Aggro Litrpg || Progression Fantasy

"Suggestions?" I said, my voice a little tighter than I wanted it to be. I was already checking for Worker Tasks in the Management Console, but unless one of my Shadowborn had recently levelled up into All That Is Good and Punchy, we weren't exactly spoiled for options.

Scar just stared into the trees. "You stall them. Make it look like you've got more muscle than you do. Face them down so that they don't think it's worth the effort to attack right now."

Face them down. Yeah, sure. Me. Eli. Level 3 Tank with a morningstar and a personality stat in the negative. Me and my ghost builders. Me and my rapidly escalating property portfolio.

So be it.

I squared my shoulders, watched those red dots creep closer, and waited.

I turned to ask him another question and caught sight of Scar and the rest of his crew fading back into the trees. They weren't exactly running for the hills, if you get me, but neither, clearly, were they choosing to stand at my side. As he made his own way into the woods, Scar gave me a grimace which was rather more apologetic than I would have liked.

"We've seen this all before," he said in response to my wounded look. "Rebels don't come in soft. They'll send someone to fuck you up before you can get properly established. Doubly so, as you are on an Accumulation Pool. Look, we've fought for too many causes that weren't worth the spilt blood to stand with you right now. If you're still standing after this, we'll keep helping you build. But none of us is going to die for you. Not until you prove you're actually worth the sacrifice."

"Right,' I said as my new allies retreated faster than the French at the first sign of a baguette shortage." So... what, you're just going to leave me to it?"

"Not leaving as such. Just... waiting. We'll see how you play your hand. We've been burned too many times before to waste more lives on yet another 'saviour'."

I thought that was pretty harsh, all things considered. He was the one who rocked up at my door and asked to be able to join my village. I'd hardly petitioned for his support! I opened my mouth to berate him, but nothing came out, and, before inspiration hit me for something really cutting, Scar's group had melted into the background like shadows, disappearing into the treeline.

Same old Eli, Griff's voice echoed in my head. Always one moment too slow with the comeback.

The clearing suddenly felt wider and emptier than it had before. It was just me and the nearly complete Village Hut, the Storage Shed, and my game little Shadowborn, who didn't seem to care that a literal army was about to roll in. Good for them. Glad they had my back.

And then the Rebels arrived.

At first, it was just the sound. A wet, squelching noise, like someone dragging a sack of rotten meat down a gravel path.

I instinctively lowered my stance with my knees bent and the weight balanced on the balls of my feet. It was the kind of move that, back on Earth, had been automatic. A split-second edge before knives came out or fists flew. It was the kind of muscle memory that had kept me breathing through the worst parts of my old life. Here, it felt like I was bringing a tea towel to a gunfight.

I adjusted my grip on the morningstar. The leather haft was slick with rain, cold and solid in my palm. Good. At least it didn't care that my entire combat doctrine boiled down to move fast, hit first and run faster. Somehow, I didn't think that was going to fly here.

Wielding a weapon like this was going to be about standing there, grinning through bloodied teeth, and daring the other guy to blink first. Which, funnily enough, matched my current strategic options exactly.

Stand, fight and swing the medieval wrecking ball like my life depended on it. Which, to be fair, it probably did. I rolled the morningstar once in my hands, feeling the heavy drag of it, the pendulum weight that demanded commitment. I couldn't half-swing this thing. I'd need to pick a target, make peace with the consequences, and follow through like your soul was stapled to the blow.

The noise was getting closer now, and there were voices too, punctuated by the occasional snorting laugh, that suggested the joke was going to be very much on me.

Through the trees, the first glint of something metallic flashed, and my minimap flared a fresh shade of oh-no-thank-you red. Outriders. About thirty and light recon, by the look of them. Fast, nasty, and built to pull villages like mine apart piece by piece until nothing was left but a campfire story warning the next idiot to move along.

I straightened up fully, planting my boots in the mud.

"Okay then," I said under my breath. "Let's find out if dying twice gets you a loyalty card."

The Rebels appeared at the edge of my clearing, riding low to the ground on strange, insect-like creatures, with segmented legs that skittered over the dirt. Their riders were ragged, with patchwork armour and hollow eyes. None of them looked like they were going to ask to braid my hair. But those guys weren't the worst part.

No, that was the massively fat guy leading them.

