Wasteland Exploration
With a sincerely empty gesture, I expressed my hopes that Ms. Doris might recall her core tenets, and earnest expectation that she "heartily enjoys" the impending aesthetic alteration.
Then, a brisk stroll alongside the baby-blue tinted metachromium walls, surpassing several personal learning pods until I arrived at a grounded coffin-like, though assuredly much more energetic with its generally holy-silver gleams and fanciful inscriptions, cylinder with an unlocked me-suitable compartment.
An official EvoGroup learning pod; government subsidies provide each student with mechanically-assisting knowledge condensers at the age of 6 until their near always timely graduation up to 12 years later.
With a smooth briskness born of innumerable repetitions, I laid myself, in perfect position, and activated the pod.
"Hissss." The distinctive sealing sound: the lid shuts and my mortal vision is transplanted.
Given the rapidity and profundity of meaningfully-recent technological advancements, the education system has become increasingly imperative—after all, time is of essence! The sooner students can transform from snot-rubbing dweebs into result-producing gears, the more expeditious our collective growth; these pods assist our asymptotic approach for infinity quite significantly, minimizing learning time by providing various simulated environments, incorporating time-compaction fields, and thus enabling "life-and-death" battles.
I spawn, a seemingly flesh-and-blood duplicate of myself, albeit features obscured, on a dwindling patch of yellowed hay. Since I am a swordsman and thus, a "combat class" graduate, every pod-adventure begins with a random spawn. Judging from the breezy yet diminishing winds, the scorching glint of an apocalyptically red sun, and various other environmental factors, it appears that I am in the "Wastelands of Kataria."
Besides me, a generic, synthetic leather sheath hides a dull, silvery sword: its marble pommel is engraved with the unique purple stardust pattern of a certain government-supported oligopoly, the Foundry. I rasp the handle, then pull: sword readied.
By now, I've finished syncing my information with the mandatory EvoGroup database: the Wastelands of Kataria are characterized by armored sandworms, cannibalistic vultures, and assorted mini-bosses—and they strike fast.
A whirling sound flaps. I pivot with my right foot, slamming into the cracked, dusty ground before propelling myself to the left; instinctive, I already know where to strike.
As I spin, I angle the edge of my blade sideways - the military-taught style is far too blunt nor is it particularly aesthetic, so I more utilize the elegantly chaotic Farclan-style known for the celerity of its transition and critical strikes - I see it.
A gruesome creature, an unknown scarlet liquid drips from its scarred and infected beak, grayish claws marred with flesh-melting poisons, but I'm not shocked, I'm ready: SWOOSH. I lightly step back diagonally.
Its malformed neck smoothly decapitated, the hideous head maintains its originally descending velocity, hitting the ground beside me right after the furred torso; a chalky wasteland-orange sap secretes profusely, I step forward.
SHING. I pierce its vulnerable heart, slightly twisting my blade with serrating indifference, then, lightly hop back to avoid the toxic out-spill of blood. It is common, but still, a beast; alas, wasting time is a terrible sin, and I've already practiced harvesting such creatures thousands of times—my hunt for Challenge begins.
In a semi-guarded yet agile stance, I traverse the grimy, polluted dunes with an indifference derived from utter strength: I decapitate then stab 7 more vultures. I pierce and gouge two ravenous sandworms simultaneously.
And finally, after accumulating enough "Danger Score," a simulation-specific value that increases over time and with each measured kill, a cloaked figure approaches me.
Though his countenance remains obscured, I see his weathered palms and, through the shadows which seemingly protrude, detect the savagely bloody and dull glint of the Cannibalist medallion.
The name is generic, - it's randomly generated, after all - nevertheless, he's quick. His existence seems to float and zig-zag before suddenly fluctuating—it's already an apparition. He's behind me.
I jump, dodging forward as a hail of energy bullets pierce the murky air, then land on my right foot, pivoting back towards the Assassin, my silvery sword readied.
I jab with seemingly reckless abandon towards the far side of his left leg; he parries with his cybernetic gun-arm—I flick my wrist, transferring my entire attack to his right leg's inner side; he parries with his other cybernetic gun-arm, but then—I kick!
As I thrust my suddenly-spiked boots into his chest, the Assassin realizes his calculational blunder, thus assaulting my leg with both arms, but it's already too late: I withdraw.
Now wounded, the Bloody Assassin considers me an actual enemy and will enter his absurdly-aggressive attack phase, - the attack pattern is entirely randomized, though it's limited to Blood Assassin techniques - so I've withdrawn to minimize danger—potentially, he might have awakened an "absolute kill" technique in which a 1 meter radius about him is annihilated at the expense of his meaningless death; I daresay that I'm far more valuable than this virtual representation of code.
Within the Bloody Assassin's obscured shadow, two scarlet eyes seem to condense—FLASH! However, he doesn't approach me, meaning that it'll likely be a long-range attack pattern. So, with extraordinary celerity, I gently angle my sword's tip towards his chest before charging, the classic Farclan assault. BZZT. With my footwork, I dodge left. A red hot laser blasts past me; it seems weak, I could have parried that, but I remain vigilant—one must always be prepared to survive an opponent's ace.
BZZT. BZT. BZZT.
The dusted air is nigh-instantaneously dotted with dozens of fiery, scarlet laserbeams of modest but destructive-enough length—like arrows blotting the sky! However, as soon as I detect their energy signature, I realize that they are of similar energy-magnitude to the first, and thus blockable, parryable, and even, reflectable.
So, after leaping to the side, - my blade is not wide enough to parry 30 lasers at once - I charge forward through 4 approaching beams, piercing the closest one like a spearman before beginning my sword's second energy phase. My thumb rapidly presses the purple emblem; my sword's silvery blade condenses more, - this higher energy state expends more energy, but it will prevent my blade from being damaged - and I use it.
Like a ping-pong paddle, I flick my wrist, and thus sword, at the last 3-bunched up lasers, reflecting them towards the left side of the Bloody Assassin's chest. Of course, he can dodge it, but given the limited timespan, his reaction can only suffice him to dodge left, but I had been approaching him to the left!
And so, during that inevitable period of clumsiness following an over-expenditure of energy, I righted my position and pierced, stabbing his head before activating my sword's third energy phase in order to enable my barbaric technique—I swipe left, ripping a lengthy hole, like how one may cut wood, and then, right, chopping off the top half of his face.
Then, I retreat rapidly; though I'm all but sure his consciousness has been rendered void, perhaps a delayed corpse-explosion technique might remain. From a distance of over 50 meters away, I begin to rest in a standing posture. Evidently, by the slightly-heavy breathing, I have well-exerted myself—but, it was a good fight.
I pick up a rock, launching it into a parabolic orbit which ends, like a parabolic rainbow ends with leprechaun gold, on the Bloody Assassin's corpse. BOOM. A muffled explosion; I knew it.
…
After five more minutes, I consider my physical strength sufficiently recovered, - enough to slay three Bloody Assassin's at once; one must always preserve themselves - and thus continue my journey through the Wasteland.