Loot and the Considerations that come from it

It was the morning of the 3rd of their 16 days in time dilation and John stood in front of the latest crate of Raid Loot.

‘Really feeling the absence of blue boxes,’ John thought ‘No levels stings.’ “You should do the honours,” he said to Fianna. As was tradition, either the one contributing the most to the fight or delivering the final blow was the one to pull out the Loot.

Fianna saluted, mana fumes still rising from her palm and the vents along the arm. “Thank you, Sir!” she declared to the clacking of her heels.

John could not lie, every time the cyborg lady saluted like this, he felt the immense and immediate urge to test how long she would maintain attention if he just circled to her back and fucked her from behind. In his defence, she was a bottom-heavy beauty in a bodysuit so tight that it functioned as a second skin. For missions like this, it even had all the stripe markings her robotic limbs and skin had manifested following the Evolution Surge Perk. Out on the field, she hid those along with the ears and tail.

An additional point in defence of his fantasies was that he was absolutely certain Fianna was goading him deliberately. She had made no secret out of using her modern military disposition as a unique charming point. It was very effective too. Very, very effective.

“At ease,” he told her, before he could forget himself.

“Sir, yes, Sir.” Fianna maintained her disciplined gaze, though mischief sparkled within.

They waited a few minutes for everyone to join them around the chest – those that had fallen and those that had sat in the viewing area. There was little distinction. Provided the haremette in question was in a state to move, they could always move through the Light Gate and into the viewing area after Fateweaving expelled them.

Fianna moved to open the chest.

“Is this really necessary?” John croaked, his voice flat with arousal.

“Is what really necessary, Sir?” Fianna purred, feigning professional ignorance.

The White Tiger’s Chosen had elected to drop to all fours and crawl up to the chest. She moved with all the fluidity of a cat made of mercury. Mechanical joints moved soundlessly, metal knees rising and falling on the grass, moving her fat ass forwards.

The chest, a blue-trimmed, wooden thing that vaguely reminded of a sailor’s locker, was pushed open. Unusually, a cascade of white fog rose up, more of it pooling inside in place of the usual darkness. For a brief second, John feared they had a mimic encounter on their hands

Fianna rested her chest on the tall rim of the chest. Her hands disappeared into the fog. Her ass swung left to right, sending the borderline excessive, pliable meat into a pleasant wobble.

[Fianna Ass AI: https://cdn.imgchest.com/files/3bb23bccccb1.png ]

‘Yeah, no, I am not living this lifestyle to withstand this amount of teasing,’ John thought.

“Can I help you, Sir?” Fianna asked, glancing over her shoulder.

“Just keep pulling out the Loot.” John pulled at the synthetic material covering Fianna’s ass until he finally got enough to tear it open. The latex-esque stuff was tough, but it was designed for flexibility and replaceability – and John would not have been surprised to learn that Fianna and Scarlett (the two main users of this spray-on bodysuit) had conspired to introduce a specific weakness to this specific area.

Whatever the case, the material tore open, revealing Fianna’s womanhood. The pale pink slit sat glistening between the outskirts of her bent-over backside. A swift unzipping and John began to push into her. He took his time with the first couple of thrusts, letting the length of her drenched tunnel spread the lubrication properly along his shaft.

Then, he continued to fill the air with the lewd sounds of smacking against her jiggling cheeks. Fianna tried her best to remain stoic, failing delectably as she handed item after item to the man responsible for the jitter in her arms.

In the Common category of Loot, they had one of each of the available items. The Box of Slowgrass, John handed over to Jane. She was no habitual enjoyer of the devil’s lettuce, but she had partaken at a greater frequency than anyone else in the harem. Slowgrass Seeds, on the other hand, went to Delicia. As alchemist AND maid, she knew the gardeners working in the Guild Hall best of all, so she would figure out if this NotWeed was worth cultivating. Thunder Dust was a crafting material, which meant it was given to Scarlett for distribution.

Uncommon also held one of each, which was satisfying in its own way. Lesser Mist in a Bottle was a highly interesting item that provided whoever used it a decrease in current, BIOLOGICAL age. The amount of years shaved off was randomly determined between 1 and 20 and went to a minimum of 18. It also had a random chance of spawning a goose alongside its basic effect, for whatever reason.

