Strength Based Wizard

Chapter 47. The City, Part I (Arrival)

Chapter 47

The City, Part I (Arrival)

La Galcia rises out of the earth like a sunburned god had a tantrum and flung clay everywhere. Red stone buildings, surrounded by a large, red wall. Sprawling rooftops of warped terracotta. The rust-colored walls surrounding the city are crowned in mismatched crenellations.

We crest a small ridge, and there it is: the city’s gate, yawning open like the gullet of some ancient, hungry beast. A slow, groaning procession of carts and travelers snakes its way toward the entrance. We join the procession. Our beetle clicks and chitters as it lumbers along behind a cart drawn by what I can only describe as a twelve-foot-long gecko with twitchy eyes and a tongue the size of a boa constrictor that flicks out every few seconds. I shiver. I hear Veronica mutter “What the fuck” behind me and assume she’s seeing what I’m seeing.

And then there are the rickshaws.

Six of them, just ahead of us. Each pulled not by beast, but by people—humanoid men and women, half-naked, clothed in ragged loincloths that leave little to the imagination. Their bodies are lean and taut with muscle, veins bulging like vines under sun-darkened skin. I assume they’re all human, but they might be elves. It’s hard to tell. Each one wears a helmet—round, metallic—and it covers their entire head. The helmets each have eye slits and a narrow, lipless mouth opening. The base of each helmet has a chain attaching each person to one of the others pulling the large rickshaw.

I hate it. The entire scene upsets something deep within me. I instinctively cross my arms, as though trying to shield myself from the unspoken truths of what I am witnessing. I avert my gaze from the helmeted figures. They don’t talk. They don’t look around. They just pull, mechanical and silent. Like they’ve been hollowed out and filled with obedience.

“Hey,” I murmur, leaning sideways to whisper to Vultog. “Are we gonna be safe in there?”

The orc’s response is a noncommittal shrug. “The city comes with many dangers,” he says. “But if you stay alert, you will be fine.” He says it like someone explaining that a fire is only dangerous if you fall into it face-first. “Crime follows crowds,” he continues. “And there is always a crowd here.”

“Right,” I say, more to myself than him. I try not to stare at the helmeted rickshaw crew as we inch forward. Try not to imagine what happens if I wander down the wrong alley. Try not to think about Farmer Baptiste’s initial reaction to us being human. I would bet on not finding tapered ears under those metal helmets.

I swallow hard.

But this isn’t my first time in a city. Hell, I survived years in a shoebox apartment in Manhattan with a broken lock and neighbors who thought screaming at each other during all hours of the day was an Olympic sport. I knew what crowds looked and felt like, and how to keep my head on a swivel.

So, no. I’m not new to this.

Everything inside La Galcia’s walls was new, and unexpected.

Well, not entirely new and unexpected. I expected some things.

First, was the city stench. A pungent, spicy stew of body odor, frying oil, rotting produce, wet stone, and shit. While I wouldn’t say I’m used to the smell, surviving a few New York City Springs conditioned my nose to brave the worst of it. Have you ever smelled the city as it thawed out from the winter chill? It’s pretty horrific.

Then comes the sound.

Voices. Shouting. Barking, though I don’t see any dogs. Singing too? The wave of sounds crashes into me. It’s a literal sea of bodies, surging against each other as people go this-way-and-that-way. It’s chaotic and vibrant and alive in the way that only cities know how to be: loudly and unapologetically.

But there’s several immediate things that I didn’t expect.

The people—or not-people—really stop me in my tracks.

There are plenty of elves, with angular faces and tapered ears, much like Baptiste and his family. They’re probably the largest in number within the throngs of people crowding the streets. But there are orcs too. A lot more of them than I expected. Vultog isn’t exactly a rare sight here. Tall, broad-shouldered figures with tusks and eyes like molten silver pass by in merchant robes, city guard armor, or just bare-chested with tattoos swirling across green and gray skin.

