This Broken Sword Read online

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  A note from the author

  Dear LitRPG Friends,

  While writing the TOL Online series, I’ve been asked a ton of questions by my readers. I’d like to answer a few of them here!

  Why is TOL Online written in novella-length episodes?

  Novellas offer a fresh, punchy way to experience a story. Like a TV show, each TOL Online episode gives you a contained story arc that connects to the main conflict in the series. This also allows for more books — instead of a few blockbuster movies (or full novels), I plan on giving you several seasons’ worth of episodes of TOL Online!

  On that note, since each novella can be completed faster, I’ll be releasing them faster! (At least once every month, if not sooner!).

  Why Lit RPG?

  Lit RPG allows me to explore two of my favorite worlds: role play gaming and fantasy fiction. In this book, you get level-ups, skill increases and loot, alongside the adventurous magic of fantasy. Think Tolkien meets World of Warcraft.

  How many books will be in the series?

  At least 12. I suspect there will be many more, but better to underpromise and overdeliver, as they say.

  As always, thanks for reading!

  - TJ Reynolds

  P.S. TO HEAR ABOUT NEW RELEASES & JOIN OUR READING GROUP, SIGN UP HERE!

  CHAPTER ONE

  “IT’S A DANGEROUS Business”

  ~Mr. Underhill

  Relevant Progress of Dahlia Otou

  Status: Grieving. Broken. Determined.

  Class: Gamer Lvl 4., Autodidact Lvl 6., Serf to the Great Overlords of America.

  Items: A ring, a sword, the clothes on her back.

  To Do: Sell your life. Seek out Tol Online.

  “Fiery flesh biscuits! I don’t care how fancy your hair is, a sword that long just wouldn’t work.” My body was surging with righteous gamer anger. And this was my day off? I’d silenced my inbox, taken a break from the endless job hunt, and tried to find a bit of peace destroying the enemies of Gaia. I hadn’t finished Final Fantasy 7 in years, and I wanted to see if I could beat it at level 50. I’d done everything right!

  Something was off. I launched a quick search: FF7 Sephiroth Final Battle. I read the first walkthrough I found. I had slain the bare-chested angel’s first two forms. The last was supposed to be scripted. I clicked Omnislash, but Sephiroth had dodged my blow and killed me with his ridiculous sword.

  There was only one explanation: Someone had hacked the file I was playing!

  I might have punched my keyboard, just to make sure it knew the extent of my frustration.

  When I cooled a bit, I walked over to the feed tube. I typed my favorite meal number into the keypad. 60731, a bowl of ramen with a glob of printed meat and a cube of algae. Most people hated the algae, but it tasted almost like seaweed, something my parents and I used to afford. Besides, I needed my greens.

  I nommed while streaming an old show my family would watch together. Its so old, it is practically a history film; the movie was called Willow.

  One of the brownies was just about to fall into the beer when the power cut out. 2PM then. Enter the doldrums. Power and connectivity shut down every day from 2-8PM. Conservation is best practiced on the poor, my dad used to say. Though many used the time wisely, I tended to flounder, one reason why I woke up early. The hours stretched, my mind always flirting with anxiety.

  I had a routine that helped. I started with light cleaning. My room was tiny, so this only took a few minutes. I cleaned the toilet stall and sink. Showers were communal, yay. Drones swept through those with chemicals some time in the middle of the night, killing microbes with efficiency. A good clean toilet though, especially when it stood in the corner of an 8 by 12 ft. room, was mandatory. At least if you valued your nose.

  I missed being a student. Homework was a boon. Now, I played sudoku. I clicked the silver button on the corner of the digital whiteboard attached to to my wall. Yesterday’s sketches and numbers and scratched-out boxes instantly dissolve, leaving the glass clear as day. I quickly look up today’s new games and drew the first one out.

  I usually burned through three or four of these. But some days, I’d finish early and feel the hot breath of a panic attack looming. Then, I’d make my own.

