The Gene of the Ancients (Rogue Merchant Book #2): LitRPG Series by Roman Prokofiev (top books to read TXT) 📕

“Sometimes, I really wonder, why do people keep buying into the same old tricks?” a voice came from somewhere above. “What do you think, Blackie? Do you know why?”

“I don’t, Thirteenth. Login trap is an old trick, true. Yet they get sucked in every time.”

Two men were sitting and talking on the grey rocks, as if ignoring the players looking up at them: a dark elven assassin, hopping on the sharp peak, his two curved scimitars drawn, and another one, sitting motionless, wrapped in a dark cloak above chainmail armor and holding a heavy crossbow with the crease of his elbow.

A host of armed figures emerged around the NPCs and players herded into the cliffs. Nonames, Elven Patrol, Gentlemen — those very same PKers were there. It was a trap!

A third person appeared between the peacefully talking duo, dressed in a black surcoat with a red star. Crimson light burned bright in his right hand, raised high. He didn’t say anything — only threw down a Grand Fire spell on the gathering beneath.

* * *

Red dots of PvP activity studded the interactive map, cutting the northwest of Dorsa off in a semi-circle. Curt lines of kill rating demonstrated dozens of murders, plundered caravans, and NPC and player escorts attacked on the border of Eyre Nation. A few PK clans abruptly, out of the blue, started robbing this once peaceful region; day and night they plagued the merchants, all but crippling caravan movement. Nobody felt safe. Flying ships changed their routes, not risking entering the dangerous lands, and NPC transporters stopped accepting contracts.

Dealing with all of that was impossible without outside assistance, as bandits turned out to be too numerous and fast-moving, clearly controlled from the same spot. If necessary, they joined together, destroying even large, player-escorted groups. Alliance chats and secure channels started getting bombarded with appeals for help, and more and more letters were sent by tenant clans to the leaders of their lenders.

The situation went into overdrive, and warriors assembled raids, preparing to chase off the aggressive invaders. PK clans — Nonames, Gentlemen Bastards, Elven Patrol — got added to the alliance KOS list, and a hunt commenced.

To everyone’s surprise, however, it didn’t bring anyone kills or glory. The combined raids of Watchers, Enemy, and Heroes only wasted their time. The PKers didn’t fall for their tricks and didn’t engage in battle. As soon as a hunting party marched out, the lowlifes simultaneously logged out or scattered to other regions, not letting their opponents have any fun. They only attacked weaklings, those they knew they could defeat, and robbed loners who found themselves in the borderlands. The most surprising fact, however, was that they somehow managed to avoid traps carefully laid out for them. If a Watcher’s raid stayed in Condor, preparing to drop on the PKers’ heads through a pentagram, the caravans used as bait were given a free pass. As soon as soldiers went to sleep, the bandits were once again on the war path. “Hit and run” tactics turned out to be devilishly effective, and the carebears cried tears of blood, while their goods piled up inside their outposts’ warehouses. Logistics stopped working, but not all options had been exhausted yet.

Chapter 14

KEITH BORLAND, also known as Octopus, the captain of an astral nave “Crabstrocity,” felt wonderful. He had a firm deck under his feet, wind in his hair, and a steering wheel of polished wood responding to each and every move of the veteran seaman. What could be better, really? Keith was smiling, and the anticipation of a forthcoming profitable deal warmed his heart.

“It’s all clear here, Keith!” Impedimenta, a seeker and a scout who was the first to go into the Astral Portal, reported to him.

“Only our...friends,” Impie continued. “You can pass!”

In a familiar, confident manner Keith turned on the spelljumper and turned the engine up, steering the ship into the fluorescent rainbow vortex. Borland was an experienced captain, having spent more than six months flying his nave across various worlds, jumping through the Astral Plane. It was a risky venture, but the chance of bumping into somebody else right at the exit point from the endless Astral Sea was negligible.

“Nobody will catch us!” Keith boasted while drinking beer with his crew: two players, six pawns, and ten NPC hirelings of proven worth. Generally, he had every reason to think so, as Octopus was careful and usually noticed if anyone was spying on him. He thought he knew all the tricks employed by wannabe raiders. Of course, the attackers could always prove to be smarter — but only people willing to take risks became captains of Astral vessels.

The nave, a huge and clumsy overtonnaged cargo ship, mostly resembling an enormous raft wrapped in a pile of sails, grudgingly dropped into the Portal, transporting to another world.

You are entering the world of Dorsa

Class: B (Terrestrial)

Location: Grey worlds

Size: Gargantuan

Following the lines of features running through the tray, Keith felt a bout of nostalgia: Dorsa was his home world, the one he had long since abandoned.

It was night, and the sky was strewn with silver dots of stars. The late time wasn’t accidental, as Keith had decided to be on the safe side and avoid the prime time of Russian clans, so most players would be asleep. Impie circled around on a cloud wyrm. Three rows of stone walls with towers on the corners stood below; a standard rank three outpost. Just in case, Keith checked everything around with his Search — not as high-level as Impie’s, but still.

Everything was clear.

“Astr, Ellaria! Get to work!” Borland barked. “Nosquire, wake up, prepare the anchors. Impie, go back into the Portal and watch from the other side.”

The job that awaited them wasn’t exactly challenging. Some local clan of miners and crafters, upon a recommendation, contacted Borland,