Chapter 405: Interlude - The Pendulum

“Why are we here?” Decimus unhappily threw another branch into the fire. The fire didn’t need the extra fuel, but Decimus was bored out of his mind.

Livia arched an eyebrow, the two Rangers on nightwatch.

“Because we think the idiots calling themself the Circus of Smiles went this way?” She answered.

“No, no, I get that. I mean, why are we camping here? We’re not exactly stealthy, and Palma is just a few miles away. Why camp?”

Livia didn’t say anything for a minute or two, adding another log to the fire while she waited.

“I figure because it’s harder.” She finally answered.

“Yeah, but why make it harder? We’ve proven we’re the toughest. We’re the best. Why camp, instead of staying in a tavern? I know it’s deliberate we’re out here, I just can’t wrap my head around it.” Decimus said.

Livia was quiet for a minute, organizing her thoughts.

“Have you heard of the pendulum theory?” She asked.

“Pendulum theory? Can’t say I have.” Decimus answered. “Is the blasted pendulum why we’re here?”

Livia nodded.

“Yeah, pendulum theory. It only applies on the largest of scales. Countries and decades. It’s somewhat controversial, not everyone agrees. Alright, think of this. You’ve got two cities fighting each other. Everyone levels, yeah?” Livia said.

“Yeah.” Decimus said.

“What happens when someone starts winning?” She asked.

Decimus shrugged.n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

“Easy. They win.”

Livia shook her head, then nodded.

“Well, yes. If they win, they win, it’s over. Burn their fields, salt their cities, destroy their monuments. Simple. Pendulum theory applies more when one side doesn’t manage to immediately win. My scale might be off. Here’s how I see it, on a grand scale. Two cities - no, two countries - fight each other. One starts winning, and winning hard. Issue is, as they’re winning, fewer of the soldiers are getting into scraps and fights. They’re on guard duty. Logistics duty. They’re not getting in fights anymore. The pendulum’s swung towards one side. There’s also the question of committing elite troops, and regulars. If they’re winning hard, it’s easy, and there are fewer levels to be had after the initial push. On the other side of things, the second country is losing, and losing badly. Everyone is in every fight, and the odds are impossible. What does that do for your level, fighting every day against impossible, overwhelming odds?”

Decimus grunted.

“Levels. Levels like crazy, for everyone.”

Livia nodded.

“Exactly. Unless the first country can quickly overwhelm and thoroughly exterminate the opposition, the opposition’s going to get real strong, real fast. In the meantime, the first country’s going to be going soft. The second country is making elites, and the first one’s focused on getting rich. Eventually, things will shift and change enough that the pendulum swings back the other way. The people who almost lost are now the powerful ones, and the first country is filled with soft targets.”

Decimus chewed over that for a minute.

“We’re the first country.” He concluded. “We’ve won too much.”

Livia nodded.

“Aye, that we have. I think the government knows it, the vampires aren’t stupid. Why is there still wilderness? Why are great forests and deep caves allowed to stand? Why don’t we raze them all to the ground, and tame the wilds once and for all? Same reason Sentinels have a minimal threshold before they’ll step in. You think Arachne couldn’t find the Circus of Smiles, kill them all, and be back before lunch? They don’t get any experience for crushing a level 500 threat, while we’ll all get a few levels for it. No monsters? No levels. No levels? No elites. No next generation. We’d be a sitting target for even a mortal country to invade. Can’t ruin the source of experience, even if it costs a few lives from the occasional attack.”

Decimus immediately made another connection.

“That stupid imposter Sentinel mission. I thought it was something of a set up. A single aged letter sent years ago, for a single person who said it once, in one of the hardest targets in the world that’s conveniently accessible, and who just so happens to be on a trip when we get there!?” Decimus was working himself up the whole time. “I get ‘impossible challenge for levels’ but come on! That was absurd!”

Livia shook her head.

“For what it’s worth, I believe that was a real mission. Fake missions just aren’t worth it. But that mission does illustrate my point nicely. How peaceful are things that the Roaming Ranger Team can be deployed on something so petty? How good are things that we can fail a mission and it doesn’t matter? How many times have we leveled recently? How many missions have we gone on this year? Not enough. Things are too peaceful, too quiet, too easy. Which is why we’re here, in the forest, and not in a tavern.”

Decimus sighed.

“Levels.”

“Levels.” Livia agreed. “Makes it easier knowing why?”

Decimus nodded.

“Yup. Just gotta find the biggest, baddest thing in here, fight it, level, then we can sleep in a tavern.”

Livia laughed at his unrepentant grin, and threw another stick into the fire.

Viria readjusted the jug on her shoulder, cursing her ancestors once again for building their house so far away from the main well. Water jar readjusted, she continued to limp into the village.

The walk wouldn’t be so bad if she hadn’t twisted her knee running around when she was a teenager. The one moment of fun, running through a field, ruined her whole life when she rolled her ankle on a rock, fell badly, and wrenched her knee.

The local [Witch] was good for cuts, scrapes, potions, midwifery, setting broken bones and hundreds of other little tasks, but something as large as Viria’s knee injury had been too much for her. She’d tried to set it and fix it, but it never set right.

The jug started to slip from her grip, and Viria paused to readjust it. Putting it down would mean picking it back up again, and that was worse than pausing a moment.

“Need a hand?” Rusticus asked Viria, the man bounding up with a grin.

Viria frowned at him. She didn’t think he was being entirely altruistic.

“No.” She curtly refused him, continuing to limp along. Rusticus didn’t take the hint, walking literal circles around Viria, as if showing off how well he could walk would endear him to her.

