Sebastian walked out of the marketplace without looking back. CRACK! The loud and sickening crunch of heavy oak connecting with iron plating faded into the background noise of Ironhold.
The Golden Lions had completely misunderstood the nature of The Ethereal Plane!
They thought it was a simple playground where their real world trust funds bought them invulnerability.
Right now, Valerie was teaching them the very first lesson of the apocalypse. Money did not matter when a max stamina Mage decided to play baseball with your skull!
He walked through the twisting and smog choked streets. He pulled his ragged Drifter cloak tighter around his shoulders.
Bzzzt… Neon arcane signs flickered through the thick, sulfurous fog. They cast long, unnatural shadows against the blackened steel buildings.
He ignored the roaming NPC thugs. Their aggro ranges were completely unbothered by a player who moved with the calculated and heavy momentum of a top predator.
He was heading back to the slums.
He had the Rusty Iron Shard sitting in his bottomless inventory. It looked like a useless piece of digital garbage but it was actually the main anchor for a City Core!
But an anchor was useless if he did not have a safe and hidden place to plant it.
He needed a sanctuary hidden from the prying eyes of the massive guilds and the military factions that would soon realize the world was ending.
He needed the Crypt of Silence.
The slums of Ironhold smelled like wet dog and fermented despair. Splash... The cobblestones gave way to slick mud alleys lined with ruined wooden shanties.
Old Man Clay was exactly where Sebastian expected him to be. He was sitting in a puddle of filth at the end of a dead end alley.
The tattered gray cloak hid the former Assassin Saint's face. However, the battered tin cup resting by his bare feet was in the exact same position it had been in the tutorial village.
The NPC's migration to the main city was a hidden mechanic. It was a reward for players who bothered to track his lore.
"You smell like too much gold," Clay rasped. He did not bother to lift his head.
The advanced intelligence was already processing Sebastian's newly acquired wealth and the lingering Void Energy from the arena.
"I heard a rumor about a ghost in the Bronze Bracket. A Drifter who cut Tanker Bob out of his armor without scratching his skin."
"Word travels fast in the gutter," Sebastian replied dryly. He came to a halt in front of the beggar.
"The gutter is where all the interesting filth washes up," Clay chuckled, tilting his head back.
Those crystal clear gray eyes locked onto Sebastian. They were completely devoid of their usual beggar's haze.
"You didn't come back just to check on my health, ghost. What do you want?"
"I want the map," Sebastian said flatly.
Clay went perfectly still.
"I have many maps, boy. Maps to brothels, maps to unguarded noble estates, maps to the city's overflowing latrines."
"Sebastian sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't have the patience for a long-ass dialogue tree, old man. I want the parchment you looted off the Mad King thirty years ago. The one that leads under the bedrock."
Clay's eyes narrowed into dangerous and calculating slits.
For a fraction of a second, the aura of a beggar vanished entirely. It was replaced by the suffocating and localized bloodlust of a man who had ended dynasties!
"That piece of paper is a death sentence. The things buried down there don't bleed, and they don't sleep."
"Neither do I," Sebastian countered. "Name your price."
"One hundred gold coins," Clay said. He clearly expected the huge price to end the conversation.
Sebastian didn't blink.
He accessed his interface and manifested a heavy leather pouch. He dropped it into the mud directly in front of Clay's tin cup.
THUD!
The sound alone made the beggar flinch!
Clay stared at the pouch, then slowly reached into his filthy robes. He pulled out a rolled up piece of brittle and yellowed parchment, tied with a frayed black ribbon.
He tossed it to Sebastian.
"Your funeral, ghost," Clay muttered. He pulled the gold pouch into his lap. "Try not to leave a mess."
Sebastian caught the map but he didn't bother unrolling it.
Instead, he opened his inventory and pulled out the Rusty Iron Shard. To anyone else, it looked like a rusted piece of shrapnel.
He placed the shard directly on top of the rolled up map.
Huummmmm…
The system registered the interaction. A faint and deep hum vibrated through the alleyway.
The yellowed parchment suddenly ignited, but it didn't burn with orange fire. It burned with a cold and spectral blue flame!
The ash didn't fall to the ground. It was violently sucked into the rusted pores of the Iron Shard.
The jagged metal began to glow. It projected a translucent and three dimensional blue line that pointed straight down into the earth, cutting right through the cobblestones.
[Hidden Quest Triggered]
[The Crypt of Silence]
[Objective: Follow the Frequency.]
