The Gods of the Second World (LitRPG The Weirdest Noob Book 3) Read online

  The player raised his hand to greet Ros.

  "Hi! Why do you run around like that? They're all dead—look at the bodies all around."

  Ros wondered if this guy was mocking him. The rats had nothing to do with it. The most dangerous species in Second World was homo sapiens.

  The same was true for every other world, actually.

  Ros stopped. Any attempt to dodge an arrow would look really silly now. He raised his hand to return the greeting, but kept looking around, just in case.

  "What are you looking at?" asked the stranger, instantly providing a reply, "There's no one left here anymore. It's good that you're here—I'm all on my own. And it's no fun to be alone."

  The voice and the manner of speaking were those of a teenager, whereas the character looked like a 30-year-old male—tall and muscled, with a square chin. There was an obvious discrepancy there.

  The character's legs were thin as matchsticks as well, and seemed incongruous to an otherwise well-built body.

  The character seemed to have no interest in killing him, so he decided they might as well talk. After all, he was the only living soul encountered by Ros over the last couple of days, with the exception of the monsters, who were never big on conversation. Conversations with those were usually brief, and involved no words.

  "How did you end up in a place like this, anyway?"

  This simple question drove the stranger into a stupor. He replied hesitantly, as though he was tearing the words from the very fabric of his soul,

  "Well, I've been walking in this direction. Just walking. And this is where I ended up. Or, rather, we did."

  "We? Didn't you just tell me you were the last one left?"

  "Sure. There was also Black Shrek. But he's just bought it. His body was lying right here, you've seen it. We nearly got killed. I've stayed right here, but Black Shrek's body disappeared after a while. I'm no good as a healer."

  "Who killed him? These?" Ros pointed to the carcass of a "rat."

  "Say what? Nah, these are tiny things, they never grow above the eightieth level. It was them," the player waved toward the copse that a herd of "grasshoppers" had disappeared into previously.

  "You fought the mobs with long hind legs and knee joints facing the wrong direction?"

  "We fought all sorts, there were lots of them. You come across some really strong ones. You're low-level, so you'd be best off keeping away—they'll send you to your respawn point before you know what hit you. The border of their territory is marked by those trees ever there. For some reason, high-level mobs never cross it. That was convenient. Me and Black Shrek rested and healed ourselves here while we waited, and then went over there to fight. You can backtrack a little, and you're safe. How did you manage to get here, anyway? I'm almost at 170, and Black Shrek had an even higher level, so it wasn't that hard for us here. As for you, small fry like this will snuff you at once. They nearly killed you, after all."

  Ros refrained from assuring his new acquaintance that the mobs barely managed to deal him any damage at all and that he hadn't needed any help in the first place. He had a whole bunch of reasons to keep from advertising his varied talents, and he had no intention whatsoever of discussing them with someone he'd just met.

  "My Disguise skill is at a pretty decent level, so it's hard for them to spot me."

  "They even kill level 200 players here—lots of dangerous places all around. No disguise will help you there. They’ll kill you if you're on your own. What do you say if we head on together? I can protect you. Where are you headed to now? Let's go together—it'll be more fun that way."

  Ros shook his head.

  "Sorry, Macho Strongman, but I have some important business to attend to, and it will take me far from here. It won't be any fun for you to tag along."

  "Why is that? Where are you headed?"

  "The capital."

  "Cool! I love cities. They look nice, and there are always lots of people. Are you sure you really need to go there, though? There's a river further down the road. Monsters on one bank, and joined NPC and player forces on the other. They keep fighting to prevent the monsters from crossing. They'd kill you on sight there, no matter who you are. There's no way of crossing over. You won't manage it. It's just too hard."

  Ros shrugged.

  "In that case, I'll have to go around them."

  "It's gonna be a lot more fun here. There are lots of real cool monsters. It's a pity Black Shrek is no longer with us, though. It was much easier for us to fight side by side. Without him, I'll get snuffed in a jiffy. And I don't like dying. What about you?"

  Ros died so many times in the game that he no longer kept count. Most of the deaths were self-inflicted, too. So, he gave an appropriate response.

  "I've gotten used to it by now."

  "Lucky you. I'll never get used to something like that. I hate it when everything goes dark. You know what? You'll never get there without me. The two of us don't have such great chances, either, but we might get lucky. So let's get going. It's boring to just stand here like this."

  "How did you manage to get here on your own, then? There'd be lots of those creatures on your way."

  "I had a party with me. All sorts of players had gotten together, and then we headed over here. It was fun. At first, that is. Less fun afterwards. It's such a pity—nearly everyone bought it back there. Me, Black Shrek, and the Cerulean Cat were the only ones left. It was pretty cool. Cerulean Cat could heal us in battle, and we could defeat a whole bunch of mobs together. Then things went south. She got herself killed, and we could do nothing to help her, so it was just the two of us left. Neither of us could heal, but it was fun, anyway. And now Black Shrek's gone, too. But I've found you. What's your level?" "Sixty-six." "Say what?! You're weaker than a mosquito in these parts. Har har! A mosquito. What skills do you have? A regular mage? Fireballs and stuff?"

