You have failed to hit your target! Your mentor is laughing at you!

You take the time to actually follow instructions and twirl the musket ball appropriately.

You have just missed your target.

You have successfully struck your target at ten meters.

You have successfully struck your target at twenty meters.

…….

You have missed your target.

You have successfully struck your target at fifty meters!

Congratulations! You have learned the Sling skill!

Sling is now Rank 3!

Eric frowned at the crossbow targets they had set up at different ranges. “It’s going to be awhile before I’m accurate at anything like 400 meters.”

But Nick was gazing at Eric in slack-jawed disbelief. “Dude, you went from having your bullets fly off back to the keep behind you, to hitting a man-sized target at fifty fucking yards! That’s over 150 feet! With what, just a couple hours’ practice? Dude, that’s fucking absurd!”

Eric grinned, right before summoning and throwing a javelin in the blink of an eye, a slack-jawed Nick watching it hit dead center at a hundred yards, the whole target bursting into flame, before Eric summoned it back to his hand. “No, my friend. The sling’s just for fun. The Javelin’s what’s absurd. Especially with the Piercing Strike perk in play, which I had totally not been planning on getting with throwing javelins. But it just evolved in the heat of combat, which is both frustrating and awesome, because with thrown weapons that perk translates to fantastic range, what with all that kinetic energy used for, like, piercing things.”

Nick just stared at him. “You actually hit Journeyman status and you got more than just two stat points and an enhanced learning or accuracy perk? You got an actual weapon ability, and you’re not a Warrior or Weapon Specialist?”

Eric’s bemused smirk turned serious. “This is about more than just my grabbing another weapon to hit Journeyman status with. You do know there are actual titles you can earn in combat, right?”

The kid blinked. “You’re not serious.”

Eric’s laughter didn’t reach his eyes. “Serious as the fucking grave, my friend.” He peered thoughtfully at the youth before him. “And I’m not going to pretend that the sling in my hand doesn’t feel like it was made for me. So much so that I’m pretty damn sure it’s helping me pick up your craft.”

Nick forced a smile. “So, does that mean I’ve earned a good tip?”

Eric laughed, before summoning forth a cast-iron ball that made Nick stumble back in disbelief.

“No fucking way!” he hissed.

In response, Eric spun around and tossed the cannon ball like he would an oversized softball he had never thrown before. In other-words, not too well. But the arcing throw still managed to sail a good hundred yards in the air before pounding into the ground.

Nick gazed at the cannon ball buried in tuft to Eric, than back again. “That was… just...”

“An awful shot, I know. It’s not like I ever practiced that before.”

“Eric, that weighed 16.8 fucking pounds! You sure as shit didn’t use any shot-putting technique, and you blew every old world record 4 times over.”

Eric winked. “That’s what high stats does for you. Now imagine what I could do if I had a sling actually able to fire that five and a half inch diameter cast iron ball of death.”

The boy swallowed. “It’s fucking insane. The changes to the pocket… and the sling itself will have to be more like 4 feet, not 3 feet long to balance the absurd diameter of your fucking sling stone...”

He then forced a chuckle. “Not like it compares to even the bronze 12-pounders that look just like civil war napoleon models, which could blast through troops like you wouldn’t believe, at even 1600 yards, with just a 5 degree angle.”

Eric frowned thoughtfully. “Speaking of Civil War era artillery and small arms permission slips that our dear orcish friends seemed to get System permission to bring here… all I’ve seen are 12-pounders and 24-pounders, cast-iron balls and canister shot. I haven’t seen anything like howitzers or mortars.”

Nick chuckled. “There the human race is in luck I guess, since those are the only two artillery guns issued.”

Eric frowned. “Didn’t rifling come into play in the actual civil war?

“Maybe, but you won’t find that in any orcish equipment. I mean, I think smiths are allowed to tinker with System equipment once Earth hits a certain threshold, but what Dwarf would help a fucking orc?” He snorted. “I’ll bet a refurbished orc cannon, properly rifled and firing sabot rounds would be bloody fucking awesome to see as part of a dwarven field battery. But… yeah, I’ve never seen anything like a manufacturing nexus or cannon foundry being used by the orcs. I think they’re all given shit before they jump through, and they then make do with what they have.”