A decrease in the biological age of an Abyssal was beyond potent, especially for the mid-range of elites. People like John and Romulus were functionally immortal and average Abyssals simply aged slower and more gracefully, but aged all the same. It was the broad spectrum in-between, the Level 100 to 800s, that experienced an interesting aging process. They stayed in the prime of their youth for a long time, then aged ever faster once the decay began and their once-potent magic diminished. A negative feedback loop that no amount of biomancy was able to stop fully.

Yet, probably. There was functionally no reason why immortality was strictly unachievable for the average Abyssal. Life magic could already restart souls in the form of necromancy and healing magic interacted with even necrotic tissue. Provided advanced enough magic with enough power behind it, returning someone to life and/or youth should have been entirely possible.

Alas, that was a question of skill and power. The biomancy involved would have needed to be incredibly potent and paired with other schools of magic to work fully. John knew of one traitor that had tried this path before and he had ultimately died as well. 2000 years later, but he had died all the same.

The Lesser Mist in a Bottle was nothing reproducible. Since it was an item with a set effect, Gaia was the one who had woven it and that left everyone else with centuries of head-scratching to even try to understand it. ‘I could enshrine it into the Loot Basin,’ John thought. The realization was enough to have him halt in his thrusting for a moment.

“What’s the matter, tiger?” Jane asked.

“Just running the theoretical calculations,” John answered. “If I enshrine this, enabling it to drop from any mob that we fight in all Instant Dungeons, how high would the drop chance have to be for there to be a reliable enough supply that I could keep one or several friends from aging out?”

“Thinking about your boyfriend?”

John shot his first wife an annoyed glare, before rolling his eyes. “Among other people,” he answered. “Though I prefer not to think about men while I am balls deep inside a sex soldier.” He gave Fianna’s rear a smack.

“SIR!” she screamed, following good old maid-spanking tradition.

“Even if the drop chance is abysmal, given that it needs to be, on average, one every 10 and a half years, it should be doable for one person easily,” John answered. “Running the experiment certainly won’t cost me much.”

“What’s currently enshrined?” Nia asked.

“A Celexium ingot,” John answered. Which of the six metals hardly mattered. He had set it there for the chance of randomly getting something absurdly valuable out of casual Floor runs he did every now and again. In all the months, it had triggered exactly once. “We have better ways to get those metals.” He pointedly looked at each of his maids. Several of them enriched certain Fusionals passively – slow but steady. Delicia could theoretically create them with her internal transmutation, given enough esoteric value.

Neither method was fast, but they were steady and, most importantly, predictable. The Loot Focus was not. Putting it on a consumable that could be used to keep his friends around for additional centuries (depending on their power) was a boon that no price could be named for.

Of course, there were some issues.

“Thinking about Max specifically,” John thought aloud. “IF I were to enable him with this, then he would naturally ask for me to do the same for his loved ones. I doubt Max would want to live forever for me, watching his wives die in the process.”

Everyone around agreed, through mumbles or nods.

“If Romulus succeeds in recreating the Lover’s Will mark, the interplay could diminish this, but it wouldn’t solve this,” John considered his contemplations. “Not sure if I want to be the origin point of leading to more widespread, immortal elites… then again, with Upset in the picture, the average Abyssal just got a leg-up. This might be reality balancing out the powers at a higher point….”

“Oh great, power creep in my reality,” Lee drawled.

“It’s the age we’re in, isn’t it?” John asked with a smirk. “Since magic seems to be tied to population numbers, in no small capacity.”

One had to wonder if magic had gone through notable ‘nerfs’ in the past. Perhaps Gaia’s ascent and separation of magic and mundane could be viewed as such an event? It had coincided with the gradual extinction of ‘Titan’ class entities.

“Well, whatever the case…” John put the bottle of liquid fog into his own inventory, “…I can make a decision on who I want to give some extra years after I have determined how many more of these I can get. If I can keep a lot of my friends alive, great. If I get so few of these I can’t reliably… at least it’ll be a useful political bargaining chip.”

If there was any one thing that practically everyone in the world could be bribed with, it was to lose the knee pain and return to being spry.

For the other two Uncommon items, they were thankfully nothing special. The Cuirass of the Mist was a chest plate that provided one of 6 boons randomly after the wearer had sustained an uncertain amount of damage. The Snail Foghorn was just a fancy, magical foghorn.