  "Well… I can heal, too, and I know a few buffs to boot."

  "Buffs are cool. Hit me with everything you can and let's get going already. If we're attacked, don't start healing me right away—wait until I give them a few proper blows. Then you can start with the healing. That way, they won't all attack you at once. You aren't much use, of course, but your healing skill may come in handy, too. I like it when someone can heal you. A lot more fun this way. So, what do you say? Shall we get going?"

  Ros nodded and set off.

  His new acquaintance seemed odd, but it was a game, after all. The oddities can just be a grown-up player's way of playing the fool to let off steam. Or it could be a young lad who'd just come of age—not particularly bright, and still childish in many ways. The possibilities were endless. Anyway, the player offered help, so it would be stupid to turn up his nose on such an offer. Any kind of help would be welcome right now.

  Apart from that, he was extremely officious and would be hard to shake off.

  Ros already wasted a good deal of time approaching the front line where the uncountable wild hordes that had broken out of the Locked Lands were fighting legions of fighters and NPCs alike, all of whom were trying to stop the invasion. The fighting was so hard that some places were completely stripped of all vegetation, let alone anything else.

  Ros had two very close shaves when he got too close to combat zones. He had to diverge considerably from the straight line drawn on the map. He'd hoped it would get quieter closer to the river, but Macho Strongman appeared to be claiming the opposite. Why would his new acquaintance lie to him? There seemed to be no point in that.

  The implication was that he'd have to diverge even further from the shortest way. Neither a single player, nor a group would stand a chance if they tried to fight their way through the ranks of the Horde monsters, all of them high-level. Besides, there were lots of them; they were powerful and had strong social cohesion, so one would have to face dozens and even hundreds of foes. Even when Ros could revive high-level pets, it would be extremely risky; it was even more so now.

  But there should be a way somewhere…


  Incidentally, what about pets? Macho Strongman claimed that monsters didn't grow above the eightieth level in these parts. Given Ros's abilities, he'd be able to revive those, as well as stronger ones. Level 99 was his limit for the time being. If he leveled up by one, he could revive a level 100 pet. Such a pet would no longer be a weapon of mass destruction like some of his older ones, but it would still be a great help in battle.

  Apart from that, he had a few good records in the pet skill textbook. He'd be able to make the summoned creature much stronger.

  So things weren't as grim as they looked, after all, and Ros would soon gain a reliable helper.

  * * *

  "Hey, Octopus, we're in."

  The man who had spent an hour in his car without making a single move adjusted the bullet-like earphone unhurriedly, glanced at his watch, and stepped out, hardly making any sound as he closed the door behind him. Under the streetlights, he looked like one of the crowd, with no distinctive features. High-quality clothes of the sort worn by one out of three people. Medium height, unremarkable facial features one would have a hard time to recollect, and an unfocused gaze that didn't stop on anyone.

  The name was John, not Octopus.

  That wasn't the name he was given at birth. However, the name was his for today, and anyone who'd study his ID would find out as much. They weren't just well-made forgeries. They were just as good as the real thing. In the unlikely case of a routine police check, any officer who would enter the data from the ID into their computer would find out that John Shelby really existed and worked for the Federal Disease Control Center. Even the photograph in his ID would confirm it.

  John had a very vague idea about the difference between diphtheria and scarlet fever; the other members of his group were even more ignorant about contagious diseases. But they were unlikely to be questioned about the finer detail of their work—and the policemen would know even less about the subject, after all.

  A medic or a paramedic was the best kind of legend for all sorts of secret activities. John had worked on three different continents, and his organization's official back story would often involve public health in one way or another. Moreover, he even had to deal with a group of carriers of a most dangerous strain of bacteria that got loose due to carelessness once. Fortunately, it wasn't airborne, so the problem was solved quickly and without any repercussions.

  John killed six people that time.

  He didn't enjoy it. Notwithstanding the stereotypes, people who are overly fond of dirty work are never hired for it. They are amateurs and can make grave mistakes in the simplest situation—or go out of control altogether. And who would want that? A lathe operator isn't supposed to have any personal feelings for the parts he makes. The same principle applied to John and his colleagues.

  They'd have to take care of things on their own turf today. This used to happen before, and none of them felt comfortable about it. It wasn't just that their affairs were illegal on every level, including the federal. John's work was above all laws, including those regulating the lives of his fellow countryfolk of the more mundane sort.

  Safety measures were more of a problem. Those were treated extremely seriously in this country. In order to impress the bosses with a job well done, he'd have to avoid the near-ubiquitous CCTV cameras, or leaving a record in police computers, or revealing his identity during a check.

  A credit card in a parking meter? That's a sure way of leaving a trail. Traffic police shining a flashlight at your license plate? The data would be saved somewhere for certain. A cellphone registered in your real name was on while you were at work? Mobile phone operators keep such information for years, and it's easily available. Anyone can run into a routine check—anywhere, with or without a reason, and a regular person won't have so much as an inkling about how obvious a trace they'd left.

