Aggro Litrpg || Progression Fantasy

So, I think everyone probably has a visual in place for what it would look like when they step through a summoned portal to meet the members of The Hunt.

Cloaks, maybe. Quiet gravitas. Gleaming weapons humming with destiny. One bloke probably standing slightly apart with a tragic backstory and an eyepatch.

I got deckchairs. In a field.

Deckchairs, a tea urn, and a Labrador wearing a tartan coat snoring under a gazebo that looked like it had been borrowed from the parish fête. The field was wonky and overgrown in that distinctly British way that says someone technically owns it, but hasn't mowed it in fifteen years because that would be gauche. Somewhere in the distance, sheep bleated with passive-aggressive menace.

Roderick had stepped through the portal ahead of me and was busy giving a little wave to the assortment of pensioners scattered about the place like half-deflated party balloons at the tail end of a sad fête. After a few nods back, he made a beeline for a fold-out table balanced precariously on a crate of Irn-Bru. He picked up a chipped mug that read WORLD'S OKAYEST DAD , shook it once, like he was checking it for Shadow spiders, then filled it to the brim with what smelled like builder's tea so strong it might qualify as an offensive potion in some realms.

Steam curled out in thick, judgmental spirals as Roderick took a sip, sighed like he'd just settled an ancient blood feud, and looked back at me. "You coming, or are you waiting for a red carpet?"

I stood there waiting for someone to yell surprise and pull off a rubber mask to reveal a real team of Shadow-slaying warriors underneath. I was to have no such luck.

"That's Iris," Roderick said, gesturing toward a woman in a knitted poncho who was threading copper wire around a twig. "She handles most of our warding. At least since Graham got eaten. That's Kenny and that's Bill. They've been running the boundary lines for decades now. Janet keeps the books, and Cyril over there's our medic, although don't let him near your teeth. He's got a hand like a trowel."

Bill gave me a small salute. Kenny waved with a half-eaten Scotch egg.

Janet looked up from her notes and beamed. "Oooh, are you Elijah? Margaret's boy? She said you might swing by."

"I'm… yes. I mean, sort of. Not literally. I'm her nephew."

"She always did have a good nose for things," Iris said, looping the wire into a little spiral and stabbing it with something that might have once been a dowsing rod. "Bit slow on making yourself known, mind. We've lost four anchors since midsummer."

"Might lose another if I don't get a cup of tea soon," said Cyril, who was reading a copy of Practical Witchcraft and resting his feet on what I really hoped was just a log.

I turned to Roderick, voice low. "So. Just checking. These are the people fighting back against the Shadow bleed?"

"That's right," he said. "The Hunt. Been holding the line for years. Decades."

"With… thermos flasks. And assorted mobility aids."

He shrugged. "You play the hand you're dealt, lad."

"I mean, I wasn't expecting this to be like The Fellowship of the Ring, but still..."

A hand appeared from nowhere and thrust a chipped mug into mine. It read HONK IF YOU'RE HAUNTED in cheerful Comic Sans. The tea inside steamed like it meant business. I took a sip and it tasted like tannin and talcum powder. There might well have been whisky in it. Or varnish. Either way, it woke me right up.

"Elijah, dear," said Janet, popping up beside me with the sort of stealth that probably should've come with a stat. "Risk it for a biscuit?"

She offered me a tin. The shortbreads within looked fairly normal, if slightly soggy around the sugar bits.

"Are they safe?" I asked, because – in my experience - you never assume anything when standing inside a summoned field-camp full of pensioners with glints in their eyes. That might not be advice straight from Griff, but I still thought it was worth taking to the bank.

"Safe? Well, that's a big word around here. I'm willing to admit that they might be warded," she said. "But I can't be sure. The sugar got damp and, well, you know what they say about damp sugar, don't you?"

Before I could reply, Roderick hooked a thumb and gestured me a few paces away.

"Look, I'm not insane. I know how it looks," he said, voice low. "But we've all been at this longer than you've been breathing."