No. 'Fat' doesn't do this guy justice. 'Fat' suggests the arrival of Father Christmas. Maybe a jolly, Hagrid-style fellow taking a bite from a chicken leg as he sauntered in, shaking his belly like jelly. This dude, though? Yeah, he was something else entirely. He was a hulking mass of flesh that defied all logic of biology, physics and the abilities of tailoring.

He, or at least I assumed it was a "he," was the size of several men combined, but joined together in all the wrong places. His body seemed to sag, layers of podge rolling over each other like mountains of gelatine released to roam. His armour barely held itself together, leather straps digging into pillowy folds of flesh, while his legs were spread obscenely wide to accommodate his grotesque stomach.

The sight was so appalling, so unnerving, that I somehow couldn't look away. It was like some kind of weird carnival of body horror, with the features of his face obscured by waves of sagging, bloated skin.

I'm going to be honest, I didn't really take to him. Lord knows what he was going to make of my -2 Charisma…

The giant porker drew his crew up a decent distance away from me and heaved himself down from the unfortunate thing he was squashing, his feet hitting the ground with a sickening thud. Just that motion clearly exhausted him, and he spent some time panting, his breath coming in huge gulps, and his eyes gleaming with something that looked far too close to hunger for comfort.

"Well, well, well," he burbled. "If it isn't the realm's newest Warden."

"Apparently so," I said. "And who are you? The guy who ate his entire chain of command?"

The grotesque figure grinned, his lips parting to reveal rows of blackened teeth. "I'm Berker. And you seem to be squatting on one of the Rebellion's Accumulation Pools." Berker's voice was like all the grain in the world being stuffed down the throat of a goose. There was a strange delight in it, like he was savouring the moment before tearing into me. I half-expected him to just order my execution, but instead, his fat fingers disappeared into a sagging fold of his body and pulled something out.

It was a rolled-up scroll. But not like the one Katya had given me. This one flickered, shifting between its solid form and glowing, glitching pixels. As if this reality couldn't quite decide what it wanted to be.

With no further ado, Berker tossed the scroll at my feet, for it to immediately unfurl all on its own, transforming into a big hexagonal grid that superimposed itself on the ground between us. At the same time, a pile of black and white stones materialised in neat stacks beside each of us—black by Berker, white by me. Each of them glowed as if they were, in some way, alive.

In the middle of the board that had just sprung up, a smaller version of my Well of Ascension sat: a little circular depression, carved into the board. Except this wasn't just some background detail. I could feel its low thump-thump pulling at me

Above the game board, glowing letters burned themselves into my vision:

> [System Quest: Puzzle of the Threshold]

> Objective: Defend the Well of Ascension from Pattern Collapse.

> Rules: Unstated. Contextual Learning Required.

> Victory Condition: Well Integrity Maintained for 10 Turns.

> Failure Condition: Well Breach or Player Defeat.

> Reward: Threshold Fortification Protocol | Trait: "Strategic Instinct" (Passive - Tier 1)

> Advisory: No external assistance permitted. Memory and intent are your only allies.

And then, just as quickly, the words blinked out again. I was a touch disappointed by the no handy 'this is what the glowing stones do' infographic.

"Defend the Well?" I said. "Sure. I'll get right on that. Maybe later we can play Minesweeper on Expert while getting shot at."

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

I looked over the board, letting my brain do what it had always been best at: pattern recognition, spatial awareness, reading the invisible pressure points in a space and figuring out which one would collapse first. It didn't even feel like a conscious effort by now. Just the old gears spinning up like they'd never stopped. Maybe Katya wasn't the only one who'd been let carry over some of the old instincts.

Hexagons. Lines. Intersections. At first glance, it wasn't Checkers, but I thought it had the same basic tension. Position was power, and the weight of control would come down to who could shape the flow better. It wasn't exactly Go either, though there was something in the spacing that reminded me of that slow suffocation strategy where you looked to steadily starve your opponent of options.

Whatever it was, I recognised the fundamentals. Games like this weren't about winning fast. They weren't about heroic charges or glorious sacrifices. They were about patience and recognising the rhythm of movement before your opponent did, about knowing when to tighten the noose and when to let them run themselves ragged chasing opportunities that were already closed.

For the first time since waking up in Bayteran, I didn't feel like I was stumbling along behind someone else's plan. No, this sort of thing, I understood. This was closer to the world I used to live in.

Waiting, watching, interpreting the minute shifts in behaviour, in body language, in tone. Reading the room. Reading the play. Setting the bait, then letting someone else walk into the trap all on their own.

The basic truth was that if you could understand the pattern—really understand it—you didn't have to beat your opponent; you could make them beat themselves.

