Aggro Litrpg || Progression Fantasy

I was saved from coming up with a snappy answer to that opening by the arrival of the waitress staggering under the weight of a tray. Now, I appreciate not everyone in this strange, spinning world may be familiar with the precise architecture of a 'full English breakfast', so allow me to segue into a brief guided tour of this national cardiac challenge.

Let us begin with describing the foundational slab of fried bread, because 'toast' simply lacks ambition. The three slices at the base of the plate were deep-crisped in oil until they could probably repel small arms fire. On top of them rested three sausages of uncertain lineage, hopefully pork-adjacent, but let us not let a little thing like that stand between friends. Beside them lounged a pile of bacon rashers so streaky they could have doubled as especially unhealthy candy canes. Then there were the eggs: twin fried specimens with yolks like jaundiced sun gods and whites that hissed and bubbled.

Not to be outdone, the backed beans were swimming in their little orange lagoon, most likely spooned lovingly from a can that had last seen sunlight during the Falklands War. Next to them was a mound of damp, brown fried mushrooms and half a tomato that had been grilled and blistered into surrender.

And finally, and this very much deserves its own paragraph, as a final garnish to this oil-slicked festival of cholesterol was a slab of black pudding. Again, if you are unfamiliar, this is dried blood in disc form. Never let it be said the UK doesn't do culinary adventure.

I'm fairly sure just being in the general vicinity of his plate caused me to lose ten Health Points.

But I picked up my fork and made a start. Because I'm British, and if something was going to try and kill me before noon, I was at least going to butter it first.

"That looks lovely," the old man said to the waitress, nodding at my plate. "Can I get one too?"

Our waitress gave a grunt-harrumph hybrid that suggested she'd either accepted the request or filed it under future vengeance. Then she vanished back into the kitchen.

I kept my attention on my food and steadfastly ignored my breakfast companion for as long as it felt socially practicable. I figured maybe if I just kept chewing, eventually he'd get bored and go back to being an enigmatic regional ghost or whatever role he was auditioning for today.

No such luck.

He simply sat and watched me eat. Not in a threatening way, exactly. Just with calm patience. His eyes never moved, and his expression didn't change whatsoever. He had the unnerving air of a man who could play chess without a board and win anyway.

In short, he reminded me of Aunt Margaret.

Then, just as everything was becoming astonishingly awkward, his breakfast arrived.

"Fantastic," he said. "Got any ketchup?"

Without waiting for our waitress's answer, he reached out and snagged the bottle from a nearby table and upended it over the black pudding

A second cup was added next to the table, and – without being asked - he picked up my teapot and poured us both a brew. I watched the milk swirl into my cup with the dawning realisation that I'd been completely outmanoeuvred by a man who kept Werther's Originals in three separate dimensional coat pockets.

However, he still did not speak as he tucked in. No conversation, just a fork, fried meat, and complete emotional disinterest.

I chewed slowly. He chewed slower. The only sound between us was a quiet crunch and the occasional clink of cutlery on cracked porcelain. It was, objectively, the tensest meal I'd ever had with someone who hadn't actually tried to murder me. Yet.

Eventually, the old man swiped a final triangle of fried bread across his plate to mop up the last of the bean juice, popped it into his mouth without further ceremony, and then leaned back in his chair. He belched loudly, patted his chest once, and fixed me with a look.

"You ready to talk yet?" he said.

I toyed with the idea of continuing to ignore him. Maybe I could lift my teacup with exaggerated elegance, sipping slowly, and staring at the wall. But then I remembered I was no longer seven years old. And, more to the point, this man seemed like he was an actual link to the world of Bayteran. I wasn't so overburdened with answers right now that I could afford to keep up this little charade.

"I don't know. Are you ready to be honest about who, or what, you are?"

"Ah," the old man said. "Are you being all sore about me not being upfront and honest with you when we met this morning?"

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"Just a little."

"Well boo-flipping-hoo." Ohand curled around his teacup and, as I watched, it refilled. "I wanted to see if introducing myself was going to be worth the hassle. It would hardly have been worth my time saying 'hello' if you got yourself shot to pieces five minutes later, would it?"

"Is 'surviving a drive-by' your usual metric for who's worth talking to?"

"To be honest, Warden," he said, not smiling, "yes. Yes, it very much is."

He drank deeply, and the tea vanished. He put it back on the table, and the cup was refilled.