In the Rare category, they got the Logitur Ikon and Calcified Thunder. The former was a compass of a sort, just that the needle was replaced with a jittering lightning bolt beneath the glass. According to description, it always pointed towards pirates or the path to a safe voyage, depending on the intent of the journey. John was tempted to integrate that into his future flagship. Calcified Thunder was another crafting material and thus went to Scarlett.

As for Epic items, they got both the Vows to Melle Melee and the Pipe of Thunnabad. The Vows was a quite sweet booklet of poems written by an older, rough gentleman for his younger tomboy lover. Expectedly, the rhymes and metaphors used were a bit unrefined, but that only made it all more sincere. The Vows could be consumed at a marriage ceremony to boost the chance for that pair to have children with talents in Martial Arts and lightning magic. If that stacked, John was considering which of his loves to use that with. Scarlett, perhaps?

The Pipe of Thunnabad was a highly artistic, wooden pipe that bestowed the user multiple buffs whenever Slowgrass was consumed with it. Notably, it also negated any combat-impairing effects of the drug. John was mildly against smokers in his harem, having guided Scarlett to quit the habit, and Aclysia was firmly against smokers among the Imperial Choir, calling it a crime against servant-kind. No one would make use of it.

‘Perhaps I can use it as a peace offering to Ahanu?’ John theorized.

‘Let the loss be a loss,’ Stirwin’s voice rose in his mind. ‘He is no longer your friend and will not be again. By Lydia’s grace, he will not be in national politics again. Distance and apathy is the best you can achieve.’

John sighed, because he knew the Celestial Devourer was (as per usual) right. He put the pipe away to be used in some way in the future.

Then, he concentrated on finishing up with Fianna.

The RP event had the decency to be delayed until he had been milked by the tiger sniper’s spasming folds. It was a bit difficult to take serious what followed, with his dick out and Fianna dribbling. An immersion break that he had forced upon himself.

“YOU VILE, INVADING RATS!” Logitur’s voice thundered through the arena. The night sky darkened, stars snuffed out by gathering clouds. Flames dimmed then died, a sudden downpour drenching everyone in dark waters. Lightning struck around the god, illuminating his growing silhouette. Tendrils of abyssal deep sprung up, stretching with the sound of breaking hulls.

John was just starting to wonder if this marked the escalation from participants to gods, when two red flashes cast away the thunder clouds. One was a swing of the still-seated war god’s sword, the other a closing of cosmic, lava-cast teeth that enveloped the very sky. All the world was cast in bloody red light. The maw above opened, revealing a molten eye.

‘I hate eyes inside jaws,’ John growled in his mind.

The Thenngrians gasped, everyone else whimpered, an unsteady voice echoed. The way it spoke reminded closely of the Bloodletter’s mania. “NO! NO! NO! No Gods will fight in this tournament, not between red nor blue skies! NEVER!” The teeth clenched shut a second time and the night sky returned.

“You’ve heard it, brother,” Omnius spoke. “These are the laws that us immortals must abide by. Cherish his soul in the afterlife.”

“I will,” Logitur spat out and took a half-step back, falling into a throne and the arms of a brunette elf.

Vokal had dematerialized his blade already. His white eyes lingered on his fellow divine for a few moments. “The invaders cause us hurt and yet the fighting must continue. The Red Marble leaves us no doubt: this is what the world desires.” The war god’s gaze turned towards one of the lodges – one largely isolated from the others. “I call upon those that live to fight beneath burning skies. May the hounds of war of Eudoria show the invaders their mettle?”

“It will be our pleasure, Calamity Vokal!” one wolf woman responded. “Come on, warriors of Eudoria! DO YOU WANT TO LIVE FOREVER?!”

“”“BURN BRIGHT!””” came the roaring answer of the army that poured down into the arena. Tribally painted warriors streamed into the arena, a mixture of wolf-eared people and harpies with feathers of fiery red. Most of the wolf tribe stood at something approaching a normal height, but woven throughout, a smaller fraction of their number towered head and shoulders above. Some were formed into their own fighting units, others stood proudly among the shorter formations. Mingled into the rank and file were a few individuals that burned so brightly within that their ribcages shined through their skin.

The wolf woman that had spoken remained up there, seated on the stone railing, her legs dangling over the 30-metre drop. Her claws were latched around the stone tightly, as though the act of remaining seated while a battle raged below was a feat of enormous willpower for her.

John could make an educated guess on who the next Raid boss would be.