There are also a ton of goblinoid creatures milling about. Most resemble what I’d imagine goblins to be like. They’re short, jittery little bastards. And I also spot several gobblins too, stuffing their faces with pastries as they scamper through the crowd. One of them is double-fisting cream puffs and yelling something obscene at a fruit vendor. Another goblin, this one more lithe than the gobblins has a baby strapped to its back, and the baby is holding a crossbow. I’m not even going to ask.

Finally, I see a decent number of other slimes.

Holy shit, I think. They’re huge. Well, some of them, at least. Some slimes are similar to Jelly Boy—roughly round blobs of ooze, though in a variety of colors—bobbing around, or perched on ledges and low walls. Others are much larger. While Jelly Boy is about the size of an overfed corgi, these ooze-creatures are taller, some dwarfing even Vultog. And they’re all vaguely human-shaped, like someone forced slime into a human jell-o mold and forgot to add any of the details. Faceless heads poke out from beneath hats, their bodies shimmer in a wild spectrum of colors—blues and lime greens, citrusy oranges and translucent cherry reds.

One slime passes by with a human skull bobbing in the center of its “head.” It’s wearing a pointy, wide-brimmed hat that looks very similar to the one I’m wearing. It even tilts it politely as it passes, and I think I hear it vibrate in what sounds suspiciously like humming.

I try not to stare. I really do.

“Do not gawk,” Vultog grumbles beside me as he hops off the cart.

“Right,” I say, wrenching my eyes back into my skull. “Totally not gawking. Just, uh, appreciating diversity.”

“It’s not like there’s not an equal number of eyes glued to us,” mutters Clyde as he slips off the other cart. I glance about and he’s right. Probably has something to do with the fact that we’re foreign-looking humans not chained to a hand-pulled cart.

Baptiste and Vultog park the carts into a corner of what must be a market square. Other merchants are already setting up stalls and stands, shouting at passersby, swatting at goblin kids trying to steal apples, and haggling over the price of various alien produce and other goods.

From the back of his cart, Baptiste hauls out a folded-up wooden contraption. With the deftness of a man who’s done this ten thousand times, he flips it open into a tidy little vendor stand. He slaps a sign on the front, simple and homey:

Baptiste’s Flax

“Flax?” I ask. “So that’s what this stuff is?” I lend Vultog a hand moving the yellow, almost golden stalks from the back of the carts. The grain looks like it’s been harvested from the field and dried for some period of time. “Do people eat it?” I think of the countless bags of flaxseed I’ve added to protein smoothies over the years.

“We’ve already harvested the pods containing the seeds,” replies Vultog. “These are sold and used to make rope, paper, and other goods.”

“Huh,” I say.

Clyde lingers near the cart, chewing on a thought. He eventually steps forward, pulls something from the air like a magician reaching into an invisible hat—his Inventory flickering just slightly—and holds up the shiny, gleaming coin between two fingers. He flips it once, a tight spin that hums through the air. Baptiste’s eyes track it like a hawk.

“Now that you’ve brought us into the city,” Clyde says, voice calm and sharp as a lawyer conducting his opening statement in front of a jury, “I think it’s time we settle up.”

The farmer nods once, slow. “I think that’s right.”

Clyde doesn’t blink. “Look. I know a gold piece is way too much. Let’s not pretend you don’t know that too. You were taking advantage of us.”

The stall goes quiet. Even the surrounding noise—merchants haggling, goblins swearing, a street bard singing a bawdy ballad about a sentient pumpkin—feels like it dips for a second.

Baptiste raises an eyebrow. “Now hold on, son. You’re the one who offered that coin to me.”

“Would you have offered us assistance anyways? Or shot first and asked questions later?”

Baptiste shrugs, but his frown his dripping with guilt. “Now, didn’t twist your arm or nothin’… But you’re right. That there gold piece is worth more than what you got.”

“How much more, exactly?” asks Clyde.

The farmer scrunches his face. “If I had to put a price on the room, my missus’ cookin’, and a ride to the city? Maybe a bronze chip a piece. Two, probably… Accountin’ for the space in the carts.”

“And how many bronze chips make a gold piece?” Clyde runs the gold coin across his knuckles.

Baptiste looks to Vultog for help and the orc sighs.