And judging by what I'd seen so far of Berker, I didn't reckon I was up against a grandmaster here. He wasn't exactly radiating 'patience and forethought' energy. (And yes, alright, I know I was being shallow, but seriously, this guy had 'zero impulse control' practically tattooed across his forehead. You don't build a body like that without a compulsive need for instant gratification.)

Which meant my play would be simple. Let him burn his energy trying to break it. Let him overreach, let him slip, and when he did—snap.

The fat guy's yellowed fingers hovered over his pile of black stones. "The rules of this game are nice and simple, Warden. You win, you get to squat here for a bit longer. I win, ownership of the Well passes to me, and you become surplus to requirements. You get me?" he asked, his ugly smirk wide.

I shrugged. "Mate, with the size of your arse, you could just sit on the Well and win by default."

Berker ignored me and placed his first black stone near the Well, just a few spaces off-centre. In response, the Well pulsed as if reacting to the stone's presence. I felt a ripple—not just in the air, but in the fabric of reality itself. Whoa. Cool your jets, Eli. Friends don't let friends use phrases like 'fabric of reality itself'. Don't let yourself get carried away just because you're stressed. Well, whatever. It looked to me that Berker's move had made the Well... more inclined to him?

I weighed a white stone in my hand. Berker was obviously going to load up at the centre, and it seemed like the Well would change allegiance based on… what? The number of stones near it? Or would different configurations be more attractive to it?

It didn't make sense that the game would just be about who plonked down as many stones in the middle as possible; games like this weren't always won by brute force. There was more to it, and, somehow, I could feel that balance would be key. Just because Berker was going for control of the centre didn't mean that guaranteed victory. This wasn't a game of Noughts and Crosses, was it?

Playing a hunch, I placed my first stone far from the Well, near the very edge of the board. In response, there was a subtle shift in the power pulsing from the Well, the balance tugging slightly in my direction. Okay, so that seemed to work as I'd hoped. No point fighting for the centre of the board yet. Not if I could manage to surround him.

Berker planted another stone close to his first. "Running away already, Warden? How very atypical for one of your Class. I was hoping you'd be inclined to stand and fight!"

Yeah, loading up in the middle of the board was his plan. Reinforcing his control of the centre, spreading his influence directly around the Well. That made sense. Then the Well pulsed again, brighter now, like it was drawing energy from all the stones. Although… Interesting. Was the game well more white than black?

After all, I wasn't trying to fight his position directly, I was looking to outmanoeuvre him. It definitely seemed that this game was about what positions you took on the board. About what you made your opponent give up. I placed another white stone, this time toward the opposite edge of the board.

Berker's eyes flicked to my move, and for a split second, I saw the doubt, especially as the Well responded and glowed even brighter white. His brow furrowed, then he threw down another stone, again closer to the Well, seeking to consolidate his position.

But I was sure I was right here. I actually knew the rules of this game. I'd played it before, long ago. The realisation hit me somewhere between my third and fourth move, slipping up from the back of my brain like a half-forgotten lyric suddenly snapping into perfect focus.

Not exactly this version, not with glowing runes and magical Well proxies. But the skeleton of it, the rules underneath the flash and the mystery? Yeah. I remembered now. A rainy Summer's afternoon. Halfway Hold. The smell of burnt toast and damp carpet and me, hunched over a battered hex board that Aunt M had dug out of a cupboard.

"You want to win, Elijah?" Aunt M had said, flipping a stone between her fingers like a Vegas card shark. "Don't play where your opponent wants you to play."

I remembered sitting there, all elbows and frustration, as she ran rings around me, explaining in that maddeningly patient way she had that control wasn't about being right in the middle of the fight. It was about owning everything around the fight so completely that the other guy didn't even notice he'd lost until you were sweeping the pieces into your pocket.

"If you try to go strength for strength," she'd said, "you'll always lose to someone bigger, faster or louder. Let them think they're winning while you quietly steal the bloody board out from under them."

Berker's focus was narrow, tight, desperate.

Every move he made dug him deeper toward the centre, hammering stones into the spaces around the miniature Well, like he thought brute force would solve the problem. And me? I was playing the edges. Slowly, carefully, laying stones out wide, building structure where he wasn't even looking.

If I tried to beat him at his own game, tried to muscle into the centre with him, I was screwed.

He went first; he'd always be one stone ahead and would always have the tempo. But if I took Aunt M's advice and refused to fight him there, if I refused the shape of the game he thought he was playing, I could make my own victory condition.