  I just finished the fourth puzzle when I heard the sucking smash of my ramen arriving in its pneumatic tube. The tech was ancient but practically never broke down. Occasionally, some fool would send something in their tube that didn’t fit. The pipes would get clogged. FlatWorld Admin excelled in turning any situation to their favor. Residents were charged, and their next month’s subsistence pay showed the difference.

  My father and I had been lucky in this room. We had a window. I opened it wide, ignoring the tang of city fumes, sat in my bamboo chair, and stuck my ugly toes out into the sunlight. Even more rare was the fact that this window got nearly an hour of light each day. It was a marvel.

  I savored the noodles and sipped the broth. I ate the algae cube last then sucked down the last bit of broth, filling my mouth with salt and flavoring. Soytastic.

  I counted to sixty while the sun warmed my face and opened hands. After, I moved the chair and pulled my cot into position and delicately fell onto my face. The sun was the best blanket in the world, so I absorbed as much as I could. As soon as the light no longer filled the window, I rolled over and pulled on my blanket.

  My face was warm, my eyes heavy. I focused on my breathing, each breath in and out. A sleepy rhythm took over and the edges of the world began to slip away.

  A pounding rattled the plastic walls of my room. I sat bolt upright. Someone knocking at my door? A terrible dread filled me. It could only be one thing, what I’d been fearing ever since my dad was taken. No, maybe if I just…

  “Dahlia Otou! Miss Dahlia Otou, please open the door,” a very masculine voice announced followed by more knocking. I stared for a moment, mouth slack. “You have ten seconds before I forcibly enter. The damage incurred will be charged to your account.”

  “Okay, okay. I’m here!” I pleaded as I crossed the room, blanket wrapped around my shoulders.

  When I opened the door, a small man, as square as an algae cube, held out a letter. He wore a gray jumpsuit that was immediately recognizable.

  No, it can’t be.

  “Please take the letter ma’am,” the man said giving it a shake. He didn’t meet my gaze, but stared straight ahead, as if seeing me might somehow sully his eyes. He shook the letter a second time and cleared his throat. I took it and he left me facing an empty hallway.

  I stood there for awhile, then opened it. The blanket fell from my shoulders, the last motes of warmth leaving me chilled. The AllHands logo, a diamond of hands binding wrists, hovered above a too-short paragraph describing the end of my world in technical language. So few words. Only some of them mattered: “In the process of repaying debts procured by AllHands Inc., Mr. Haruki Otou deceased from toxic exposure to lithium hydroxide while…”

  I pushed the door shut just as my knees buckled, and I crumpled to the polymer floor. It had a greasy texture, no matter how much I cleaned it, and held every scuff and gouge like a map of my tiny life.

  Biting my lip, I read on. “All subsequent debt incurred by Mr. Otou falling to his solitary heir, Dahlia Otou. Payments shall be made to AllHands Inc. Beginning one month from his death in installments of 1% of total debt, a sum of no less than 131,924 YD. After any failure of payment, indent service shall be required as per penal code…”

  I did not care to finish. It was official
and not surprising. America’s most beloved debt consolidation company had a reputation for using their “indent workers” in less than ideal conditions. Some only lasted a few weeks, others toiled away for decades.

  My father had served as an indent for less than a year. How long would I last in their ranks?

  I stared at the black-inked logo and let myself go, retreating into the vast tunnels I’d dug from the loam and sandstone of my mind. I’d been expecting this, planning for it even, but how can you ever truly prepare?

  Time passed. The sky darkened at the very least.

  An intercom announced dinner was being served in the dining facility, bringing me back to the moment. I had a few things to do before I could leave this place. The old computer hummed to life. In a few keystrokes, I cancelled my web access and occupancy at FlatWorld. I cleaned my room, making a pile of wrappers and dingy belongings, recycling everything except my middle school backpack, a change of clothes, a handful of photographs, and my two, vast treasures.