“That will ultimately depend on market factors… Though generally there are about five thousand bronze chips to a single gold piece.”

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Clyde’s lips twitch. “Right. Good to know. Maybe I’ll swing by later with some bronze after visiting a moneychanger.”

He flips the coin again. But it doesn’t land in his hand this time. Because I catch it.

I snatch it right out of the air like a reflex. It’s warm from his fingers and heavier than I expected, all that value condensed into a perfect circle.

I step forward and hand it to Baptiste, pressing it into the farmer’s palm.

“A deal is a deal,” I say. “You didn’t have to take us in. You definitely didn’t have to let us stay after that flying bat nightmare came knocking. But you did. And you fed us. Gave us a place to sleep. Treated us well.”

I look up from his palm, meeting his eyes.

“I think you’re good people, Baptiste. For me? That’s enough.”

Clyde opens his mouth—probably to argue—but I cut him off with a glare. He doesn’t look like he’s going to back down. Veronica steps beside him and places a gentle hand on his shoulder. Just enough weight to anchor him.

He closes his mouth.

The farmer pockets the gold coin with a small nod, and I swear there’s a flicker of emotion there. Gratitude. Or guilt? Maybe a little bit of both.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, voice lower now. “I won’t forget it.”

Before we part ways with Farmer Baptiste and Vultog, Clyde asks them for general directions to a moneychanger and to the Monster Hunters Association.

“Moneychanger’s easy,” says Baptiste. “Bout seven blocks that way you’ll hit the Copper Quarter. Can’t miss it! Look for the statue of that old general. Should be a big ole’ white building.”

Vultog gestures a thick, green finger in the opposite direction. “The Monster Hunters Association has an outpost on the northern end of the Red Market, close to the West Gate. There is a griffin sigil over the door. There are also plenty of inns nearby.”

Clyde grunts in acknowledgment, but I’m only half-listening because I’m interrupted by several pings in my skull, each accompanied by the pulse of a System notification. A notification ribbon appears in the bottom lefthand corner of my HUD, blinking red. With a mental command, I select the ribbon and following a haptic tingling am met with several windows.

Local Maps updated!

You have received a Map [La Galcia].

Map [La Galcia] is incomplete.

Access Local Maps using the [Map] Menu.

“Whoa.” I blink. With a flick of my eyes I close out the notifications and access my [Map] Menu.

The Map is the same before, zoomed out and I can see a marker denoting the ‘Baptiste Farm’ and one marking ‘La Galcia’ too. I mentally pinch the city and zoom in. A city map opens, though most patches are missing beyond the streets we entered through and the market square we currently stand in. I pan, using a thought, and the city map unfolds further. I see two small markers, one labeled ‘Monster Hunters Association Outpost: La Galcia Branch’ and the other labeled ‘Copper Quarter.’

Nice.

“That’s useful,” I mumble.

“Your inner GPS update too?” Veronica asks, eyeing me.

“Oh yeah.”

Veronica and I weave through the shopping district, caught in the slow churn of people with too many errands and not enough time. Buildings rise in red and rust-colored clay, warped by centuries, with mismatched signs creaking above shop doors like carnival banners. It’s like walking through the flea market melted by a wizard’s fever dream.

We’d split off from Clyde and handed him our gold pieces, all of us agreeing to meet up at the Monster Hunter’s Association in approximately two hours. All together we had fifty-eight gold pieces amongst ourselves. Twenty-one of which I contributed, which was surprising.

We each set a timer in our HUD, which began ticking down immediately.

02:00:00 … 01:59:59… 01:59:58…

Clyde had insisted that he would seek out a moneychanger to breakdown our gold pieces into smaller units of currency while we did some window shopping, identifying shops that would be useful to visit—and preferably identifying specific items we’ll need to buy. I’m not a big shopper, but Veronica seemed excited about the plan. So did Jelly Boy, buzzing with excitement.

Veronica figured out how to toggle a circular minimap on her HUD—something that honestly makes me feel a little behind. After a brief explanation, I’m able to toggle the minimap on-and-off too. It’s a little distracting, honestly. But useful in the dense network of streets comprising La Galcia.

