Lord of the Myriad Worlds

Chapter 187: Old Faces

The surroundings were quiet. Only the even, steady sounds of snoring from the wooden houses.

George listened for a moment and did a rough count. Five buildings, each with room for about twenty — but the most occupied one, near as he could tell, held only twelve. The others had nine, eight, ten, and five.

Men and women alike. Even, apparently, a small infant. Could that possibly be Joffrey's doing?

The audacity.

George considered his options and chose the most populated bunkroom.

The bunkroom with only five occupants was clearly more comfortable — but there had to be a reason it was sparse. And in his current state — seriously injured, drained of almost everything — he had no desire to pick a fight, spend money unnecessarily, or make any decisions before he understood the lay of the land.

He also avoided the eight-person bunkroom: that was where the infant's sounds were coming from.

Though it occurred to him — were all the newly forcibly-settled players from this mission cycle gathered here? The numbers didn't quite add up.

The building with the most occupants was also closest to the city wall — no more than fifty meters away. It still required George to stop and rest three times getting there. He was no tiger anymore; this was a very different kind of plain.

The door was left ajar. The occupants inside were sound asleep. He pushed it open quietly and stepped in. No lights — total darkness inside. But darkness meant very little to George; his body was damaged, everything else remained. He sized up the room immediately.North and south bunkbeds, covered with dry straw. Not a single blanket in sight.

Eight men sleeping on the south side, four women on the north. Despite the modest accommodations, each person appeared to be doing reasonably well for themselves — each had a standard-issue wooden storage chest beside their bunk, crude but engraved on the lid with something that looked exactly like a card reader. Presumably you could swipe cards to lock it.

So your personal effects were safe inside without worrying about theft. The All-Heavens Lord Alliance, it seemed, genuinely attended to the smallest details of "humanistic care."

Every occupant had their own bedding, a pillow, and various items arranged at head level — basins, meal tins, toothbrushes, towels, soap.

The whole scene felt remarkably out of place. It looked like a construction-crew dormitory.

Deeply unpretentious. Very hard to connect to the grand scale of "All-Heavens" anything.

George found a corner spot on the north bunk, sat himself down with effort, and lay back. His thoughts drifted through a disorganized haze. At some point between one thought and the next, he fell asleep.

The next time he opened his eyes, the bunkroom was bathed in daylight. Outside was busy and noisy; the room itself was empty and quiet. His temporary dormitory companions had all gone out already. Breakfast time, most likely.

He pushed himself up with effort. By the time he managed to get off the bunk, a few of his dormitory-mates were already filing back in with meal tins. They spared him one curious glance each, then returned to their own spaces to eat — unhurried, eyes to themselves.

"Wait — it's you!"

He was nearly out the door when someone coming in nearly knocked him flat. A woman with disheveled hair and a somewhat grubby face, carrying a meal tin.

He recognized her immediately. Susan — who had played Mixi in the mission world, and who had later met an undignified end courtesy of the gambler Penny.

George managed a thin, tired smile. He didn't particularly want to talk. But this woman was evidently the enthusiastic type.

"You haven't eaten yet, have you? Wait here — I'll grab you a portion. This morning they have monster-meat stewed with broccoli and potato, Yangzhou-style rice, and millet porridge. Quite good, honestly! Don't be shy; we were acquaintances in another world. Running into each other out here, that counts for something."

Before he could respond, she'd already deposited him back on the bunk and was jogging off. True to her word, she returned shortly with a full, hot meal — no shortcuts, the real deal. Back on Earth this would have cost twenty yuan or more.

"I really didn't expect to run into you! You just got back from the Rookie Mission, right? It must have been almost ten months. You must have done well — where did you land on the Rookie List? Yesterday afternoon, the bunkroom next door got a new arrival — apparently ranked second, brought a baby back with him. They say the Logistics Department is formally recruiting him starting today."

"You might not match that, but I'd guess you're at least third on the Rookie List?"