Eric blinked. “I didn’t even know Dwarves were a thing.”

Nick laughed. “Yeah, we’re in early days here. Why the hell do you think these assholes even have 24-pounder long guns? If those had been howitzers shooting wider angle shot, the other night might have gone a hell of a lot differently. Not to mention that the half-dozen 12-pounders we had here before most of the force headed north are a hell of a lot easier to use and maneuver, a shit ton lighter, being made of pure bronze, and scatter grapeshot a hell of a lot more effectively than the long guns you made fucking disappear.”

Nick shook his head. “If the keep had been defended by more Gunner Classers, or just more maneuverable 12-pounders firing wider-angle shot, well, shit. I might still be working for the orcs, so I guess this worked out after all. Ha ha.”

Eric felt a cold chill with those words. Just hearing Nick speak brought home once more just how perilous his claiming Ashland had been. He knew he had been taking some serious risks, and had almost paid the ultimate price twice over. He shuddered to think of how it might have all gone down if his foes had had an extra half dozen highly maneuverable bronze cannons shooting grapeshot at their disposal. Yet one point Nick had made in particular grabbed his attention.

“Wait. Now I’m confused. Why are these 24-pounders are too long?”

“In the civil war, a standard battery was 4 Napoleon style 12-pounders and two 24-pounder howitzers. The latter two would be firing canister shot. These are proper long guns. Because, or at least this is the gunners’ theories, it’s not just about blasting through dozens of low level conscripts. It’s about having enough fire power to defend the keep against really big nasties, high level monstrosities that the orcs will eventually have to face, if the Orcs can’t make their mark before people hit the upper tiers of their class, whatever level that is.”

“Bronze?”

Nick laughed. “Seriously? You actually think that evolution shit is real? When does that even hit? Level 50? 75? 100?” Nick sighed. “We don’t even know how many levels we have to go to get to the upper reaches of our class. I’ve seen plenty of thirties, since the assholes can import them up to that level...but Classers?” He shook his head. “I’ve never seen any Classer above level 32. Not yet, and it’s been what, close to a year since the modern world basically ended? Anyway, I think you need harder and harder enemies to fight, or progression slows a lot. And the monsters in the Freetown associated dungeons don’t go too much higher than level 15. I think.”

Eric frowned, slowly nodding, deciding the artillery info made sense, and glad to know he shouldn’t have to face too many foes above level 30. Or at least, not yet.

“Okay, they’re using 24-pound long guns, not shorter barreled howitzers specializing in wide angled shot, because they’re thinking of the bigger picture So why the fuck aren’t they using proper cartridges? Or rifling these guns for even more of a punch?”

Nick shrugged. “How the fuck should I know why the System allows for anything? We had nukes! Nukes, and lasers, and satellites carrying Tungsten god rods we could drop down on hostile rogue states from space! Now, we have swords and fucking slings.” Nic chuckled bitterly. “Even if we natives are allowed to modify whatever toys we capture, the orcs are either not allowed to, are too stupid to bother, or just don’t have the infrastructure, resources, or inclination to set up their own foundries once they get here.”

Eric chuckled at that. “Yeah, infrastructure and discipline aren’t too big on the orcish to-do list, from what I’ve seen. But with all that being said, I’m surprised even half my tuskers made it, let alone most.”

Nick snorted. “Don’t be. You weren’t having them charge our keep straight on, but race endless circles around the fort, or around the conscripts being forced to fight them. And unlike actual warthogs the size of woolly mammoths, your fuckers are multi-ton undead zombies. So I doubt small arms fire or all the spears and javelins in the world thrown at them is going to make much a difference.”

Nick paled. “I’m not going to lie. The sight of those massive things tearing through the troops? Hearing those gunners go from mocking to panicked, screaming that nothing was bringing them down, even after tearing through them with multiple rounds of shot, to the point that both classers switched from shot to shell, concentrating all their efforts on just blasting apart the tusker skulls with direct hits? Never mind their cocky shouts and bullshit. All their focus was on just bringing those undead monsters down, even when the chieftain was screaming to keep our eyes sharp, that a Roundear was coming for his head! The fact even one of them managed to tag you even though you clearly weren’t down for the count was just a testament to their crazy level of skill. Before you um… killed them.”