“Oh, wow, do you see this?” Veronica asks, sidestepping a goblin carrying a stack of boxes in its hands. She sidles up to a window display showcasing a party of mannequins donning brilliant armor. Further examining the armor summons a window in my vision.

[Armor: Self-Repairing Plate]

[Rarity: Uncommon]

[Description: This plate armor is capable of magically repairing damage over time so long as the armor has not been destroyed. This armor has also been instilled with the ‘Self-Cleaning’ and ‘Blood-drinking’ Enchantments.]

I let out a low whistle. “I wonder how much that costs.”

“Only one way to find out,” she says. She grabs my hand and pulls me into the shop.

Apparently, Uncommon Self-Repairing Plate costs 20 gold pieces for the entire set. Well, that’s a steep price. And here I thought we were rich. Fat chance.

We explore the shop’s other wares before thanking the shopkeeper and moving back out into the streets. Next, we dip into a potion shop nestled between a tavern and a barber whose front display proudly features a pair of crossed bloodstained razors.

Inside, the air hits like a mix of floral and chemical scents.

Three elvish women tend to the alchemist shop. All silver-haired, expressionless, all draped in robes. The walls are lined with shelves—hundreds of vials and flasks, some softly glowing, some actively bubbling, and one ominously vibrating like it’s eager to leap off the shelf and go absolutely postal.

We inquire about the alchemists’ selection and the various prices. Health potions? Affordable-ish. At least those of low-to-average quality. Stamina and mana? A bit steeper. An invisibility potion that catches my eye?

“Thirteen gold pieces.”

I choke, clearing my throat to regain my composure.

We thank the three elven alchemists, telling them that we’ll be back.

When we step back out onto the street, the crowd sizes have swelled, and its difficult to move through the streets. I spot an enchanter’s stall, the humanoid figure, veiled but with piercing yellow eyes with slitted pupils. I hear a giggle and the meet the merchant’s strange eyes. “I have never seen pants so… revealing. And what a nasty curse, too.”

Did they just say curse?

“Hey there,” I say. I begin to squeeze my way towards the vendor when I realize Veronica is no longer at my side. I turn around and she’s gone.

“Veronica?” I spin on my heel, but the crowd is already closing around me. I could yell, but that would just get me attention, and not the good kind.

Okay. Think, Joseph… Oh, right!

Time to test my brand new Spell, courtesy of Vultog.

I cast Locate Ally. The pose is a subtle one, a relaxed quarter turn, slight flex.

A blue pulse crosses my vision. The minimap in my upper left blooms with new info. Two white dots burn onto the map and my mind is flooded with basic information and understanding. Clyde’s dot is already moving toward the Monster Hunter’s Association. I scan for another moment, seeking out Veronica... There! She’s off the main road, cutting toward the north, edging toward where the Association should be—but taking a slightly odd route.

I grip Jelly Boy, his little gelatinous body pulsing with curiosity. “Come on, buddy,” I mutter. “Let’s go find Veronica.” I glance over my shoulder at the enchanter before moving on, but they’ve vanished and the spot where their stall once was is now empty.

Using my mini-map and the Locate Ally Spell, I make a beeline towards Veronica’s dot.

I duck into a side alley, trying to shave off some distance. The buildings here are taller, thinner, their shadows stretching like claws over the cobblestone. Cracked windows peer down at me like voyeuristic giants. It smells damp, and rotten.

That’s when the hairs on the back of my neck go full porcupine.

I freeze.

Click, click, click.

The sound is subtle—footsteps on stone, maybe?

I glance back.

Behind me, a man emerges. He’s a big, ugly motherfucker. Looks like someone punched a boar until it turned into a human. He’s got the kind of face that’s all cauliflower ear, if that’s somehow possible. An ugly smile of yellow teeth splits his face.

I’m distracted by the sound of more footsteps. This time coming from the other end of the alley. Three shadows peel from the wall like predators from camouflage.

Great. Fantastic. Well done, you idiot!

