Aggro Litrpg || Progression Fantasy

I tripped over nothing for the third time in five minutes and came to a firm conclusion: the forest was taking the piss. And not in some whimsical, storybook way, either. This wasn't metaphor or mood. The place wasn't just seeking to evoke menace, it was actively participating in an attempt to discombobulate me.

For example, as I stumbled, I am certain I heard one particularly crooked trunk creaking with a sound eerily close to that of a chuckle. I ignored it, but the next low-hanging branch still managed to brush the back of my head like it was checking the size of my skull for a good fit.

So yes. Mocking. Definitely.

And we hadn't even reached our destination yet.

Behind us, the village had vanished—swallowed up whole by the treeline like it had never been there at all. I couldn't make out the rooftops on the horizon anymore. There was no smoke or sound to indicate there was anything like civilisation nearby.

Lia was leading the way, map in had, and we were following a threadbare path through an underbrush that was literally bleeding thick and oil-dark shadows. Or Shadows. Whatever they were, they spilt out from between the roots of trees that had obviously been sketched by someone with a nervous condition and a hatred of symmetry. These dark reflections of the branches above us clawed lower, coiling like sleeping serpents to make our path seem narrower and narrower.

Mud was encrusting my new boots and each step was accompanied by a wet, sucking sound like the forest was trying to pull me beneath the ground, one ankle at a time. Which, considering some of the available evidence, felt like was actually a possibility. For example, the hands are frozen in the churned ground.

Just a glimpse - but I could see they were white, grimy and curled inwards like question marks—and then they were gone. These examples of those who the path had clearly held on to were half-glimpsed shapes jutting from the freshly turned earth, fingers spread in, assumingly, blind panic. I didn't stop to check. There are places you dig for survivors. This wasn't one of them.

So . . . This was all lovely.

Indistinct shapes kept twitching at the edge of my vision. Quick, half-glimpsed, and gone before I could look directly. Once, I thought I heard a voice whisper my name, but it might've just been the wind threading through the branches. Or the wind's cousin. The one that only visits places like this.

Still, it the grand scheme of things, none of this was what really had me truly rattled. No, that was what had happened back in the longhouse. The way that old man had spoken to me. What he'd said. The way he'd said it. About me. About Aunt M. About the Guardian.

Up ahead, Lia was in full don't-mess-with-me mode. Sword hilt under one hand, eyes scanning left and right like she was expecting trouble and planning to win the argument when it showed up. She wasn't flinching at the shifting light and didn't so much blink when something rustled in the trees just a little too close for comfort. She moved like someone used to going first into the dark.

Which was comforting, in a way. Also mildly terrifying.

Because the longer I watched her move like that the more it forced me to consider the fact I had no real idea what I was doing here. Not really. Especially as the forest didn't feel like it was playing along. It had me thinking. Not in a helpful, problem-solving way. In the other kind. The kind that leads to doubts you probably should've left in the bag.

Was this really still my story? Or had I slipped into someone else's and just not noticed yet? I picked up the pace a little, drawing level with her, trying to keep my voice light.

"Hey," I said.

She didn't slow down.

"No," she replied.

"Just one question."

Still nothing.

I figured I'd make a noble attempt anyway.

"Come on! You've got to owe me something here. What happened back there?" Nothing. I cleared my throat and kept going. "Because I don't know if you noticed, but that wasn't a normal conversation. That wasn't a 'contact.' I've seen black site debriefings that were more straightforward. And at least those usually came with coffee."

Lia walked on like I hadn't said anything.

I was starting to wonder if I'd actually gone unheard or if my lack of Charisma meant people were actually immunised against me entirely. So I tried again, quieter. "He knew things he shouldn't."

Still no reply.

"But sure," I said, mostly to myself, "let's not talk about the man who might well be a god in this realm. Or worse, might not be a god but still knows what's waiting for us in a forest no one wants to name."

The trail continued to narrow as we walked. The roots were thicker now, raised just enough to catch my foot if I wasn't paying attention. I tripped again, caught myself with a low curse, and kept going. I looked at Lia. Still ahead. Still not talking.

It struck me how easily she moved. Not elegant, not beautiful, just… straightforward. Like she already knew where every obstacle was. Like nothing here was a surprise. It made me wonder if I'd missed something in where I put my Progress Points. Or everything.

"I told you to be quiet," she said.

I nodded. "You did. And I respect that. I'm just suggesting it would be nice if I got the basic briefing before anything horrible happens. Nothing fancy. Just a little heads-up. A 'Hey, Eli, don't panic when the shadows start following us.' That kind of thing."

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Still nothing.

"Look, I get it," I added. "You don't owe me anything. But you did ask me to come with you. So, I'd really like to know what the rules are here."

I meant it. That was the thing. I wasn't looking for drama. I just needed to know if I was a player here or a pawn. There's a difference. One gets choices. The other gets moved.

Lia didn't answer straight away. But she did glance back. Just once. No eye-roll. No scowl. Not even a twitch of irritation. If anything, it was the sigh that gave her away—short, shallow, resigned. Not the 'shut up or die' kind I'd come to expect from her, but the quieter kind. The kind you give when someone's asked a question you really didn't want them to ask. Or when you know the answer isn't going to help anyone.

I took the sigh as an opening. I mean, it's not like she stabbed me for speaking. I was coming to learn that, in Lia's terms, that basically counted as an engraved invitation to keep going.

"Come on," I said. "There's not a lot of small talk in a cursed forest."

"You've got a lot of commentary for someone who's just backup on this job."

"Well, that's the problem, isn't it? I don't think I'm actually here as a backup."

