The Lesser One Arc 1: Last Chapter: Ghost

Ghost

I wake up to a doorbell ringing. When I stand up, I realize all my clothes from yesterday are still on, complete with bloodstains. I want to change, but I have to answer the door first. It’s probably nothing.

I open the door to reveal a man in a bright red bellboy’s shirt. He bows and hands me two envelopes.

“I have been sent from her majesty’s court,” he says. “Please respond as soon as possible.” He then bows again and turns around.

I close the door, holding two envelopes in my hands. Both of them are marked with a royal seal.

I open the first.

You have been cordially invited to a specially scheduled Garden Party to celebrate the taming of Portal U-375. Present this invitation at the door.

Below is an address that I recognize to be Buckingham Palace.

Well then. They said there would be a party.

The next envelope is also from the Queen. It requests an audience tomorrow at two. I can make that!

The party is tonight. Before then, I have to fulfill my contract with Esmex, though at this point it feels a little bit anticlimactic considering what I’ve been through recently.

I take a hot shower, change into some clothes I find folded next to my bed, and make sure to put on deodorant. I walk out of the room and take the elevator to the floor with my lab. Since this is the Esmex building, I don’t even have to leave it.

Two conjurers are already there. The rest arrive before the day officially starts, and I spend the rest of my working hours trying to teach these people how to make Rearden Metal.

I think they’re showing promise!

When I return to my apartment after the working day is over, I see a formal dress neatly folded on the table in the living room. I put it on and look at myself in the mirror. I look a lot better than I thought I would, though I’m still not satisfied with my hairstyle.

Oh well. I’ll get someone to fix it eventually. I head to the elevator.

Sebastian meets me in the entrance lobby. He bows. “Master,” he says.

I follow him into the limousine, and we drive through London until we reach Buckingham Palace. There are already a lot of fancy cars waiting to drop off their important people.

I am dropped off at the entrance to the palace. A pair of men dressed in red uniforms escort me to the garden inside the castle. There are already several dozen dignitaries and high-level adventurers milling about, drinking fine wine and eating hors d’ouevres.

I see Crayton, but I don’t see Alice. I approach Crayton and greet him politely.

“Ah, Markus,” says Crayton. “I assume you want to know how Alice is doing.”

I nod. It’s no use beating around the bush. “Is she okay?” I say.

Crayton shakes his head. “She took a huge blast of psionic energy. She should be medically fine, but she just won’t wake up.” He shakes his head, though I can tell he is very, very worried about her. Then he seems to brighten up a bit. “I hear your efforts with Rearden Metal are coming to fruition,” he says.

I nod. “Yeah,” I say. “I think at least some of the conjurers you hired are getting it.”

“Well, then keep at it,” says Crayton. He seems to want to avoid talking about anything but superficial things regarding Alice.

I don’t know what to talk about next. The party seems to be going well, and everyone looks happy, but I have a feeling that everything here is fake and plastic. But what could I expect? This is high English society at its finest.

A man wearing a tan suit approaches me. He extends his hand, a smile on his face.

“I’m Raputin Drommel,” he says.

I shake his hand.

Raputin nods. “It’s nice to finally meet you. Everyone is talking about what you did for the country. And you’re from America! I never knew those Yankees had it in them!”

“Well, we did win both World Wars,” I say, mostly intending it as a joke.

Raputin frowns for a split second and then is smiling at me again. “Ha! A fine sense of humor we have here.” He tilts his head. “So tell me. How did a young man, so clearly still in high school, attain the sought-after designation as an S-class adventurer?”

“I killed a balrog,” I say. “With a little help. A, uh, Dungeon Striker missile did most of the work, but I was the one who pointed it.”

Raputin gives me a false grin. “Very interesting! I’ll do my best to convince the government to invest in more of those! I heard they were very instrumental at the Battle of Crickhowell?”

I am about to shake my head, but then think better of it. I don’t want to reveal how small the effect of those super-expensive missiles was against an army of A-class monsters. I certainly don’t want to burst the military’s bubble and discourage more research into anti-dungeon monster technology.

I do my best to smile. “Yes, they certainly turned the tide.” I pause. “I recognize you. You were at the battle, right?”

“Just for a moment,” says Raputin. “I’m the guild leader of the Green Blazes. They evacuated me when it got too hectic.” He sighs. “I wish I could have seen those beautiful Dungeon Striker missiles in action.” He winks at me. “I helped design them, after all.”

“Just a little bit,” says another man, who approaches from the center of the garden. He extends his hand. “Icarus Oppenburg. Leader of the Rocking Shooters’ Guild.” He puts his arm around Raputin. “Don’t listen to this man’s bragging. He barely did anything for the Dungeon Striker program.”

Raputin seems to be taking the downsizing well. “Ha! And you didn’t do anything,” he says. “At least my guild fought better than yours at the battle!”

Icarus smirks. “Of course, my good sir,” he says. “But our guild had the oh-so-important job of evacuating citizens. How many peoples’ lives did you directly save by charging in there like a mad beast?”

Raputin winks. “More than you would imagine,” he says. “My guild is formed of only the best adventurers!” He looks at me with a strange expression. “Would you like to join the Green Blazes?”

I shake my head. “I’ve already made a deal with the Blue Dryads. Plus, I belong to another guild back home, the Riding Valkyries.”

“Pah,” says Raputin. “That corporate bunch leading the Blue Dryads has no soul. They’re like the McDonalds’ of adventuring guilds,” he says. “And I don’t know anything about American guilds, but I don’t recognize the Riding Valkyries.”

“You wouldn’t,” I say. “It’s a small guild.”

Raputin frowns. “You’re an S-class adventurer,” he says. “You should be with a big, famous, and well-led guild. Like mine!”

Icarus shakes his head. “No, your guild isn’t as famous as mine,” he says.

“When you read the last guild popularity poll,” Raputin says, “The Green Blazes top the Rocking Shooters!”

“That was a recent upset!” says Icarus. “The Rocking Shooters have been on top a lot more than you!’

I bow, and retreat from the oncoming storm, taking it upon myself to wander around the garden’s edges. The people at this party seem to be ignoring me for the most part. Perhaps I just don’t have the pedigree to deal with these kinds of people. I’m a commoner from America and I don’t understand how British high society works.

A man wearing a normal-looking suit approaches me. He stands next to me without saying anything, sipping champagne out of a glass.

“You have qualified,” he says, after a long pause. “You must choose a side. White or Black.”

I turn to ask him what he means, but he is gone, like a ghost.

And I am left wondering what will happen next.