Out here, on the rim of the board, I had options and space to breathe. And eventually, if I did it right, I wouldn't need to touch the Well at all. I already owned everything that mattered.

I smiled, just a little, the memory of Aunt M's faintly mischievous grin ghosting in my mind. Apparently, she'd been teaching me Warden 101 years before either of us knew I'd need it.

> [System Notification: Warden Pattern Recognition Triggered]

> Memory Echo: Halfway Hold – Board Studies with Margaret Meddings (Verified)

> Tactical Insight Applied:

> • Board Awareness +15% (temporary)

> • Opponent Impulse Read: Minor Predictive Boost

> System Commentary:

> Some lessons outlast death. Play the whole board, not just the middle.

I shifted another stone into position without rushing, feeling a tiny, satisfying tug as the threads of the game shifted ever so slightly in my favour.

Berker was still hammering forward, still convinced the centre was the only thing that mattered. Good, let him. Because by the time he realised what was actually happening, it was going to be far, far too late. Then I set my next stone down—and let the trap start to close.

Berker's grin faltered as we continued to drop stones until, after only a few minutes, I was near to cutting off his central cluster and the Well was whiter than mayo on bread. He finally placed a black stone on the outer edge in direct challenge, but I could see his focus shift. He was realising his mistake, and much too late.

His moves became frantic, trying to block my pieces now, but every time he reinforced his position, he left more of his own stones vulnerable. I placed stone after stone, gradually locking his pieces in, while mine were able to expand freely. The Well kept pulsing whiter and whiter.

And then we were at the endgame. Berker slammed a stone down near the Well; he now had control of the whole of the middle of the board, for sure, but his stones were completely boxed in by mine. With one final stone, I completed the arc of white around his cluster. The Well pulsed once more, then all of his stones dimmed entirely. Berker's black stones were trapped, locked in a tiny fortress at the centre of the board. But the rest of the field? That was mine.

"A dishonourable way to play," he said, scattering the stones off the board with a swipe. "Only a cowardly Warden would behave in such a manner."

"Winner winner chicken dinner," I said, standing up.

> [System Notification: Puzzle Game Complete – Victory Achieved]

> Status: Threshold Defence Successfully Established

> Result:

> – Local Threshold Stability increased by +20%

> – Ambient Hostility Delay: +8 Hours

> – Fortification Barrier created around Village Anchor Zone (temporary, 72-hour duration)

> New Protocol Unlocked:

> > Threshold Fortification Protocol (Passive)

> > A protective barrier woven from ambient shadow energy now shields your village.

> > Reduces impact of first hostile incursion by 50%.

> > Fortification refreshes upon Village Hall upgrades or major construction completions.

> > Warning: Barrier integrity diminishes over time if not reinforced.

> [System Notification: Skill Gained – Strategic Instinct (Passive – Tier 1)]

> You have learned to see the whole battlefield, not just the obvious target.

> Effect:

> – +10% to situational awareness during defensive encounters

> – Slight predictive boost to reading enemy movements within 15m radius

> – +5% bonus to Group Morale when acting as a Command Node (party leader or settlement governor)

> > System Note: Sometimes winning isn't about strength.

> > It's about knowing where to stand.

Berker's twisted face faltered for a moment, his eyes narrowing to little pinpricks of hate. The puzzle grid blinked out of existence, and the clearing returned to normal, with the Well now surrounded by a shimmering barrier of light—apparently one that I'd just activated through winning the game.

Go me.

Berker took a step back, his massive form wobbling as he tried to regain his composure. The shock quickly turned to anger, his fleshy face twisting into a snarl. "You got lucky, Warden," he spat, his voice dripping with venom. "This isn't over. You might've activated the Well's defences, but you're still sitting on a pile of rubble. We'll be back, and next time, there will be no games; we'll bring the real storm." He took a lumbering step toward me, his eyes narrowing to slits. "We'll crush you and your little village into dust. No puzzle will save you from what's coming."

I held his gaze, the adrenaline still pulsing through my veins. "No bother. Be here anytime you want a rematch. Send some advanced warning, though, next time. I can make sure we have some chips and dips in. We can make a night of it."

Berker's eyes flicked toward the shimmering barrier around the Well, then back at me. With a disgusted snarl, he turned and heaved himself back onto his insect-like mount, the creature skittering under his weight. "We'll meet again, Warden, and when we do, I'll make sure your death is slow."