The boy outright shuddered. “I think I’m going to have nightmares about that night for the rest of my life. Anyway, they’re undead. They were constantly moving at right angles to the cannon, had the troops for cover, and it was dark as sin. Not to mention, you took out all the gunners focused on your bait before they could take out more than two. And even that took them a fuck-ton of effort. The stupid ass non-classers managed to pepper our… I mean their own men with more shot than they managed to land on any of your monsters.”

Eric laughed. “I’m not going to lie. I found those modified cannons fucking terrifying. Human Gunner Classers even more so. I’d far rather have classless orcs man them any day.” He smirked. “I’m not even going to ask why Orcs have axe-wielding Berserkers and Javelineers, but have to rely on human Gunners. But I am curious as to why the so called 24-pounder cannons are firing 17 pound shells,” he said, playing with the one in his hand as easily as another might have maneuvered a softball.

Nick grinned. “I can actually answer those question pretty easy. There are orc Gunners; crack shots, in fact. But they all headed up north to the Sylvan Front, a little while back. Then a few weeks later, the call came for every Gunner to head north, that they were going all in on closing the jaws of the dragon, as they put it. Only reason why Chief Tovrig caught a break, besides his gunners being so wasted, was because we really did need someone who new how to hit a barn door covering our backsides incase any unexpected allies show up before the Silver clan is finally out of the picture.”

Eric felt a growing sense of anxiety with those words, feeling more acutely than ever that he was running out of time.

His sister was in trouble. And he’d damn well better start pressuring their enemies’ flanks, just as hard and violently as he could.

Maybe it was something in his gaze, but the young slinger paled and raised up his hands. “Don’t shoot the messenger, bro. I’m just repeating the shit I overheard. Nothing more than that.”

But only by nightfall, the reaffirmed to himself, filled with a renewed sense of appreciation for just how deadly those cannons could be in the hands of a classer, even at a mile range.

Nick then pointed to the iron ball in Eric’s hand. “As far as the shell goes, well, pull out one of the grapeshot containers you claimed and you’ll instantly get it.”

Eric did just that, pulling out stiff cylindrical canvas container filled with two and a half inch round balls. Considerably bigger than musket balls, but the difference in geometry between the canvas container and the ball made it all click.

“It’s the difference between a circle and a cylinder. I’m throwing a round ball, not an oversized canvas shotgun shell.” Eric chuckled softly. “Okay, maybe I feel a little bit silly now.”

Nick laughed at that. “This from the guy who wants to sling 17 pound cannon balls!”

Eric grinned. “Exactly. And while you make me a sling actually capable of that feat, I’ll summon some more of my friends.”

Nick paled, his gaze turning from bemused to desperate. “Eric, I… shit, I appreciate what you’re doing for me, believe me!” he said, flinching when Eric’s smile faded. “Letting us stay here, having access to sweet delves, assuming if I can find a crew I can trust that doesn’t mind a slinger. Maybe even avoiding that life altogether, and just workign as the hotel manager to what’s effectively a cool ass castle. Believe me, in this world, I know you’re throwing me a dream job and some sweet ass opportunities I am incredibly grateful for. But Eric...” he swallowed. “There’s a cost, making perfect slings. And I do mean perfect. Bound to you, body and soul.”

Eric sighed. “How much?”

The freckled boy winced. “Eric. You’re talking about a five and a half inch diameter, 17-pound cannon ball. The tensile strength alone… blended with a smooth release and follow-through?” The boy paled. “That’s going to shave a fuck-ton more than a few hours off my lifespan, and it’s going to have to be at least foot longer than my own sling.”

Eric frowned, gazing at the boy for long seconds. “I see.”

“Do you?”

Billy’s eyes practically bulged out of his skull when he beheld the prize now blazing with golden light in Eric’s hands.

Eric grinned. “Ever hear of mystical peaches?”

“Dude, seriously? I can feel the most soothing warmth radiating off of it! It’s like it’s calling out to me!” Nick blinked. “Wait, you mean like in Cultivation novels?”

Eric nodded. “What’s the one thing they all have in common?”

“They can help you become a cultivator, can’t they?”

