Aggro Litrpg || Progression Fantasy

The first sign that the Rebels were approaching was, once more, the blowing of a horn. Which I did think was a nicely archaic touch to an upcoming slaughter. The noise was a low 'moo' like the rumble of a giant cow, but with a menacing undercurrent that made my teeth itch. It was a sound that said something awful was on its way, and it wasn't going to be in any hurry to clean up after itself.

Which, now I think about it, is quite a specific sound, isn't it?

I was hovering near the Medical Hut, watching Lia's recovery bar crawl forward like it had nowhere better to be and had decided to smell the daisies. Ninety-one per cent. Ninety-one point one. Ninety-one point one-five. It wasn't exactly a speed run.

I was willing it faster, as if standing nearby might somehow make the System feel guilty. But it didn't. The bar just ticked up in quiet, methodical defiance of how much I really needed a Level 7 murder machine to be conscious sometime before the upcoming battle.

Which was, of course, when the archers appeared.

There were eight of them, and each of them slipped easily through the treeline. As soon as they were clear of the trees, they spread out along the far edge of the village, shortbows loose but clearly ready. Their leather armour was scuffed and stained and smeared with ash and mud in a pattern that probably meant something to someone.

They made an impressive sight. Hard and weathered, like they'd already survived the worst of what Bayteran could throw at them and weren't feeling too sentimental about the memories.

Any idea occurred to me and I concentrated on the space above their heads, which brought up an overlay that displayed their Levels: three, four, three, three, four, four... all roughly in line with me. Which, frankly, didn't seem like good news. I looked back at the Medical Hut. Nope, still not ready to come and back me up.

A second wave followed behind the archers. Another eight, armoured in mismatched chain and reinforced leathers. They carried short spears and curved sideblades, which I thought were more for gutting than fencing. I pinged their levels and saw they were mostly twos and threes.

They fanned out in a loose line in front of the archers. Not attacking. Yet.

I adjusted my stance and began lazily swinging my morningstar. It wasn't for show, more like keeping myself loose while my brain scrambled for an actual plan.

How many of the archers could I pull to Rage attack me? That was the first question. I hadn't stress-tested the upper limit of Aggro Magnetism yet. The Ability appeared to work fine when the enemies clustered in close, but I hadn't tried to fight these sorts of numbers before. Aunt M hadn't exactly left me a manual.

Besides, it didn't take a tactical genius to realise there was no way what appeared to be a disciplined group of archers was going to let me stroll within five metres just so I could ping them with my best Ability. Even if I could pull a couple of them, the rest would move out of range, reposition, and keep peppering me. That's what trained ranged units did. They didn't brawl unless something had gone very, very wrong.

Which meant I was going to be soaking arrows while trying to hold spear infantry at bay. All eight of them. Possibly more, if there were still more surprises for me beyond the treeline. My Aggro draw would the spearman in for sure, but that was only good news if I didn't go down in the first volley.

Obviously, standing here and fighting, though, was pie-in-the-sky thinking. Wishful theorycraft. Holding eight of either unit type would be a nightmare. Trying to manage both at once? Sixteen on one? That bordered on the delusional. Scar had made the right call in getting out of Dodge. I wasn't made of stone, I couldn't tank this much incoming.

The old me was already scanning the terrain for exits. Fallback routes. Soft cover. Anything I could use to turn the field without abandoning it. Because I couldn't run. Lia, a key enemy of these guys, was inside the Medical Hut behind me. If these guys were keen on making mincemeat of me, that was to nothing what they'd have planned for her.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

So yeah. No running.

But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't wishing I still had my old exit protocols.

And then the day got even better when a group of mounted figures appeared. I mean, let's be honest, I'm going to get absolutely pounded as it is, so bringing out the cavalry felt somewhat like overkill. There were another eight of them – was eight a default Bayteran unit? - and each sat on horses that looked more dead than alive. They were massive, rotting things with patches of hair that hung loose from skeletal frames. The riders wore thick, spiked armour and carried heavy warhammers slung across their backs. Awesome. I always loved me a Paladin when I gamed. Flexible thinkers. Easy going. Chilled-out entertainers.

Maximising the tension, it was only when they were in position that Berker rode out to join them.

I'd thought he was intimidating the first time I saw him. That had been an understatement. Intimidating didn't come close. Intimidating was a look, a tone, a trick of light and posture. Right now, it was something else. This was the kind of entrance that rewrote local weather systems. The big guy didn't so much arrive as descend, and he'd come dressed for business. No theatrics. No swagger. Just raw, oppressive intent.

His horse, or what passed for one, wasn't the beast he'd ridden before; this one was bloated with slabs of fat and corded muscle that were at war beneath its skin so that it could barely hold itself upright. Its legs were obviously far too thin for its girth, and it wobbled with every tortured step. Its joints shuddered, and its hooves sank deep into the wet earth.

And somehow, despite all that, Berker still managed to look the uglier of the two.

He slid off the beast with all the momentum in the world, hitting the ground like a collapsing meat wall. The impact sent up a soft spray of dirt, and something that might've once been breath wheezed out of his nose.

The stench arrived a heartbeat later because his body was pouring sweat. Greasy, yellow-grey skin gleamed and glistened like someone had tried to baste him for roasting and killed themselves halfway through the endeavour. His neck had completely vanished, so that his cheeks rolled into his chest and shoulders like flesh on tour.

His face was managing to look far worse than before, too. Somehow. It was a complete collapse of features, with his eyes hidden by folds and red lips that were lost in the general avalanche of jowl. It was like he'd been sculpted from wax by someone angry with clay. And the grin, when it came, revealed teeth like rotting tombstones, each one blackened and listing.

"So, Warden," Berker said. "Are you looking forward to round two? I fear, however, we will not be playing any more games this day."

I let the silence build. I'd been in situations like this before. Not with spears and archers and whatever Berker technically counted as, obviously, but the overall – you know - setup was familiar. One guy against a crew. Terrible odds. Not enough time to properly plan what to do. My old job wasn't always about the instant win, though. Sometimes it was just not dying long enough for a solution to present itself. I'd wriggled free from tighter scrapes than this before.

Granted, back then I hadn't had a -3 Charisma, a party of one, or a massive fat ogre leading the opposition. But still. I figured the principle held.

Berker came forward, each step sending little Jurassic Park-style ripples through the puddles on the ground. His bulk rolled with every movement, and the folds of his fat cascaded with the rhythm of his feet sinking into the earth. He was all wheezing breath and smug eyes, and his grin hadn't shifted since the moment he arrived.

He held up a hand, and the archers lifted their bows in unison, arrows nocked and resting loose on the string. At the same time, the spearmen took a step forward, and the horsemen began slowly circling around me, the hooves squelching in mud.

Berker stopped outside my Aggro Magnetism field, sweat beading down his forehead "Okay," he wheezed, licking his cracked lips with a thick, glistening tongue. "As I say, I am not here to mess around. You were warned. You were given a chance to leave this place. You didn't. And now here we are."

He gestured vaguely at the village, as if my barely-standing palisade was the cause of a great diplomatic betrayal.

"You're harbouring a known Empire enforcer," he went on. "And that doesn't sit too well with us."

"Pretty sure hospitality's not a crime."

"No, no. Not a crime. Just a symptom. Of indecision. Of weakness. Of playing both sides, which, to us, is basically the same as being a traitor."

"Funny," I said. "The Empire's messenger said the same thing about siding with you lot."

"Then perhaps they're not wrong either," he said, "But we don't pretend. You're either with us or—"

"Against you?" I offered.

He leaned forward, voice dropping into a conspiratorial rasp. "Nah. You're with us, or you're dead."