, ruled by lust, and deceived by the illusion of power."
- Attributed to the playwright Vlan di Panoli.
Well before they reached the base of the winding stairs, Seraphina and Frest quietly stowed their Zajasite stones in Frest’s satchel. The faint, ghostly glow of the stones vanished with a soft, plunging them into near-total darkness. The moss on the walls glowed a sickly green, barely able to illuminate their path. Their hearts thrummed in time with each cautious footfall as they picked their way down the last set of rough-hewn steps.
The moss would be called once “Beron’s Dream” once it was “discovered”, she thought to herself. In itself, the herb was worth a pretty penny.
As they drew closer to the bottom, the low murmur of voices grew clearer: a medley of complaints, foul curses, and grousing gossip in clearly masculine tones. The pair halted at the last few steps, exchanging a tense glance in the shadows. Seraphina withdrew a chainmail coif from her belt, careful not to rattle its metal links, and pulled it over her head. She had no intention of wearing a full helm that would overly dull her senses.
Moving with painstaking caution, she edged forward and peered around the corner. In the glow of a battered copper lantern—its cracked glass distorting the flickering light—she spotted two men. They sat on crude wooden stools around a makeshift table fashioned from an old barrel. Cards were splayed between them, each tattered and stained, and their faces reflected all the desperation and frustration of gamblers down on their Luck.
A thick stench of sweat and stale ale hung in the subterranean chamber, testifying to how long these thieves had lingered there. Their chafed voices ricocheted off the clammy stone walls, lamenting lost wagers and accusing one another of cheating as they burped and cursed. Seraphina paused, scanning the room for additional threats. Satisfied that these were the only guards present, she signaled to Frest with a pointed finger toward the thief on the left.
Frest acknowledged the gesture with a single, resolute nod. Kneeling on the cold stone floor, he quietly drew his crossbow and took aim. Seraphina raised three fingers and began counting down. Three…two…one…
On the final count, Seraphina launched herself forward with all of her Strength and speed. She felt raw power surge through her legs, as though some unseen force had granted her plea for swiftness. Her sword carved a gleaming silver arc in the lantern light, slashing cleanly through the first thief from collarbone to navel. Warm blood sprayed against the barrel, and the man’s face froze in a final mask of shock.
Even as Seraphina’s blade found its mark, Frest’s crossbow bolt whistled through the air. The second thief jerked upright, clutching at the dark-fletched bolt suddenly protruding from his throat. A wet, choking gurgle escaped his lips before he collapsed beside his fallen companion.
Seraphina kicked off the remains of her foe from her sword, and the chamber now fell into silence. Almost at once, a familiar set of glowing notifications appeared in her vision:
You have slain a Human 25 experience gained.
You have learned Dash (lvl.1)
She took a moment to acknowledge the messages, then dismissed them. Her eyes swept over the carnage, settling on the two crumpled bodies and the sputtering lantern.
Well, that was a promising start, she thought, throwing a glance at Frest as he retrieved his bolt from the thief’s cooling corpse. He examined it for damage before sliding it back into his crossbow.
“Lars, you there, you dolt? You owe me two gold, you do!” a voice called from behind a door deeper in the hideout. “Don’t you be losing it gambling on me before I beat it out of you!”
Though the confrontation had been swift and bloody, it was clear there would be no time to rest—an arrangement that suited the young woman perfectly. She and Frest pressed themselves against the wall on either side of the door, waiting for whoever was on the other side to step through.
“Lars, stop playing silly buggers and answer me! Get over here!” The voice grew closer.
Frest took the initiative. “Lars be down drunk, deep in his cups. Might be you can take your coin back while he’s out of it. I ain’t tellin’ no one nothin’,” he called, slipping into an accent that mirrored the thief’s.
“Guess I’ll be doin’ just that, then!”
A burly man stepped into the room, his face was so ugly that Seraphina almost mistook him for an Orc. He halted in confusion when he noticed the beautiful girl standing by the door.
The girl lashed out with the pommel of her sword, forcing him to raise his hands to shield his head. That did nothing for his midsection, however, and she drove a knee into his stomach, knocking the wind from him. As he doubled over, she cracked him across the skull with a swift punch—just as Frest fired his crossbow from nearly point-blank range.
You have slain a human 15 experience gained.
You have learned Critical Hit Mastery (lvl.5)
“Be careful with that thing,” the young noblewoman hissed. She was irritated that Frest had effectively stolen some of her experience points, though the skill upgrade mollified her somewhat.
Frest answered with an irreverent salute, and that small gesture finally pushed Seraphina over the edge. All this sneaking around wasted time and grated on her nerves. She’d had enough.
Abandoning Stealth, she strode forward without regard for the clamor of her footsteps. Frest had the impression she knew exactly where she was heading—and in a sense, she did.
The thieves in this branch were generally nocturnal, most of them sleeping during the day. Seraphina made a beeline toward the Guild’s dormitory, eager to harvest more experience.
With Frest trailing behind her, Seraphina quickly located the dormitory. She motioned to her ears, prompting the knight to respond with an exaggerated shrug. Rolling her eyes, she pointed again, and with a reluctant sigh, he inserted a pair of earplugs.