Eric frowned thoughtfully. “Actually yeah, it really could. But you’d need some serious training and preferably be cycling with a mentor helping you to direct the flow of spiritual energy through all your clogged nodes while you take it. But just eating the flesh without any cultivation experience at all will still flood your body with purifying flames.”

Billy’s eyes widened. “Body purifying flames! I’ll become stronger. Handsomer… and live longer, right?”

Eric smirked. “You’re right about everything but the handsomer part.”

Nick sighed. “Figures.”

Eric nodded. “Don’t be too surprised if word of these hit the market very, very soon. I have no idea how many millions of credits this might, or might not be worth.”

He solemnly surrendered the peach into the boy’s trembling hands. “It’s up to you whether you want to wait and sell it, in which case I recommend using Blue Corp and accepting the 20% commission fee. You might just make a fortune, and never have to worry about feeding your soon-to-be family again. Or eat the fruit, and add years to your life. Do we have a deal?”

“Hell yes we do!” Nick said with a triumphant hoot. “You wanna sling cannon balls? Well shit. You’ll be slinging them before the day is out!”

“That’s what I wanted to hear,” Eric said, before furrowing his brow as he turned to his other afternoon project, wincing to see that despite his efforts and repairs the other night, his summoning tarp had definitely scene better days, and the shortcuts he had used for battlefield patchwork repairs had been a kludge that was miraculous only in that it had worked, even if he had wasted a hell of a lot of potency and tusker potential with the shoddy repairs. And that was with the prize soul-bound to him, so complex and multifaceted the forces and fields involved in its creation had been.

If he truly wanted the pristine artifact he had had before, he was going to have to do the work of repairing it just as Samuel had first instructed him, what now felt like a lifetime ago.

For long moments, after making sure his tuskers were flanking him once more, he allowed his psyche to sink into the series of sigils and runes covering the rawhide tarp, this time going over all the intricate designs and patterns in exquisitely precise detail, inch by inch, foot by foot, pattern by pattern.

When he was finally finished, he was surprised by the sudden sense of having lost hours in a semi-trance, and genuinely surprised by how small a percentage of his experience pool it had taken him to fully repair his prize. He frowned, not entirely sure if it was because of his growing skill, or because it now required so much more experience to level up as a level 17 Primal Adventurer than it had as a bottom of the barrel conscript.

Either way, he was pleased both to sense the now pristine flow of crimson power coursing through his repaired summoning artifact. His eyes widened when he sensed, much to his surprise, that his summoning artifact was now even more efficient than it had been at the moment of its creation, something he had most certainly not been expecting.

The only thing it delighted him even more to see was the message that made it clear that now, with proper classes at last, the potency sacrificed from his Primal Adventurer class was already being made up for in other ways.

Congratulations! You have successfully repaired Five-Ring Summoning Circle!

You have successfully enhanced Five-Ring Summoning Circle to be 10% more efficient than it otherwise would be!

Master Necromancer is now Rank 2. (You have earned one additional Class Perk!)

Master Necromancer is now Rank 3!

Eric flashed a satisfied smile as he completed the first task he had in mind, finding his increased rank rather serendipitous. Not only for the added power it would bring him with his dark profession, but because of its synergistic ties to the artifact Grim had given him, a true prize as one loop of the winding serpent storage ring became 3.

With that in mind, he locked gazes with five of his massive tuskers, snorting joyfully when Eric pointed to the summoning circles. “You guys want to be a team like my core five? Then step inside!”

With an eerie amount of cognizance, the raised spirit beasts exchanged looks before several snorted and gamboled over to the pentagram. “Here goes nothing, Eric said,” going strictly off his intution, and pleased to find he really could reforge and interlink the bindings between revenants, and that it cost him very little potency to do so. He then linked another full five as one pack before sending both packs streaming like mystic smoke inside his ring, to dream of endless grazing fields along with his first quintet.

He smiled at the four gazing patiently back at him. “Don’t worry, I’ll raise some more of you after we harvest our next crop of orcish volunteers. In the mean time, a final set of four, and the real fun will begin at dusk.” This earned more approving squeals, as the final four made their way to the circle, several even affectionately butting a grinning Eric. With a bit of delicate sigil work, another set was sealed in his ring, and Master Necromancer had just hit Rank 4.