She rattled on at machine-gun speed without appearing to slow down her eating in the slightest.

George couldn't very well refuse — and he was genuinely hungry — so he nodded along while eating.

The food, he had to admit, tasted solid. Unpretentious but well-made. The only letdown was that it didn't even register as One-Star quality by the system's standard. He wasn't sure exactly where the threshold lay.

"Oh — I'm Susan. You?"

"Li Wei."

"Li Wei! I'm so glad to run into you. What a pity you're injured — otherwise we could team up for a mission together. We just picked up a big one: hired muscle for a wealthy patron, base pay of twenty gold when the mission ends, plus ten bonus gold if we succeed."

"Oh, and I almost forgot — do you remember Penny? Your sister, Penny. The schemer who got me killed. She's in Bunkroom 3 right now — but she's doing better than me, attached to the Logistics Department. Unlike me: if I don't make Three-Star Lord by the end of next year, I'll have no choice but to go full mercenary."

"Anyway, take care of yourself. I need to go pick up some side work at the tavern. Here you can eat and sleep for free, but if you're not improving yourself, the future is genuinely bleak."

With that, Susan departed in a whirlwind of energy, leaving George oddly moved — though not deeply so.

By the time he slowly finished breakfast, the bunkroom and its surroundings were mostly quiet. Everyone was off doing something to improve themselves, clearly.

"Wah, wah, wah!"

The infant briefly pierced the silence from a nearby bunkroom — but quieted just as quickly. Someone with packed lunches, evidently.

George carefully got himself upright and walked outside to rinse his meal tin. A short distance away, outside one of the other wooden buildings, a slender but not frail young man was gazing curiously at the city wall, watching the frequent patrol activity along the top.

George looked at him for a moment. The young man noticed and nodded at him with a mild, polite smile — the kind that suggested a measured, self-contained nature.

Neither had any particular desire to start a conversation.

George had nothing to say. The young man seemed perfectly at ease in the silence.

The autumn sun was warm and generous. George couldn't walk far, and he had no desire to go to the Ministry of Internal Affairs while in this state. So he settled into a chair outside the wooden building and let the gentle sunlight bake the discomfort out of him.

He was nearly dozing when the sound of hoofbeats broke through. A somewhat distinctive carriage drew up and stopped.

"I'm from the Logistics Department's dedicated vehicle service. Is there a player by the name of Cheng Mo here?"

"That's me."

"Excellent. You've brought family with you, correct? The Logistics Department has prepared a sixty-square-meter residence for your household. You may move in immediately. Occupancy is limited to three persons."

"Thank you, we appreciate it."

A polite acknowledgment, then the young man went back inside. He emerged shortly with a young woman whose face was bright with unconstrained hope, eyes lit from within with the kind of joy that comes from believing the future will be good.

The family of three climbed into the carriage together. Before it pulled away, the one called Cheng Mo turned and gave George a respectful nod. Quite well-mannered, George thought.

'So capable people land on their feet, wherever they are.'

He watched the carriage go without any particular envy. Then he resumed dozing in the sun, went in for lunch, went in for supper, slept. A deliberately simple day.

Three days passed in this way. The public dormitory saw a constant rotation of players cycling in and out — more like an enormous self-service waystation than any kind of home.

Susan left on the second day to join some patron's hired crew.

Former-Penny never appeared, nor did the ones who had played as Leon or Fila.

Half a month later, George's wounds had finally improved enough that he activated the driver card and summoned a carriage.

Today was the day his weapons and equipment were scheduled to finish upgrading. He needed to go collect them — and he'd put off registering at the Ministry of Internal Affairs long enough.

The Ministry was far from the public dormitory, requiring a near-full crossing of Weir City from east to west. The fare alone came to five Silver Coins.

At least he got to be a tourist. As the carriage moved, he built a working picture of Weir City for the first time.