"Eli, this realm isn't a game. It's not a story. And you're not our protagonist. You're just a guy who's wandered into the middle of a war, and you'd do well to figure out which side you're on before you become a liability."

"So that's what all this is about, is it? Sides? Rebels or Empire. Those are the only choices in this world?"

"You want to know how this world works? Fine. Everyone's got a Class, and everyone seeks to build themselves up over time. Warrior, Rogue, Mage, Healer—whatever. I'm a Warrior, and I've specced into Speed and Strength. At my level, I can take hits, sure. But on something like this, a bit of backup is useful. And that's all you are. My backup."

"Well, Mr 'the Watch is empty… and the Veil thins. Will you be sufficient?' I probably would argue things a bit differently, but we can leave that for now. How come you're so much higher level than anyone else in Sablewyn?"

"I get all the quests no one else wants. Or can do."

"Because of your father's debts?"

She didn't look at me. "Yes."

I regretted asking. I didn't say anything else for a moment. Just walked beside her while the forest pressed in. Then, I asked quietly: "And do most people just stick to their archetypes?"

"Mostly," she said. Seemingly happy to be talking about something else. "But it's not as rigid as you seem to think. Everyone has got flexibility to build how they want. But, obviously, if you go too hard in one direction, you lose something else. It's about balance."

I was dying to ask to see her Core Sheet, but I didn't think this was likely to be a good moment. Instead, I thought I'd try to shake the sauce bottle on what had happened back in the longhouse. "And I guess the guy back there wasn't just any old informant, was he?"

"No. He was a Quest Giver."

There was no drama in how she said it. No awe or ceremony. Just the plain statement of fact, like calling someone a baker or a butcher. Someone does the job, and someone else receives it. The universe keeps turning.

"That seems a bit of a grand title for someone hiding in a rotted-out building quoting half-remembered prophecies."

"And yet, here we are. On the path he set for us."

Right. Okay.

"Each person is given a path," Lia continued, tone shifting slightly—as if slipping into something learned by rote. "But it's up to the individual whether we walk it. The Maker places their Quest Givers and sets the shape of the trail. However, the steps we take and the quests we accept are always our own. Some of us get access to more quests to choose from than others. And some are able to get others to complete their quests for them."

It sounded like scripture. Which always made my skin crawl. There's something about a phrase delivered with too much certainty - like it's been boiled down, polished smooth, and passed through a thousand mouths until no one remembers who first said it or why - that kicks every old warning instinct into life. And I couldn't help but think that a System that hands out free will like ration cards, then tells you to be grateful for the serving size, was not one I was ever going to kneel to.

"That sounds," I said carefully, "suspiciously like a line you've heard in a sermon."

"Which is because it is. The man we met in the longhouse? He serves the Maker. He's not a priest, exactly, but you can think of him as one if it helps. Quest Givers are intermediaries between you and the Maker. Or vessels, if you like. None of them see the whole shape of things, but enough to be able to nudge each of us along our bit of it. Sometimes, they're straightforward. Other times, as back there, it's all riddles and performative crypticism. But that's what they are. The Will speaks. They pass it on."

The Will? The Pattern? The Maker? Words that wore their capital letters like little crowns. Like the Veil and the Threshold. Until I'd fled to London at sixteen, I'd grown up in a house full of those. My parents had been religious. Properly, unblinkingly, turn-the-other-cheek-then-report-it-to-Heaven religious.

And my dad had always said that we were all given names for a reason. That there was weight in them. Calling me Elijah wasn't just sentiment. It was a hope. A marker. I was the one who calls down fire. The prophet who stood alone.

No pressure, obviously.

I'd never said it out loud—because what's the point in pissing on gravestones?—but I always thought it a bit rich. Giving someone a name like that, then raising them in a world that had already made up its mind about who they were allowed to be. There's a kind of arrogance to it. A smugness in assuming there's a grand design at work and your job is to fit neatly into it like a puzzle piece. No deviation. No redraws.

Obviously, as a result, I've spent most of my adult life running in the other direction. My work with Griff suited that. None of that was about belief, it was about doubt. About reading people, systems and gaps. Choosing the door no one else saw. Being a ghost in a story someone else thought they were writing.

So, no. I didn't like people handing out Paths with a capital P. And I especially didn't like the idea that someone out there was nudging the pieces into place just for little old me.

But if Lia was right, then the man in the longhouse wasn't just some addled hermit spouting riddles. He was plugged into something bigger. A mouthpiece for the system. The system I was now part of, whether I liked it or not. And a system that had known my Aunt and wanted me to follow in her footsteps.

"So, the Maker sets the world in motion. People like him push it along. And the rest of us… what? We're just players on the board?"

"Depends how far you make it across the board."

She picked her way over a tangle of roots, not breaking stride. "From what I understand, your freedom grows with your strength. The more you level, the more quests you get access to and the more say you get in how your story unfolds. For those who are able to level up, the Maker steps back. Hands off the reins. You get to build something of your own."

"That's comforting," I said. "Earn your autonomy. Progression as a moral metric. All very healthy."

"Low-levels walk the rails. High-levels shape them," she said simply.

But still. That man in the longhouse hadn't just been an eccentric recluse with prophetic quirks. He'd been the System, or at least its representative. And that made what was happening to me here was part of something bigger. Which reinforced that I hadn't stumbled into a cursed forest with a grumpy party lead and a dodgy compass. I'd been sent.

Sent to where the Veil was thin. Where the Alchemist had set up shop. Sent by a man who knew my name and called me Warden with no invitation.

It also meant, uncomfortably, that Lia was right. I was on a path. I just hadn't agreed to walk it yet. And that raised the more important question:

What happens when you decide to walk a different way?