Congratulations! You now have 2 class perks available to you!

Class paths for perk advancement available to you.

1. Necromancy

2. Bloodmagic.

Eric took a quick look at both paths, eyes widening when he saw some of Bloodmagic’s potential, thinking Berserker’s Wrath and Blood Drain were both extremely powerful options down the road. Options that would require a shit ton of levels to reach for a standard necromancer earning only 1 Class perk every 6 levels, and were far too powerful for any peripheral Profession to have.

His lips curled in a feral grin, almost certain that the System had a hard time categorizing native magics, and that taking advantage of unexpected synergisms would be a very solid path to power.

But even so, especially on the eve of battle as he prepared himself for yet another raid against enemies hundreds of units strong, probably with cannons and classers as well, he thought it best to focus on a single path for now, preferably specializing in a perk branch that might give him a vital edge in the conflicts to come.

He gazed with particular interest at a branch of necromantic power that would allow him to infuse select champions with added power, including paths to make them faster, stronger, more durable, even grant them the ability to regenerate, or synergize Necromancy and Blood Magics by giving them the power to steal the life from his foes.

“One day,” he said to himself, hesitating at the last second as he gazed fondly at his tuskers.

Because as much as he would love to enhance them, each infusion would require a hell of a lot of potency for each of his tuskers. And a slow steady claimance of power as he built up his elite sentinels over a period of weeks or months… was time he just didn’t have.

Still, it was a hard to resist immediately investing in that perk path.

But when he made a careful perusal of the next necromantic path available to him, he was glad he dead.

Eternal Legion was a power that would unlock all the wild chaotic energies of the battlefield to bring up to a hundred fallen enemy soldiers to life. All of them would take simple commands as a unit, the ancient knowledge of classic spearmen emblazoned upon their undead psyches. The most common soldier ever to live, or die, on the battlefield. One massive perk was that it would cost him none of his own hard-won experience, or even experience that his Soul Orb absorbed from his undead kills, to raise them back to life. The necromantic energies of the battlefield alone would take care of it.

The only downside was that he could only do that as the winning commander of any engagement, which meant that he couldn’t raise any soldiers with the perk before his next fight, no matter how badly the odds might be stacked against him with his next territory conquest.

But the perks it unlocked, in addition to those that enhanced Eternal Legion to absolutely glorious degrees, included one that made all others pale in comparison, at least as far as he was concerned.

Because the Undead Legion path would quickly unlock the Necromantic Tactical Interface perk, which would allow him to give commands to his troops not based on line of sight alone, but on his own understanding of the planetary Conquest Map he now had access to. Which mean that he could command his tuskers to hound certain groups of reds blinking away on whatever territory he had invaded, even if that particular cluster of enemies was completely out of his personal line of sight.

Which was very dangerous for his revenants in some ways, would net him zero personal experience, but gave him the priceless advantage of truly being a commander of the battlefield and being at many places at once.

Eric laughed aloud. “Bypassed one drawback with Necromantic Orb, and that Interface isn’t just limited to Eternal Legion! I can use it for my big boys as well, without having to raise any fallen troops at all. Napoleonic glory for Tusker Company is now just a single afternoon away.” He quipped aloud, making his selections, eyes widening as his understanding of his powers suddenly grew, his perception expanding to sensing the location of his revenants, wherever they were in relation to himself.

You have chosen the following Master Necromancer Perks:

- Undead Legion Tier 1 – Summon up to 100 of your fallen foes to serve you after their death in any battle where you are triumphant! Zero cost to summons. Summons behave as one disciplined spear unit that obeys basic commands.

- Undead Tactical Interface map. - You can direct your Undead Legion (and your Tusker Company) via your Tactical Interface map! Direct them to harry and attack targets on the map with a mental command, and they will rush to obey! (Note. Undead Tactical Interface map can only be accessed for the territory you currently occupy.)

Eric closed his eyes and smiled, his greens pinging on his interface map as he looked top down at the territory he had claimed before surrendering to Blue. A territory he was almost certain would be making him, and Blue Faction, an absolute ungodly fortune in the very near future. Best of all, having thrown it in Blue meant that he didn’t have to worry about a constant influx of power and wealth-hungry Contenders trying to constantly tear it away from him. Even if his cut would be only 20% of territory profits, that was 20% of what would one day be an incredible annual windfall.