  I slept one last time on my cot. Dreams of my father fled before me. He was sitting down with his hands in his lap, as if a boy, covered in soot and soil. I sat across from him, and we stared at each other. I would have been okay with staying, just like that, but I woke.

  The next morning I took my things and left. It was raining as I made my way to the street. This city had become like any other, filled with everything one could wish for, sold only to those with the currency to buy.

  Most of LA had been transformed into standardized building units: massive blocks of concrete, all thirty stories high, a Federal minimum for urban areas of high density. The city was a maze of tunnels that passed around and through the ugly structures. A secondary system of transportation rode the backs of these industrial or housing elephants. Skyscrapers clustered in the city center, their polycarbonate bodies gleaming in the sun. Vast networks of greenhouses made them shine like emeralds.

  I walked instead to the nearest shopping unit, a place where the low could spend their monthly subsistence income. An ancient LED light hung in the pawn shop’s window, faded and cheap. Inside, I sold my antique keyboard, mouse and interface headset for a handful of credits, the easy part. Then I took out my most valuable treasure. It was imperial jade set in platinum. A fortune rested in my palm along with a thousand memories. My father had given it to her when things were good. They both had paying jobs, which meant we were rich. She wore the ring everywhere, but when out, would hide it under a pair of simple cotton gloves.

  I traced my finger over the etching of a flock of cranes. Perhaps a dozen birds in a cloud flying above a curling stream. Good fortune. A lifetime of luck. The cranes had not proven their worth. Maybe a thousand would have been better.

  I slid the ring across the counter, and the woman at the register gaped before picking it up. Yes, it is real. Just take it and make this easier. She pulled a jeweler’s eyeglass from her pocket and inspected it. It felt perverse, but who was I to blame this person? She was just doing her job.

  “This is very…” she began.

  “I know. How much can you give me?”

  She wrote a figure down on a piece of paper and handed it to me. I read it. 4,400 YD. The Yen Dollar had been the presiding currency since the last of the Big Three broke our economy. Depressions are possible to overcome, but three had been too much, even for America.

  She placed the ring in a small envelope and held up her payment device, a small black wand with a screen on one side. I held out my wrists, and she scanned my citizen chip, uploading the money immediately.

  Before the clerk could take it away, my hand darted out on its own volition. Our eyes met, both surprised. Her brow furrowed, mouth opening as if to scold me.

  “Please. Please keep it as long as you can. I will buy it back for more. Please just… just give me a month,” I said in a horse whisper.

  The woman shook her arm once. I let go of her wrist. She stood and rubbed where I’d gripped her. Her face solemn, she said, “I’ll see what I can do. A month is a long time. I won’t display it for at least two weeks. That is all I can promise.”

  I nodded and ducked out of the front door, embarrassed but feeling some thread of hope.

  While crossing a street, I passed a young man who startled me with a wet cough. His face was covered in a white face mask, now a requirement for anyone noticeably ill. The fine was 5000 YD or up to three months in jail, so it was rarely ignored.

  The sight of the cotton made me think, again, of my mother. 128,015 dead, swept away like chaff in three weeks. She had been on a business trip, and upon returning, was corralled into quarantine. We got to say goodbye to her drawn face through video. A strain of Influenza A. It was called the Pigeon Virus, but it was never confirmed if the birds were actual carriers. It was just a colorful name to pin the blame on.

  I arrived at a building made of steel and black marble. Opulence was rare, this was the .1%, the new ruling class. Still, when my father lost everything, he’d come to this place. He wanted a week-long vacation before finding a new job. He was a day user, coming to see me after school every day. Tol Online had become a place for him to exist where he didn’t have to feel my mother’s absence so acutely. How could I blame him?

