Apocalypse respawn

The next day, after a guard shift, in the evening and on Sengrar's advice, Rargnes finally visited his in-laws. People hurried home, crowding the streets shared by animals and humans, most returning from workshops paying them a pittance until they reached their attics. Rargnes went through the throng, hood over his head, and entered a closing shop.

"Rargnes, you're here!" the woman said with a friendly smile, though with a slight hesitation and a disturbed look that made Rargnes uncomfortable as he approached.

Standing before her, his height only reached her shoulders. She had much more prominent muscles than him, more massive, amplified by the apparent fact that she was a good eater - something men from this world seemed to like.

Rargnes approached the table and, with some regret, pulled a class upgrade token from his cloak. His passion—caused by those damn voices—had once again led him astray. He wasn't himself when he drank so much.

The expression on his mother-in-law's face softened. It was customary to offer a class promotion token worth the value of at least one excellent slave in the good families. Rargnes had always wondered how the economy hadn't collapsed with money magically flowing from the lord's classes, but, all things considered, the noble's territory was vast, and a dozen silver coins per month per human who chose the lord class wasn't that significant—their offspring, if any, would be born without a class, like the people from this world.

Of course, there were taxes on a slave's silver production, but these were often circumvented and reduced through bribes. Strange, when officials weren't supposed to be capable of lying, but it was said that the noble only resided in his capital when not waging war.

But while the price of silver was far less important than that of gold, the lord class allowed one to show his status and ensure the future of one's wife should an accident occur. It would provide barely enough in a city far from the frontier not to become a prostitute.

As a glint of greed flashed in his mother's eyes, he felt the token would never reach his future wife, Ava.

'I should have at least waited until after the battle,' Rargnes sighed inwardly. 'But if the worst happens, I'd prefer my murderers to gain as little as possible.'

And if injured or once they took the city's power, he might not have such a good family to marry.

He exchanged a few words and climbed the creaking stairs to the second floor, slightly tilted over the street, where Ava and her younger brother, the youngest of the family, were. The eldest was already married; the other three died.

Rargnes greeted them in what served as a bedroom for the entire family. The bed was made of a straw mattress on hardwood, with cushions and wool blankets. A wooden pot rested in a corner, emanating a smell he didn't wish to describe, which would soon be tossed from the second floor onto the street despite the prohibition.

They engaged in a brief, awkward conversation and agreed to try out the new equipment, half-paid for in exchange for their help.

He took out from his bag the iron knee protection he didn't know the name of, a sword, a mace, and chainmail, all energized and paid for at an astronomical sum by the clan's main branch. This was added to his helmet, whose gaps only allowed two large rectangles of view.

Behind him, his brother-in-law tied the knots of his leggings—no armor allowed total coverage. The smell inside the helmet was acrid. He checked the watch that showed 3 minutes and removed everything down to his gambeson.

The night was restless and unbearable, with the noise and bodies mingling in the only bed. He regretted leaving the servant's attic for this mess.

He woke up exhausted in the morning while his mother-in-law accompanied him to the street with a gentle word. Rargnes left the shop, wondering.

'Mom... I wonder if she's alright.'

It was unlikely, and yet... suddenly, his imagination made him see her blood-soaked corpse in her home. If his starting point had been different if he had lived in the same city as his mother, could he have saved her? The mother of future versions wouldn't be his, though he didn't know if that mattered to him. He just wanted... to see her. At least to know if she was safe or even alive.

'I suppose it's like selection,' he mentally shook his head. 'What's the point in fighting against what you can't beat?' Rargnes looked at the sky. It would have only taken the system changing his memories, and he would be a completely different person. He lit a thick cigar and then resumed walking down the street. He recognized several faces and tried to memorize all his enemies, shops, and locations, regularly pointing them out to a third party.

From time to time, the militia composed of the bourgeoisie—the only people authorized to carry weapons within the city—passed by. He had been told the attack would come soon. When most allies would take charge of the militia and all preparations were ready, the city could be taken and their enemies slaughtered. The idea of writing a will came to him, but he refused to prepare for death if he had time to prepare for life.

He sighed and sat on a large rock in the undeveloped areas of the city. The city made no sense: the streets were narrow but disordered, extending beyond the walls, yet the interior was filled with emptiness. He almost dozed off under the harsh sun, hearing the voices of passersby.

His eyes widened. Had he just heard Spanish? He regained his composure and looked around but couldn't detect them. He shook his head, wondering if they were strangers who happened to be there during the selection or if they came from another noble's territory. Better if they weren't enemy mercenaries, he thought.

'The slaughterhouse doesn't need more prey.'