Deciding to prioritize the mobsters—after all, they were already there—Rowan asked his wives to return to Elkins, promising he’d follow as soon as the quest was finished. Isla had to check with Thomas anyway, and Cora was tired, so he met no opposition there.

  Now, with Viscardi giving him the room, the point was to find a common ground with the four men in front of him. They were normal people, except Vito, who was an Enforcer. Two were on the older side, Vito in his thirties, and a fourth younger, about his age. All stared at him, but Vito's gaze gave him the creeps.

  “Gentlemen, I have a quest about talking with you,” Rowan went for the truth and a direct approach. “I have no idea how to… go forward, so I’ll be candid. Do you have any questions for me? Can I help you in any way?”

  “The best way to help is providing us a constant supply of Bourbon,” one of the elderly men said. “It would be a pity to look elsewhere.”

  “Elsewhere?" Rowan blurted. "Like where, Tennessee? Do you know what their charcoal filtering does to taste? I swear: Bourbon Borough will soon be the world's drinking center. Eighty-six will become the lowest legal proof, and we’ll double the production of single-barrel whisky. Non-chill filtering will get subventioning. Sourcing has to be labeled. How about that?” His face had reddened, and his eyes bulged out of their sockets. Clenched fist on the table, Rowan had shouted the last word.

  “Calm down, kid, calm down,” the man smiled. “Happy to see we’re on the same page.”

  “Yeah,” the other older man nodded. “Tennessee to Bourbon is like Chinese noodles compared to Italian pasta.”

  2/4 of Targets have sympathy for you

  “Father, please!” the younger mobster sighed. “All you can think of is pasta and Bourbon. We have to do something about the Cartels taking over California,” he looked at Rowan with hopeful eyes, fretting on his chair.

  A hyperactive one, huh? Rowan grinned but disguised it under a cough. "It’s bad for business?" he asked.

  "No, but… you know… Cartels are evil," the youngster insisted. “They’re nothing like us.”

  “I'll have to admit, your Cosa is nicer than in the movies," Rowan nodded. "With that said, let's not jump off the horse yet. California is California's problem. We're in an Apocalypse situation. If we divert manpower to California now and Earth explodes because we don't find enough cores… you see what I mean?"

  “Hmfff, fine,” the youngster snorted, leaning back on the chair’s backrest.

  You have made a young and restless mobster to see reason. 3/4 targets have sympathy for you.

  And now it was time for the last target. “Err… Vito?” Rowan said, offering the friendliest smile in his repertoire.

  “Yeah.” The last mobster seemed totally nonplussed by Rowan’s charisma.

  God, those eyes look so much like a dead fish's… How on Earth can I find common ground here? “I hope you don’t mind that I say this," Rowan started hesitantly, "but your eyes give me the creeps… I have a skill called Cold Stare, but it's... unrefined for now. Too intense. Any advice on how to tone it down a bit and put some subtlety in it?"

  “You’ve noticed my stare?” The man’s expression suddenly warmed up. “Few do. Listen carefully,” Vito leaned over the table. “It’s an art, took me years to train it. First, if you want to intimidate someone, look into their eyes, and don’t think of anything. Blank mind. That will throw them off balance and fear you. This is level one. Level two, pay attention, I'll make a demonstration…"

  Oh, goodness… He looks like a Pug dog bred with a mackerel…

  Taking Rowan's jerk like a fearful reaction, the mobster nodded energetically. "See? Smile like a psychopath, and imagine everything you could do to them. Like cutting their balls and feeding them to his family. I swear to you, they’ll shit their pants." Behind Vito, the older mobster rolled his eyes and circled his finger near the temple.

  "Now, level three is not about violence but charm," Vito continued. "Puppy eyes. Before I got my Class, I was short, bald, fat, and ugly.”

  Sorry to say… but you’re still short, bald, fat, and ugly.

  "But I courted Vera nevertheless, making puppy eyes, bringing her flowers and chocolate every day until I won her heart.”