  The man at the desk gave me a dubious look. Evaluating my clothes and appearance, his eyebrows seemed to question my credit rating. “Might I ask what you age is dear? Without a parent or guardian…”

  “I’m 16. I’ve finished all required public education. Thanks for asking,” I said a bit harsher than I had intended. I always hated anything that smacked of condescension. He was right to ask though. Live-in game bays, like the one I hoped to see soon enough, were reserved for adults only. 16 was deemed to be legal adulthood. I couldn’t vote or drink, but was conveniently kicked from the government funded public schooling system. In 2107, my beloved graduating class, I joined the ranks of undereducated “adults,” destined to live out my days in poverty.

  He continued unperturbed, “Very good. And how will you be paying for your time here at Tol Online?” I refused to flinch at his tone.

  I stretched out my hand, palm up to expose my wrist. “You are authorized to take 4500 YD,” I said, “should cover me for a few weeks, yeah?”

  “Of course. I’m so sorry for delaying you. I’ll just scan your ID?” As he worked to upload my info into the system, I began to reflect on what I was doing, where I was going. Tol Online… Is this real? And despite the numbness in my chest and legs, a trace of wonder still stirred within me. An escape, yes, I was fine with admitting that. But it was one I needed. Besides, there was little hope elsewhere to escape my future as an indent.

  The man cleared his throat, interrupting my thoughts. “Just this way please.” His tone had changed entirely, and I saw something in his eye I could no longer despise. Something like pity but kinder. He scanned his palm on a door behind the counter, and it slid into the wall.

  “You have paid for 22.5 days of membership. Any subscription longer than two weeks grants membership status,” the man said. “And membership comes with several benefits. The first of which, you have your own pod, private room and complimentary meals. You can also stay logged in without interruption.”

  The man was repeating information I already knew. I’d looked into Tol when father was picked up by three men in black jumpsuits, Allhands logos on their chests. My lack of reaction told the man as much. He changed tactics.

  “Are you aware of the in-game perks as well?” he asked we approached another door that looked like a pixelated waterfall endlessly falling.

  “I am. I get to choose from all realm types. And I get to scan one real world item to bring with me.”

  “I’m Maurice by the way.” His said with kindness in his eyes. “I can see you did not fail to bring your item of choice. Given the nature of this game, I am not surprised.” He gestured toward the exposed handle of my sword jutting from my pack like an exclamation point. “I’ll have your welcome package delivered to
your room. You’ll be in D43,” he said as he walked around the counter and bound the blade into its scabbard with an alloy zip tie. “Do you have any questions?”

  “No,” I replied. “Thanks,” I added after. It was never easy for me to be polite after someone had been rude to me. Too many people use manners like forks and spoons: plastic for the unwanted guests, silver reserved for those deemed important enough.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to it, just remember, though you can choose your realm, because of your age, Tol’s system AIs will filter out all players who are 18 and older. And before I leave you to your adventuring,” he gestured to the digital door. I looked up into Maurice’s face and saw him weighing his words. “Excuse me if I overstep, but I hope you find what you need there.” He broke off with a sigh and stepped back into his role as a proprietor. “Keep your handkerchief dry and walking stick handy. Farewell good traveler!”

  I smiled at the allusion. I watched him turn and walk away passing countless doors that led to countless corridors beyond. Only one thing remained to do. I pulled my backpack tight against my shoulder and walked toward the wall. The cascade of colors fell over me as I stepped through.

  I’m not sure what I expected. Noise, bustle, bodies moving I suppose, but none of these greeted my arrival. A wide room clad in white, gray and at least ten shades of green. At the back, dim lights shone over couches and cubbies filling a sunken depression in the floor. Closer and to my left, a group of tables clustered together, chairs scattered about them. A single boy sat with his back to me. I could hear the crunch of whatever he was eating. He didn’t bother to turn, so I didn’t bother him

  I discovered something else surprising across the bay. Two compact floors of translucent rooms held a variety of exercise equipment. Everything from standard free weights to treadmills and ball ellipticals could be seen at a glance. A line of glass rooms stood along the right wall, sealed off and tinted. What could be inside those?