  Some tropical country where the only checkpoint is manned by a soldier with a large belly who'd develop a lifelong selective amnesia concerning your identity immediately after receiving a rolled-up banknote of relatively low denomination.

  Today's assignment made John deal with public health in two aspects—his official legend and his target.

  The St. Francis Hospital was an old and well-respected medical institution with a security service of its own, and many avenues of approach, most of them modernized recently and hard to control. However, the hospital's security service only controlled a number of isolated checkpoints, so it wouldn't cause any problems while he would approach the target. Nevertheless, that didn't mean they could boldly park their cars right next to the central entrance. No matter how low-key their handling of the operation, one should leave no discernible traces.

  This is why the brainiacs were hacking into every computer they could access right now to make sure no mention of John's group remains anywhere—and computers got really smart over the last couple of years.

  It was most unfortunate that their amnesia could not be bought. However, one could by an intermediate party or an actual person possessing the necessary information. There'd always be someone who might help. All one needed was to know where to look and to have something they'd be interested in ready at hand.

  John had everything he could need—he worked for the government of the world's most powerful country, after all. It could bring a hail of expensive winged toys over any part of the planet if state interests required it—the rocket-carrying destroyers didn't patrol all the planet's oceans for nothing, after all.

  And if those interests required someone to break into the St. Francis Hospital to get all sorts of medical information that you cannot find online about a person, their right for privacy notwithstanding, they used the services of John's organization, which always strove to maintain a low profile, instead of destroyers.

  The interests of national security required a look at one of the patients today. And John was the one who'd have to do the looking. That was why he was approaching the doors he'd needed in a wide-paced gait. CCTV cameras, live security guards, and intelligent security systems were nothing when the state really needed to get the data it needed. If some of its own laws have to be ignored to enable it, then so be it.

  The interests of the state were above everything else. The legislation was too complex and occasionally ambiguous, and a legion of attorneys and other wise guys have managed to tangle it as much as possible over the years. A country cannot afford to waste years on endless litigation, after all. It has a sword that can cut right through any legal Gordian knot.

  And John was the very blade of this sword.

  He got to the door he had needed. It was locked, but could something as trivial as a lock stop someone working for the government? Breaking in would be unnecessary. After all, it might bother the patients—and, most importantly, leave a trail. John had an electronic key—a perfect copy of the original made by some unknown nerd. It could be one of those illegal workers who served the interests of street gangs and had no idea about the real identity of some of their clients.

  His organization wasn't that large, and some of the smaller jobs had to be delegated to third party contractors, completely ignorant as to what they were doing.

  The lock winked to him in a friendly way with its green LED eye, and the door opened instantly. The ward stank of medicines and disinfectants, just like the corridor, but there was a new component now. Oil, metal, and hot plastic—the smells of working equipment.

  And there was plenty of equipment here. John didn't know much about medicine, but it wasn't hard to identify the mechanical ventilator and other equipment that surrounded the oblong life-support capsule from three sides.

  He moved closer and read the laconic ID plate that said, "Yevgeny Rostovtsev". It was followed by an alphanumeric patient's ID, but it was of no interest to John. The first and last name were enough. That was their client. There could be no random coincidence.

  The moment of truth was approaching. That which should happen, would happen now. John would open the capsule,
take a look at the comatose patient, take out a phone with a number that cannot be traced, and then he would report to his superiors so that the state would know everything it needed to.

  Then he would wait for an answer. His orders may be to close the capsule and leave in the same way as he had gotten in.

  But that was unlikely. John was hardly ever sent on insignificant errands of that sort. He was one of the agents capable of following really complex orders.

  And have zero joy at the prospect of killing someone.

  The capsule opened. John took a look inside, then produced the telephone in a leisurely manner, and pressed the button. He listened to the signal, and then, when he got connected, he said the following words in a voice devoid of all passion,

  "He's not in the capsule."

  Chapter 2

  "Bubble! Heal! I need a fix! Don't sleep! Get on with the healing, will you?"

  Bubble was Ros's new name. It didn't show much taste—as a matter of fact, it sucked outright—but the thing was that he had never used anything similar before. That wasn't much of a disguise, but he had to take every little detail into account when it was a question of safety. He had already earned the reputation of a shrewd player; whoever would be looking for him might be likely to disregard players with idiotic names.

  He changed his appearance drastically, too, of course. He tried to go for the dark mage look, but did it just like the players whose imagination leaves a lot to be desired. That meant taking one of the standard body types and making a few insignificant adjustments. Now he was trapped in a body of an almost seven-foot-tall thug with a prominent nose and a square chin. A rather grotesque parody of the necromancer archetype if he ever saw one.

  That was a good thing. Nosy players would be aware of Ros's talents, so they wouldn't probably expect such bold behavior on his part. Necromancers have skills similar to his, after all, since they can use resurrected creatures as pets. They were a popular class, since a necromancer could easily level up on one's own.