  She's probably blind as a bat… never mind, I’m not here to be judgmental. “Thanks, man, you've been really helpful. I’m afraid I’ll never raise to your level in puppy eyes, but the first two are a lifesaver. Honestly,” Rowan put his hand over his heart.

  “You’re welcome,” the mobster said, his eyes shining. When he truly smiled, he had a jovial, funny face, and Rowan guessed there was more to the man that met the eye.

  4/4 Targets have sympathy for you. The first sub-quest has been cleared. You were awarded 1 free AP and 1 Level. You are now level 80. 2 APs have been allocated to each stat.

  It was late evening, and Rowan was flying in the African dictator’s private plane toward Yosemite Park. The man across the aisle was an enigma. Gray hair and beard, solid, in his early fifties. Inquisitive eyes, an appearance that denoted a lot of real-life experience.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  “Thank you for giving me a lift,” Rowan started the conversation.

  "Thank you for talking to me," the man replied.

  Suddenly, the weight of the change hit Rowan like a hammer in the head. He, a simple man, a worker without a college degree, a kid from the streets, was now granting audiences to dictators and ruling over mobsters, elves, orcs, and Bourbon's heartland. And the latter was the only one he knew how to deal with, more or less.

  "Let's get to business. You want a core. Cores are priceless. Do you deserve one?" Rowan asked as the dictator was now looking through the window.

  The man shrugged, now looking at his guest. "I expected you to ask: 'What's in for me'."

  Rowan shook his head. "We’re beyond the transactional phase. This is for the good of humankind."

  The dictator grinned, showing a somehow sharklike row of white teeth. It reminded Rowan of Louis Armstrong singing Mack the Knife. The smile said: 'But you just spent a core on a whim, in Louisville.'

  "Yeah… I guess I did…. But it’s still for the good of humankind. Who will we be in the future if we don’t preserve our precious past? Why don't we introduce ourselves through a drink," Rowan changed the subject, extracting a bottle from his inventory. "Twenty-five-year-old year Stagg, one hundred and forty proof."

  The Dictator snapped his fingers and a stewardess rushed to take the bottle and pour the liquid in two glasses. The African raised the glass, sniffed it, and then took a sip. Groaning in satisfaction, he closed his eyes and nodded. "This whiskey is like you… strong, bold, and deep." He whispered something to the stewardess, who nodded, left, and reappeared a second later with a sumptuously decorated bottle, from which she poured in another two glasses. The Dictator took both and offered one to Rowan himself: "This is me… Dictador. Fifty years old rum. One hundred and twenty proof."

  "You have a sweet side," Rowan giggled after nosing the liquid and drinking a bit. "It's really good…"

  "Then, we do business?"

  Rowan nodded. "I'm listening."

  "I'll give you good information for a core. I keep independence. No strings attached."

  "You mean you won't swear fealty to me?"

  "We mind our own business. My people won't take kindly to be tied to other countries again. Colonialism is bad."

  "Fair enough," Rowan switched his glass to Bourbon. "What info are we talking about? You do understand that I have to hear it first before committing anything, right?"

  "Information is about the alien ship. It comes fast, cores are ejected, but you think like this," the man gestured with his index over the table.

  "Circle pattern?" Rowan asked.

  "Yes. You're wrong. Think of cores like many little bullets. V pattern. Like…” The man frowned, snapping his fingers, struggling to find the word.

  “A shotgun?”

  “Yes. Four shots. One shoot near Japan, Korea, Vladivostok. The ship goes on, second shoot near Italy. Continues to shoot twice close to the crash point, close to Earth. Many dungeons still to be found in your County.”

  “Moment.” Taking his phone out, Rowan called Cora. “Hi, Baby. Say, if our territory would have extended over some pre-existing dormant dungeons, what would happen?”

  There was silence, and then Cora spoke slowly. “Nothing… even at our Mana level, it would take a couple of years before the top-level dungeons activate.”

  “The African President thinks the Traipenent didn't jettison the cores in circles, but in V shotgun pattern, and the last one was close to us. We did find two cores just next to the Border, right?”