"Yes. And that's basically my concern. Is there not one of you under eighty?"

"Don't be stupid. Of course there is. Mikey over there is seventy-five."

I looked over at a stooped man who, even in this company, looked sleepy enough to qualify as one of the Seven Dwarfs. "And, just for clarity, none of you has any access to the System?"

"Nope. Not at all. Margaret kitted us out with a bunch of trinkets, charms and stuff she smuggled across the Veil or developed herself. None of it is System-recognised, but most of it's pretty nifty."

I looked over at Iris, who was now arguing with a rook while rearranging stones into a pattern.

"My Aunt M was in charge of this?"

"No. Not at all. Don't look at us old duffers and confuse us with Margaret. She was the real deal," he said. "We're just trying to keep it from falling apart."

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The tea hadn't even cooled when my minimap suddenly did a tiny seizure-flash behind my eyelids, like a full-on proper hiccup in the Matrix.

SYSTEM WARNING: ANCHOR DEGRADATION DETECTED
STATUS: CRUMBLING

A sharp static tingle danced across my spine. It felt like I was having a panic attack.

Iris, who I was pretty sure hadn't moved in five minutes, suddenly whipped around and the twig in her hand flared an irritable green, like it had ideas about being a lightsaber. She shambled up to me and, with no ado whatsoever, jabbed it into my foot.

"You're bleeding breach energy," she said.

"First of all, ow! Second of all, is that a bad thing?" I asked, hopping away.

"It is what it is," she said vaguely, wobbling back to her seat. "Could be better. Could be worse. Means you're still stabilising from your Veil crossing."

Cyril piped up from beneath the gazebo, munching a bap the size of a tombstone. "Basically, it means your blood's gone weird," he said, mouth full. "Shadow-tinged. But still rooted in the Threshold. Makes you a bit like compost."

"Right. Sure. That's definitely not a horrifying thing to say."

Roderick, bless him, stepped in before anyone could start quoting leyline chemistry at me. "Look, lad, let's cut to the chase. This is why Margaret picked you as her heir."

"Because I'm bleeding compost?"

"No. Because you had the potential to become a Warden. Which you've gone and done. Well done, you. So, right now, on Earth, you're not just holding the door against the baddies. You are the door. Just you being here grounds the System and stops it getting too hinky. Margaret made sure that the Earth doesn't normally run too hot, but when things happen, that's going to be on you to sort. And we'll do our best to have your back."

"Cool," I said. "Grand. Just me, a few pensioners, some slightly haunted biscuits, and the fate of reality. Living the dream, mate. Living the dream. Did I mention I have a quest to go and kill my nemesis?"

"There'll be time for that, lovely. Drink up while your tea's still warm," offered Janet helpfully.

I took another sip. It somehow tasted more existential this time.

Roderick led me over to a whiteboard in the middle of the camp, which looked like it had survived several actual wars and at least one incident involving jam. It was propped up on a milk crate, covered in fading post-it notes with curled edges, and a few ominous tea splatters in vaguely skull-like shapes.

The other members of the Hunt gathered around me, moving folding chairs which groaned like they'd rather be anywhere else.

"Right then, let's get this briefing on the road," Roderick said, clapping his hands, then immediately turned to point at the dog. "Max! Get your bloody chops off the runestones or I swear on Saint Cuthbert's foot I'll hex your arse!"

The Labrador looked momentarily sheepish, then promptly started chewing a different rock.

Satisfied, Roderick nodded, then pointed at the board. "We all know why Elijah is here. We're four Anchors down this season. Big one was the Woking Collapse."

Kenny shook his head. "Still can't believe we lost Woking. I had a really good pub there."

"East Anglia's gone soft in the middle," Roderick continued, squinting at the notes on the board. "Spiritually speaking. Dreams leaking sideways. We've got Shadow entities using abandoned rail lines like ley-lines. And we've got all sorts of digital dead zones. They're hiding better. Learning."