Sebastian secured the glowing shard to his belt. He had the location.
But he had a glaring physical problem. His Ethereal Plane avatar was currently Level 10.
While his damage output and stealth were conceptually absolute, his physical inventory capacity and aggro mitigation were still bound by his baseline stats.
He was a glass cannon! If he got swarmed by a hundred mobs, his 100 mana points wouldn't last forever, and he couldn't dodge everything.
He needed a meat shield. He needed a pack mule.
He left the alley and headed toward the mercenary district.
The Broken Tusk was an underground tavern that catered exclusively to the sellswords of Ironhold.
The air inside was thick enough to chew. It was filled with the smoke of cheap cigars and the stench of unwashed armor.
The patrons were a mix of player characters trying to form cheap raid parties and hulking NPCs looking for coin.
Sebastian walked into the dim tavern. His deadpan eyes scanned the room.
He ignored the flashy Rogues doing knife tricks in the corner and the heavily armored Paladins boasting about their defense stats. He was looking for pure and raw mass.
He found it sitting at a reinforced oak table near the back.
It was an Ogre!
The NPC was easily seven feet tall while seated. He had skin the color of bruised eggplant and muscles that looked like shifting boulders beneath his leather harness.
He was currently eating an entire roasted boar, bones and all, washing it down with a barrel of ale.
Floating above the Ogre's bald head was the name tag.
[Grog]
↳ Class: Mercenary
↳ Level: 20
Sebastian approached the table. He didn't ask to sit down.
He just pulled up a chair and rested his boots on the edge of the table, knocking over an empty ale mug.
CLATTER! An empty mug knocked over.
Grog stopped chewing.
He slowly turned his massive and tusked head to look at the Level 10 Drifter sitting across from him. The Ogre's eyes were small and piggy, and they burned with a dim and slow moving intelligence.
"You spill Grog's drink," the Ogre rumbled. His voice sounded like two rocks plates grinding together.
"I'll buy you a whole damn brewery if you shut up and listen," Sebastian said smoothly. Clack. He slapped a stack of five silver coins onto the table. "I need a heavy backpack. Someone to stand in front of me, take the hits, and carry the garbage I don't want to carry."
Grog stared at the silver. He looked at Sebastian, then back at the silver.
"Grog is warrior. Grog smash things. Not a mule."
Sebastian sighed. "Look." He pulled out a single gold coin and placed it on top. "You carry my things. You stand where I tell you.
You smash whatever gets too close. I pay you ten gold a day, and you get all the roasted meat you can eat."
The Ogre's piggy eyes widened to the size of saucers.
'Ten gold a day? That is enough to hire a small private army in this early game!' Sebastian thought.
"Grog likes carrying things," the Ogre announced solemnly. He swept the coins into a massive and calloused hand.
He grabbed a rusted iron tower shield leaning against the wall that was roughly the size of a blast door.
"Where we go, little boss?"
"Down," Sebastian said, standing up.
Thirty minutes later, Splash... Splash...
Sebastian and his newly acquired mountain of muscle were standing knee-deep in toxic green sludge.
They had descended into the deepest and most unregulated sector of Ironhold's industrial runoff sewers.
The air here was actively hazardous, constantly ticking away at their health bars with a [Mild Poison] debuff.
"Grog not like this place," the Ogre complained, swatting at a mutated and glowing rat the size of a golden retriever. "Smells like goblin armpit."
"Just keep walking, beef," Sebastian muttered. His eyes were fixed on the glowing blue line projecting from the Rusty Iron Shard on his belt.
The holographic line led them to a dead end.
It was a massive and seamless wall of dark and porous stone covered in toxic moss and dripping slime. There was no door. There was no keyhole.
Sebastian stepped up to the wall.
The Iron Shard was vibrating violently against his hip. It emitted a high pitched and localized frequency that made his teeth ache.
He unclipped the shard and pressed the jagged metal directly against the blank stone.
CRACK! RUMBLE!
The physics engine stuttered!
The solid stone wall didn't slide open. It simply dissolved!
The rock fractured into millions of tiny and grey wireframe polygons that scattered into the toxic air. It revealed a yawning and pitch black abyss that radiated an absolute and freezing cold.
The background noise of the dripping sewers was instantly muted, sucked into the vacuum of the dark corridor.
"Stay in front," Sebastian ordered. His voice was completely devoid of fear. "And don't swing until I tell you to."
"Grrr…" Grog grunted, raising his huge shield. He stepped into the Crypt of Silence.