  “Including the one that was stolen, yes. I’ll make a simulation and check it out. If true, we can work with the lesser detectors and still find cores. Do you know when you’ll be back?”

  “Maybe tomorrow? That Elf I’m supposed to talk with, Ibuprofen or something, is in Yosemite Park, team building with his folks.”

  “Inglotal. Please make sure you remember his name before you talk to him, promise?”

  “Scout honor. Love you, baby.”

  “Love you too. Bye.”

  Rowan turned his attention to the dictator. “If your theory confirms, I'll give you a core strong enough to cover your country."

  “Then I offer you bonus information,” the dictator said. “Vladivostok people are angry you sabotaged their cores and poisoned Knyaz.”

  “It was food poisoning. They have no proof…” Rowan protested.

  “Hahaha!” The Dictator roared in raucous laughter, throwing his head back. “Who needs proof? This world is not in Kansas anymore, to need proof. They not stupid. They plan to sabotage you too. No idea how, but soon.”

  Rowan sighed. "How do you know?”

  “Do you know song? 'I have a friend in Minsk, who has a friend in Pinsk, whose friend in Omsk, has friend in Tomsk, With friend in Akmolinsk.'”

  Rowan joined in singing. “'His friend in Alexandrovsk has friend in Petropavlovsk, whose friend somehow is solving now the problem in Dnepropetrovsk.'”

  “You’re funny,” the dictator said at the end. “I like you.”

  You have befriended the African Dictator. The second partial quest is cleared.

  Yeah… I’m a natural charmer.

  “Are you aware you might not stay in power after the core expands?” Rowan asked. "A core means elections, and you can't cheat the System."

  “Pour,” the man asked the stewardess for a refill, then swirled the Bourbon in his glass, looking again at the setting sun outside. Finally, he looked Rowan in the eyes with a deadpan expression. “I love my country. If people vote me out, OK. I don’t like job. Dangerous. Wars every year, crazy people who think God anointed them to make revolution. If I'm voted out, I go retire. Maybe Vegas or your town. You, Vampire, mobster, I trust. Politicians? Ptuah,” the man mimicked spitting on the carpet.

  “When you'll be king, or whatever, be close to your people…" Rowan said, staring into nothingness. "I offer a bottle of whiskey to any warrior I don't remember by name. Anyone can swear about me freely and pay ten cents for it. They adore it. Ask their opinion about something they care about, like city planning, and make good on your promises."

  “Cheers,” the African dictator raised the glass.

  After landing at a small airport and saying his goodbyes to the dictator, Rowan drove a small rented at an average speed of eighty miles an hour, which he considered quite OK. It allowed him time to admire the landscape. When he arrived at Yosemite Falls, it was night and winter. Viscardi had let the weather follow its natural ways for whatever reason—maybe tourism.

  Near the parking lot set as a rendezvous point was a group of elves dressed in hiking gear, which meant fur coats, much like those of Arctic explorers. Rowan stopped the engine and walked toward them.

  “Thane Allinder,” the elf saluted with a half bow.

  “War Chief Inglotal,” Rowan returned the greeting.

  “I delayed our departure to meet you.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Now that we’re free, we're trying to recover our old ways. I’ll escort our younglings in a rite of passage. We’ll run to the place you call Canada in five days.”

  Rowan was slack-jawed. That meant running about a thousand miles.

  "Are you here to join our training?" Inglotal continued.

  Rowan looked at the snow around and the furs covering the Svartálfar. Suddenly, his heart felt the right path to take. He nodded. “I could use some training.”

  “Thane Allinder, the Dragon Slayer, will join us!” Inglotal yelled, raising his spear. A choir or cheers resounded before the notification hit.

  Your third secondary quest has been cleared. + 1 Level and +1 AP awarded. +3 AP awarded. Hidden Quest discovered and cleared: establish a good reputation among the factions that swore allegiance to you. 6/6 objectives cleared. 6 free APs awarded.

  New Quest: Complete the hike. +1 free AP