I raised my hand. Roderick looked over at me. "What are you doing?"

"Sorry, I wasn't sure how you did things here."

"Not like that. If you have a question, Warden, ask it."

I tried to pretend I wasn't beginning to blush. "So, this is what, guerrilla apocalypse management?"

He shrugged. "It's bin bags and bravado, lad. Same as it's always been of late."

Janet nodded. "And Margaret always said you'd become a proper Warden one day. And you're not here a moment too soon. We need someone to close a few broken doors."

Then Iris's dowsing rod snapped again, this time with a noise like a crisp packet being strangled. A gout of green vapour hissed out the end, curling into the shape of something vaguely antlered before dissolving with a spiteful hiss.

At which point, my minimap had a seizure.

SYSTEM ALERT

ANCHOR FAILURE: RUGELEY POWER STATION

PROBABLE INCURSION – SHADOW ENTITY CLASS: [DISSONANT]

WARDEN RESPONSE REQUIRED

TIMEFRAME: 00:23:47

Kenny swore something blistering in Gaelic and dropped his mug. Mikey dropped a scone, which elicited more swearing. Cyril knocked over the tea urn, trying to get up too fast.

"Did that just say Rugeley?" I said, staring at the notification burning in the corner of my vision. "I did my driving test there. Failed parallel parking. Twice."

"No time for residual trauma, lad," said Roderick. Iris was already halfway into a roll of OS maps the size of a wedding marquee. She stabbed a pin into it hard enough to make the whole thing twitch. "Right," she said, "grid reference SK042118. That's just north of the cooling towers."

"That used to be a coal plant," Kenny said. "I think they tried to demolish it twice. Wouldn't take."

"Sounds about right," said Iris. "We'll need a frontal breach check, internal ward trace, and recon triangulation on the dreamspill radius."

Roderick popped open the top of his ring again. The portal that emerged was turbulent, oily, and flickering around the edges. It smelled of hot rubber and barley sweets.

"Lovely," said Iris, not looking up. "That one's all yours, Warden."

"Mine?"

"You're not here because The Hunt wanted to have a look at your pretty face. You need to anchor this for us. Just by being there, you'll stabilise it from the inside." She flicked her twig for emphasis. "We'll keep the exit open, so, once you're done, you can shoot back here."

Cyril gestured with a large sandwich. "Tank Class is it? Excellent. Take Iris, Kenny, and the dog with you. Max's got good instincts. Just don't, you know, let them get squished. We ain't got many more on the bench."

Max barked once and stared dead into the breach. Something within exploded with a noise like a vengeful drum.

"Look, I'm not being funny, but if I'm going through there to fight, I really think the rest of you would be better off waiting here. Let me take care of anything dangerous and…"

"Hushaby, lad. We've all been fighting Shadow creatures longer than you've had hairs on your chest. Here, stick your kit in your inventory."

My "kit," as it turned out, included a tartan thermos labelled "HOLY WATER – DO NOT MICROWAVE," a belt of three extremely unlabelled talismans (one of which smelled like toothpaste), and a laminated prayer card. My inventory made no effort at all to classify any of it, which was interesting.

"Do I actually need any of this?"

"' Need' died in 1996 when the Bishop of Durham got absorbed by a dream-construct," said Iris, pinning a crow feather into her sleeve.

Max trotted over, now wearing a high-vis vest marked "GOOD BOY (LEVEL 6)" in stitched gold thread. He licked my shin in a way that felt both approving and all like he was giving me a warning. I had the strongest impression that I better not let the aggro slip the second we stepped through the portal.

Roderick slapped me on the shoulder. "Go on then, lad. Show everyone what Margaret was so proud of."

The portal grew wider across the old cricket boundary, destabilising the weeds and half a folding chair as it widened.

Everyone raised their mugs. Even Mikey, who looked like he might be crying over his lost scone.

"To our new Warden," said Janet. "May his Hunt be successful."

Max farted, long and proud. The portal pulsed once, like it was bracing.

I stepped through.