I just made City Smarts Mistake Numero Uno: Took a shortcut through a shadowy alley with zero witnesses.

Jelly Boy quivers in my grip. The tip of his little blob-body turns a shade darker, like he’s bracing himself.

Yeah, buddy. Same.

POV: Drone of the Cerulean Ooze Colony Hivemind

The slime moved through the city with purpose.

It shimmered in hues of azure, its form elongated into the approximation of a humanoid torso and legs. Arms, too—slender and jointless—hung at its sides, swinging with mechanical mimicry as it wove through the crowd. Its faceless head tilted from side to side, absorbing the colors, scents, sounds, and a thousand fleeting shapes that danced through the avenues of red stone and sun-baked clay.

It was a Slime Drone. One of many. A tiny drop in a boundless sea of mental threads connected across the Realm.

And yet it was thrumming with something rare. Excitement.

It had seen it. The Anomaly.

The drone had been pulsing along the outer ridges of the gobblin district when the flicker of familiar mana jolted through its conscious slosh like a bolt of lightning. Another cerulean slime. But not just any blue slime.

That one.

The prodigal slime. The Anomaly!

The drone surged through the crowd, each movement a fluid shift from one posture to the next, stepping around a pair of goblin children with dripping meat pies and dodging an orc in layered merchant robes. Its form shivered with anticipation, limbs quaking faintly from its internal resonance as it traced the lingering flickers of the mana trail.

The Anomaly had once been a part of the Hive, not too long ago.

One of the Collective. A voice in the choir. A thought in the Thought. For seven cycles it had pulsed and shared and grown alongside the others, from nutrient-ooze to sentient cell. And then—gone. Ripped from the weave, severed mid-stream. One moment the mental lattice had been intact, voices singing, resonances passing through the Great Current, and the next—absence. A void. It had been months since that sad day.

It had left no trace. No echo in the Hive. No glimmer of its dissolution.

The Hive had assumed it dead. Some accident, perhaps. Some mage’s cruel experiment. The World devouring another of its own, as had often happened. Though this had felt distinct, different. But there was no other logical explanation. And so, the Hive accepted the loss.

Until it returned.

For a heartbeat, it had reconnected. Rejoined the lattice for the briefest moment—long enough for the hive to feel the alien mana thrumming through its cells. Different. Tainted, some had thought. Others whispered reverently: enlightened.

It carried knowledge. Ideas. Concepts the Hive had no name for.

And then it had pulled away. Severed itself.

That had never happened before.

The Slime Drone remembered the agony. The Hive’s wail, sent pulsing through the collective thoughtstream. A billion cells screaming with outrage. And at the center, the Hive’s King—ancient, vast, old as mold and twice as wise—had pulsed with rage so potent the Drone had nearly liquefied on the spot.

THE ANOMALY DEFIES THE FOREVER.

That was the message.

And now, now, the Drone had seen the Anomaly. Briefly. Across the street, nestled in the crook of a human arm like some strange pet. It was unmistakable.

The Drone tried to follow, but the crowd had surged and twisted. It spun, recalibrated, folded itself around a streetlamp, and rose higher to see over the heads of the orcs and elves and goblinoids.

Gone.

The pulse of mana had vanished into the sea of bodies.

The Drone’s body shook with frustration, forming and unforming fists, its surface boiling like oil. A ripple passed through its chest. It focused, contracted, and cast the signal.

A pulse. A report.

The Hive responded almost instantly.

And with it came the Mind.

The King's Will crashed into the Drone’s mind like a tidal wave made of iron and scream. The Drone’s thoughts compressed, a thousand tendrils of control wrapping through its awareness, crushing its individuality down to the size of a berry. It would be rewarded for its discovery. Or it would be dissolved for failure.

FIND THIS SLIME. BRING IT TO ME. IT WILL BECOME A PART OF THE HIVE AGAIN.

The message reverberated not in words, but in command. In law.

The Drone pulsed once—acknowledgment—and lowered itself back into the flow of the crowd, limbs reforming, posture tightening. It would search. It would wait. It would find the anomaly.

No one left the Hive.

The Hive was forever.