"Look," I said. "You clearly know something about me, and I'm going to guess you know plenty about my aunt, too. Which means you're probably clued up on how I've ended up as a Warden with a respawn mechanic and a morningstar addiction. So, how about you cut the Obi-Wan routine and get to the bit where you tell me why you're here?"

"Forsyth said you'd be a treat."

"So glad I could brighten up your day.

"Okay, okay. How about I put some cards on the table?"

"That would be good."

"But only some of the cards."

"Which would be less good."

"Warden, you're simply not ready for the rest."

I closed my eyes for a moment and reminded myself that smacking pensioners, however satisfying the image, was generally frowned upon outside of specific Russian novels.

He obviously took my pained silence for permission to continue. "Things have been a bit ropey around here since your Aunt Margaret was taken off the board. It's been a long time since there was a Guardian who kept things stable. Especially one who didn't poke where she didn't have to. Those of us who appreciated that sort of discretion miss her."

"So do I."

He raised his eyebrows at that. "Seen much of her in the last ten years, did you?"

I let that one slide.

"Which brings me to why I was waiting outside Halfway Hold to have a look at our new Warden. Your sudden appearance – and then disappearance – is of some concern." He tapped his empty teacup with one finger.

"The last time a Warden crossed the Threshold both ways and lived to talk about it, we ended up with a three-decade drought in one realm, a flood in another, and a plague of robot monsters that devastated a whole civilisation."

"I don't understand."

"No, you don't." He pointed at me with the sugar spoon. "And that's the problem. Guardian Margaret was the business. You… well, I'll admit you've got some game. But, right now, you should be Wardening it up in Bayteran. None of us understands why you've come back here as a Warden. That's not how these things work, and it's making us nervous. Do you get me?"

"Well, I don't know about any of that, mate. I'm back here because Aunt M told me I needed to spend some time back on Earth in order to avoid some sort of psychic Alzheimer's. And, now I'm here, I'm going to take the opportunity to settle some scores."

"Margaret said what?" he asked.

"Aunt Margaret told me I needed to spend some time. To refresh. She said I'd start forgetting otherwise. That the System sees me as Warden, but, obviously, I'm not the Guardian yet, and I had to pace my journey."

He stared at me. And kept staring.

"Problem?" I said.

"That's not... that's not how we understand these things work. Not me. And not the others."

"Others? You're part of some cheerful secret society, then?"

"More like a gardening club with very strange entry requirements." The old man's expression was still very thoughtful. "We keep an eye on those who cross over. Try to catch 'em when they bounce back the first time. Help smooth the transition. Most don't even remember. You—" He gave me that same up-and-down look from the lane, but this time it wasn't suspicious. It was troubled. "You're Anchored. That's not supposed to happen so soon."

"Well, I'm not great with timetables," I said. "But if Margaret said I needed to come back and rest up, I'm listening. I trust her."

"As do I," he said, surprisingly quickly. "She saved this realm more than once in my lifetime. Kept the Barrier from folding in two summers ago. Burned out half her Sight doing it. So if she told you that…" He nodded. "Then that's what you do."

The atmosphere shifted, like the pub had exhaled. The old man sat back, teacup now empty, and regarded me differently. Less wary. More… professional. Like we were comparing notes in a safe house and only now getting to the real mission brief.

"That's the bit we never understood. Why Margaret stayed so long on this side between crossings. We thought she was just being cautious. Maybe even hiding. But it sounds like she might have been recovering. Letting her memory root. That's all very interesting. That changes things."

"Changes them how?"

He scratched his chin with a thumbnail that looked capable of opening a bottle cap. "Means there's still a piece missing. Something Margaret didn't tell even us. And she trusted you with it instead."

"Not sure trust is the right word," I said. "More like she died before she could get to the rest of the sentence."

"Maybe. Maybe not."

A long silence passed between us. Then, the old man suddenly stood and, without a word, he made his way toward the pub's exit. He pushed the door open, then turned back to face me. "You coming?"

I stayed seated a moment longer, then looked over to the bar. "Hang on. I haven't paid for my food."

"Don't worry about it. A Warden's money's no good here."

"That's not ominous at all."

"You'll eat for free wherever those of the Hunt can be found."

"Those of the Hunt?" I said. My stomach dipped, and not just from the industrial quantity of lard I'd just consumed. "I'm about to get wrapped up in some kind of ancient, complex, generational conspiracy quest here, aren't I?"

The old man turned back toward me, the corners of his eyes creasing. He looked like someone who'd seen too many winters and had come to terms with all of them.

Then he winked. "And how."