Seraphina sighed, then pushed open the door to a large, dimly lit room lined with bunk beds. The thieves within lay sprawled in various stages of slumber—blessedly silent, snoring, tossing-and-turning, passing flatulence, or grinding their teeth.
One groggy figure near the entrance blinked at her. “Izzit my shift already? Ger’ away, gimme half a glass and I’ll be up…”
From her perspective, they were little more than a convenient stockpile of experience points packed into human bodies. She readied her voice, bracing herself for the paradox about to unfold. Wail of Judgment was classified as a spell, but it required no traditional chant; it was a short, channeled ability whose “chant” was the spell itself. Normally, her Silent Casting skill removed the need for verbal or somatic components—but what happened when the spell was the chant?
Despite the potential risk, Seraphina pushed forward and unleashed her voice. The system resolved the contradiction by pitching her Wail of Judgment beyond the threshold of human hearing.
Its impact, however, was just as lethal. Bestowed by the Goddess of Justice, holy spells were especially devastating against criminals. Those closest to Seraphina died instantly from the sheer force of her supernatural cry—deadlier even than the Banshee’s shriek she had once faced. The sleepers farther away clutched at their ears, wailing and tumbling from their bunks to thrash about on the floor as they awoke to a world of agony.
You have learned Wail of Judgment (lvl.2)
You have slain a human 27 experience gained.
You have slain a human 33 experience gained.
You have slain a human 24 experience gained.
…..
…..
The notifications kept coming, a steady litany of Seraphina’s final judgment.
“Frest, kill the rest of them,” she ordered coolly, her inner vision flooded with endless updates.
With a resigned sigh, Frest drew his sword.
“Whatever happened to your mace… or flail?” Seraphina asked.
Frest only stared blankly until he remembered to remove one of his earplugs. Luckily, offensive Divine spells in the game did not have any “friendly fire,” but Seraphina had decided it best to take precautions.
“I said, what happened to your other weapon?” she repeated. “The one you used to beat that lout over the head.”
“Oh… that. Didn’t think it would look as good,” he answered sheepishly, switching to his sword.
Seraphina gave a curt nod. She understood fashion priorities, at least. Then, with an imperious gesture, she waved at the thieves who still stirred, dazed and struggling on the floor.
Frest set about his grim task with practiced efficiency, stabbing each survivor in the throat or chest. It was like watching a gardener methodically uproot weeds. Seraphina observed in silence, aware that she was likely earning only half the experience points, but still reveling in their steady accumulation. By the time Frest finished, she had gained well over twelve hundred experience—enough to push her even closer to her next level.
There and then, she decided to invest all her upcoming level points into Intelligence. The new school term was about to begin, and while she didn’t need to be even more of a genius, boosting her Intelligence attribute enhanced her power of recall. As far as she remembered, raising Intelligence bolstered her Mana reserves and also made her smarter—albeit smarter only to a certain limit.
According to the lore, storing increasingly larger amounts of Mana within one’s body forced the mind to adapt in order to handle the raw impossibility of such energy which defied physical reality. More and more of the cognitive resources were devoted to the constant calculation of Mana. In short, there was a cap on how much the Intelligence attribute actually made you smarter.
Still, if it helped her with upcoming exams, she was all for it. As the daughter of a duke, the Academy would naturally waive her entrance requirements. However, her pride demanded she excel, and she was determined to begin the term as the top-scoring student and representative of the first-year students. She would have it not other way. It was not as if she would ever lose to a bunch of hormonal teenagers.
Of all things, her maid Miriam also intended to enroll. Miriam had the means to pay her tuition, and she had mentioned something about wanting to—
“...I said, I have just killed about two score of helpless men and boys, Lady Seraphina. What are we to do now?” Frest interrupted sharply, waving a hand in front of her face.
Seraphina shook her head, clearing her mind of stray thoughts. She frowned, more annoyed at the interruption than anything else. On closer inspection, she realized Frest had indeed been ruthless—some of the bodies were probably boys around Ibn’s age.
“Of course, I was just thinking about that, Frest. Do you think using the Sight is easy?” she said, trying to save face in front of him.
Frest merely waited in silence, expecting a proper explanation.
“There are a few guard stations up near street level, and another before the sewer gate, if I remember correctly.”
Frest looked at her in disbelief. “Oh, so you’ve been here before, milady?”
“Not in the way you would think,” Seraphina replied in a mock-mysterious tone, flashing a devilish grin. “But I have walked this path before. There are secrets to this place. Many secrets. Come along, Sir Ferdiad Frest. We have a few more thieves to usher into the next life.”
“Very well, milady,” he answered, pretending to be immune to her charm.
In truth, Seraphina felt a sliver of doubt worming its way into her thoughts. While Frest’s satchel held a few Health potions, she had foolishly forgotten to pack any Mana potions. Her new spell had proven quite effective against multiple enemies and did not it seem affect those who she viewed as her allies; it was just a shame that at ten Mana points per cast, she simply could not use it more often.