A riverside city — ports to the south, and a great bridge stretching across to the south bank. But where Victor Town should have been visible, and even further away, the Rosemyre Snow Mountains — there was nothing. Just a wall of gray mist eight hundred meters high, with what sounded like magical winds howling through it continuously, day and night, obscuring everything beyond.

Weir City itself was not small — roughly ten kilometers east to west. North to south was harder to gauge from the carriage, but he estimated at least five kilometers.

The residential districts were built in neat two- and three-story stone, with well-planned road layouts: separate lanes for carriages and pedestrians, green parks scattered through the interior. Due north, visible above everything, a massive palace complex had been built into the face of a mountain — and George initially assumed that was where Internal Affairs and all the other departments were based. A question later corrected that: those were the magical array matrices.

The actual Ministry of Internal Affairs was tucked quietly into an ordinary residential district. Understated to the point of near-invisibility.

Inside, however, the space was remarkable — two full soccer pitches' worth of training ground. When George arrived, he found people in live sparring there already. He even spotted the player who had gone by Leon-the-Executioner and his associate Clyde. Plus Parya, and Little John.

No Hathaway.

"You took this long to register. How are the injuries?"

A familiar voice came from directly behind him. Night Owl. How did she walk without making any sound?

His Perception, even without the Tracker title equipped, was now genuinely formidable — and she had slipped inside it without a whisper.

"I was taking advantage of the recovery time to slack off a little," George admitted, bowing respectfully.

"I see — quite relaxed for a man with work ahead of him. Follow me. I'll get you registered."

Night Owl smiled faintly. She had traded whatever she'd worn before for a sleek black leather jacket, her hair down in loose waves. She looked sharp, decisive, and radiated more energy than George had ever associated with her before — possibly because there was no gray mist to dampen the impression here.

He guessed her Life stat started at five hundred, minimum.

He followed her into a room beside the training ground. She directed him to stand before some kind of instrument — a red light swept across him, and all three of his Profession Cards automatically materialized and hovered in the air. Simultaneously, something intruded, as though trying to take them from him.

George reacted instinctively and pulled back. The device let out a sharp alarm-beep. All three of his Profession Cards blazed with brilliant light — and then snapped back into his brow.

At the same moment, three numbers appeared on the readout: 13. 47. 42.

The exact values of his three Destiny Grid scores.

"Good numbers. Your Destiny Grids are very well integrated. No need to worry — this was simply registration. Your Profession Cards are now bound to your player ID. Unless you defect from the All-Heavens Lord Alliance at some future date, you won't need to go through this again."

"Now, you may collect your benefits. As a Three-Star Lord, you are entitled to a three-story townhouse in Weir City's designated district under Alliance regulations. Total area: 230 square meters, with an attic and a 100-square-meter garden. Address: Wind Residence, Number 53. You have the right to live there rent-free for three years. After three years, rent kicks in — though I don't believe you'll still be without a territory of your own by then."

"That's it. Here's your Residence Card. Go get your equipment, and then get out of my sight."

Night Owl said it all with an easy lightness. George was briefly surprised. "Am I not expected to take on any work for Internal Affairs?"

"Work? You're a Three-Star Lord. What work? Complete each mission you're assigned. Survive the Chaotic Killing Battlefield. Find a way to build your own territory. That's all. The paperwork and busy work have other people to handle it."

"You're a Rookie King — the number-one Three-Star Lord on the entire Rookie List. What are you even thinking? Don't be so self-effacing. The moment you walked out of that mission world alive, you had already surpassed ninety percent of the people in this city. Go collect your house. Internal Affairs has assigned staff there — maids, in fact. Though only for free for the first three years."

Night Owl said it with a weighted undercurrent, then waved him off and watched him leave.

When George was gone, Night Owl leaned back — and a fine chair materialized from the empty air, carrying her smoothly backward. The room around her began shifting and expanding, kaleidoscope-fast, until it had transformed into an enormous, stately, and distinctly comfortable library.