“Awww, come on, don’t be like that. Here, let me-”

Rusticus was in the middle of trying to grab Viria’s jug off her shoulder when he froze, staring off into the woods behind her.

“This isn’t funny.” He curtly jabbed at Viria. “Knock it off.”

Viria had no idea what he was talking about. She carefully twisted her head around, making sure not to put any more weight or stress on her bad knee.

Her water jug slipped from her hands, shattering on the dirt road.

Viria had never seen one before, but she’d grown up on stories of them.

Everyone had.

“PEKARI!” She screamed at the sight of the mottled green-brown elvenoid golems. She started limp-running as fast as she could towards her home, water forgotten. She knew there was no chance at outrunning them, not with her knee, and that hiding was the only chance she had.

Rusticus roared with anger. No stupid metal construct without a level was going to invade his village, not while he drew breath. He was level 140. The golems were level 0. He picked up the closest weapon he could find - the handle of Viria’s broken jug - and charged the marching Pekari soldiers.

The cry of alarm had been picked up by the rest of the village, and people were running, hiding, or fighting, no real organization present. The majority tried to scatter into the woods, hoping to evade the tightening cordon. A father tossed his kid high up into a tree, a safe hiding spot - so long as the Pekari didn’t look up. The local [Brewer] hustled through his kegs, smashing the plug out of one deep in his stocks. He hauled himself up and into the barrel, knowing that Pekari never came for goods - only people.

The golem’s arms blurred as it thrust its spear through Rusticus’s chest, mechanically and efficiently killing him. The line of Pekari didn’t even pause as they killed Rusticus, the constructs marching over his fallen body, stomping him into the ground. A second golem took aim at the fleeing Viria, and with a soft cough, fired a metal slug at the fleeing woman.

Viria screamed as she fell, clutching the stump of her leg as the magically propelled slug ripped through her bad knee. The force of it ripped half the limb off, and she hit the ground hard, bleeding into the dirt.

They won’t take me. Viria swore to herself through the blinding pain. They’ll never take me.

Adrenaline warred with pain and won, and Viria turned over onto her belly. She started crawling towards a wood pile, hoping against hope that she could bury herself in it, and the automatons would pass her by. One arm in front of the other, she half-crawled, half-dragged herself to the pile as screams of fear, panic, pain, and loss erupted all around her as the Pekari mercilessly mowed down any resisting villagers, and crippled anyone who tried to run. Her destroyed leg spurted blood onto the dirt, mixing to make a disgusting mud, and a trail even a toddler could follow.

The Pekari weren’t known for the ability to follow any trail.

Viria was three arm-pulls away from the pile when a cold foot mercilessly stepped on her hand. She screamed as the weight broke her hand, and her screaming took another note as a hot brand pressed against her bleeding leg.

She passed out from the pain, and the Pekari grabbed her leg. Uncaring of any damage it might do, the construct turned around, and started to drag her back to their lair.

Along with the rest of the villagers.

Ebbot coughed and knuckled his forehead.

I didn’t even drink all that much last night!

He silently complained as he rolled with the swaying of the ship’s deck. Captain Gil must’ve bought the cheap stuff. Again.

He squinted up at the sun, dunking his mop in his bucket and slapping it down onto the ship’s deck.

Bad food. Bad pay. Bad cargo. Bad port. Why am I here again?

Ebbot cursed all his prior life choices that led him here, to Captain Gil’s ship. When he’d signed up to be a [Sailor] he imagined a daring life on the high seas, transporting valuable cargos - spices, gems, magical woods and more - all around the world. He’d be with a crew of competent sailors, working by day, drinking by night, and ripping through the port town brothels and bars like wildfire when he had a chance.

Only the last one had even a shadow of coming to pass. Instead of gems and gold, they were transporting grain, and from how well-sealed the ship was combined with the smell that wafted out whenever Ebbot got too close, he doubted anyone would buy it. It’d put the captain in a worse mood, their pay would go down, far below the promised rates - and it wasn’t like Ebbot had anyone he could complain to about that, ships and crews were notoriously difficult to enforce the law on - the [First Mate] was a bad-tempered brute who looked for any excuse to beat Ebbot - if one of the other [Deckhands] hadn’t sparked his ire already - and the entire ship was cheap. Bad lines, repaired and returned to service that looked like a stiff breeze would snap, rotting timbers that were ‘good enough’ and ‘too expensive to replace’, and now even the grog was bad.

That’s it. Ebbot swore to himself. Last trip. I’m getting off at the next port, and finding a different ship - any ship - to sign onto. Don’t care if it’s a slaving ship, it’s got to be better than this. Just two more days until port.

A port found in the storm that was his life, Ebbot got to mopping with renewed vigor.

“Squeak?”

Ebbot turned at the noise, and threw his mop down in disgust.

“Rats! Now we have rats!” He complained to the sky. His complaint was cut short by a short, vicious cough.

“[Sailor] Ebbot!” The [First Mate] roared at him, and Ebbot jumped. Between his hangover and his own reflections, he hadn’t seen the ugly gorgon sneaking up on him.

Ebbot snapped to attention.

If he showed proper deference now, he might reduce the lashing he got.

“Sir!” He called out properly, his head swimming in pain.

As the [First Mate] got in his face and roared at him, all Ebbot could see was the rat fleeing back into the depths of the ship.

Arachne was well named. It was natural that the name fit like a spider silk weave dress, given that it was bestowed upon her rise to Sentinel.

She was, among other things, a [Thinker], her mind expanded and improved dozens of times over by skills and classes. The tiny threads she wove through the entire city sent tiny vibrations to where she sat in her lair, like a spider who’d woven a city-wide net.

She heard everything that happened in Sangino.

She felt every footprint, every movement, every vibration.

She knew all.