Eric spent a few happy moments visualizing a picturesque city right where he stood. One that would quickly evolve on the fields before the closest dungeon entrance he sensed just a short distance away, promising glorious wealth, stable encounters, and the ability to dare every greater depths of peril for glory beyond every adventurer’s wildest dreams.

He would forge an adventurer’s sanctuary that would allow not just a population the size of Freetown, but potentially grant millions of humans the chance to adventure and empower themselves in resource-rich locales with endless potential.

As Earth’s enemies strengthened themselves spreading across the globe, he could do his part to at least allow humanity to strengthen itself as his people strove to map out and cleanse ever deeper levels for ever greater payoffs locked within a full dozen resource rich Delves. And he would most definitely be encouraging thorough mapping, alliances, and people adventuring in safe groups to minimize peril and maximize everyone’s growth, hopefully far beyond the 30th level limit constricting most people with the low level, resource impoverished, and perilous dungeons that the goblins had available in their territory.

Best of all, he could grant everyone willing to take certain oaths access to what was by far the most priceless treasure in his possession, his Tier 2 Ascension facility. Because not only did it reveal all classes available to you without having to enter a single pod, allowing you to step back and consult with future scholars and trainers to find a path of training and study that would lead you to your ideal class, it also spared the lives of 90% of all humanity, who had no for the System to upload and store as a soul-template sheet at all. This of course meant that absolutely everyone would be encouraged to at least see if they had the potential, not the tiny fraction of humanity desperate or foolish or unfortunate enough to have no other choice but to dare the goblin’s tainted pods.

Yet as much as he took comfort at the thought of helping humanity as a whole, he couldn’t deny the warm glow he felt in his capitalistic heart at the thought of getting a 20% cut of all that sweet, sweet action. And if he played his cards right, a hell of a lot more, if he could position himself as the lead developer over the entire territory.

An entrepreneurial fantasy that would do even his mother proud, he had no doubt, shaking his head with the tiniest of smiles. Because for all their differences, when it came to seeing and seizing upon economic opportunities, he was definitely his mother’s son in that regard. Even if they were otherwise as different as night and day.

Of course that was when he found himself visualizing Elonia’s exhausted features, eyes haunted by the spectre of assassins forever putting her under the scope of their sniper rifles, her and her remaining forces preparing for their last stand against a sea of howling orcs and cannon. The very thought made Eric’s heart pound with dread and helpless fury that he was pinned here, at least for a few more hours.

Eric shook the images away before flinching at the sight of Rica’s face in his mind’s eye, visualized so clearly it was as if he were really there beside her, trapped as she was in a dimly lit undergound cell, wearing a paper thing garment that did nothing to hid the bruises covering her, tears streaming down her dusky cheeks as she begged for her captors to give her back her child. Pleading before a cold-eyed pair of men and women flashing their condescending smiles, assuring her that her daughter’s safety was just a pair of slave contracts away.

The very sight left Eric howling at the heavens.

Because as much as he wanted to believe the visions were a product of his overheated imagination… he had recognized the uniforms worn by the agents interrogating Rica at that very moment.

Confederate uniforms identical to those worn by the slavers that had collard Eric and his friends. A quartet he had taken fierce pleasure in killing. Which meant that CSA agents were now in Freetown, were actively working with the goblins, were still after his hide and the gold they clearly thought he had, and knew all about Rica’s connection to him. Even if the last two assumptions were a bit of stretch, Eric had absolutely no doubt that it was true.

Yet Eric had no choice but to swallow the dread welling up inside his heart and wait for nightfall. The edge he desperately needed before daring to take on yet another stronghold.

Because no matter how badly he wanted to move, right now, racing across miles of flat plains in daylight would make him far too easy to spot by whatever high end classers with a very big guns might be waiting for him. Which would earn him nothing but a quick agonizing death, and his enemies laughing over the bodies of his family and friends.

His daydreams turned to ash as he glared up at the sunny heavens before committing himself to training away every hour remaining in the day.

Because he had a new power to master and needed every distraction he could get, if he wasn’t going to surrender to his own worse fears.