The library had many doors. One of them was the one George had just exited through. The others opened onto uncountable other places — some into swirling cloud and mist, some into torrential rain, some into brilliant sunshine, some into white snow.

One of those doors swung open. Through it, a vaster and more magnificent castle was visible. A formidably built knight in heavy armor stood in the frame, holding a tray — on which lay four plain gray cards.

An elder in a formal uniform stood nearby.

"My lord, the four Pioneering Cards have been brought."

"Good. Come in."

Night Owl nodded, visibly still turning something over in her mind. Her chair continued to rotate slowly, and as her gaze passed across the air before her, ghostly silhouettes began appearing — one by one, dozens of them.

Hathaway. Little John. Four-Star Artisan Creed. The bald Parya. The Executioner Leon. Leon's strategist Clyde. And more — men and women who all carried the look of seasoned operatives.

And Li Wei — last of the list, ranked at the very end.

These were without question the veterans of Internal Affairs, over a hundred strong.

After a long pause, Night Owl reached out and touched four of the silhouettes with the tips of her fingers.

Four figures stepped forward, illuminated — while the rest dimmed and receded.

The four were: Hathaway. Little John. Clyde. And Li Wei.

The elder's eyebrows rose at the sight. "My lord — Hathaway and Little John I understand. They subordinated themselves to the greater objective and sacrificed willingly, causing their Destiny Grids to fall — they must start over. Their service to Internal Affairs is significant."

"And this Clyde: a capable enough choice. He has at least earned the code name 'Clyde,' and he's accumulated participation in four Chaotic Killing Battlefield deployments. A reasonable record."

"But the one you've designated — Li Wei — though he is the Rookie King, his foundation is thin. He has no code name. His primary limitation is inexperience. Might it be wiser to wait? In this round, five departments are dividing a total of twenty Pioneering Cards. Elite field is guaranteed. We cannot afford to lose."

"Then how do you weigh this Li Wei against the Logistics Department's Cheng Mo?"

Night Owl posed the question without warning.

"They're difficult to compare directly — they're on different tracks. Given sufficient time to develop, Cheng Mo would be the one to emerge ahead in the long run. But in a fast-opening situation, or if they were placed on the same playing board, Cheng Mo couldn't lay a finger on the Head of Household role."

"I've heard that Logistics is currently investing heavily in Cheng Mo — they've already arranged personnel to help him complete his Title Tasks, and they've commissioned five blank Three-Star equipment pieces for him. That will significantly close the gap. This is not someone to underestimate."

"As for Li Wei — because of his injuries, he's already missed this year's final Rookie Mission window. For the next several months, there likely won't be any Title Tasks suited to him. Heading into a Pioneering Mission in the Chaotic Killing World without a code name is deeply dangerous. The Magic Zombies out there won't give him any special treatment just because he's a Rookie King."

"Alternatively — we could give him a Two-Star Life Potion to accelerate his recovery, putting him in position to participate in the final round of Title Tasks."

Night Owl heard this out, then shook her head. "We shouldn't rush it. Being injured is a rare experience. Recovering slowly is itself a process of reacquainting yourself with your own body — understanding it at a deeper level. For an ordinary person, it's a setback. For a player like Li Wei, someone building along the Perception path, it's actually an opportunity."

"That said, what you've raised isn't without merit. Operating without a code name does put him at a disadvantage. Here's the decision: four months from now, let him make the call himself. Pioneering Missions come only once every ten years — miss one, and you're effectively held back for the full decade."

"He's the Rookie King. Let's see if he can prove what that means. You can't learn much about someone from a Rookie Mission. It's the real Pioneering Mission that shows what they're made of."

Night Owl exhaled quietly. A Rookie King hadn't emerged in over a century — and now that one had, there was talk everywhere. Every detail was being combed over and debated, and rumor had it some people were even spreading whispered suggestions that she had a personal interest in the boy's success.

And that old dog in the Logistics Department — all this sudden investment in Cheng Mo. What was he trying to prove?