0xAD14
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Man, this is all so hard!!!
Added after 54 seconds
Prologue
I laugh, watching the heavy leaden clouds racing away, seeing how the teeth of the formidable, snarling mountains mercilessly tear and torment their tender, fluffy bodies. I laugh, shifting my gaze downward to the dense dark forest, stretching in two grim, deaf walls forward and backward on both sides of the broken country road, as if squeezing it. I laugh, squatting down and scooping up a handful of dust; I laugh, plucking a long, juicy blade of grass growing on the roadside; I laugh, touching the cold, damp earth; I laugh, swatting away a fat fly that buzzed past. I laugh because I cannot believe what is happening. That a long streak of failures has apparently finally been replaced by victory, and that everything around me is now mine.
I draw the sword from the scabbard, which hangs awkwardly and uncomfortably at my side. I admire it, stroke the cold metal, and test the sharpness of the blade with my finger. With a swing, I chop a branch from a tree that happened to be nearby; it falls to the ground with a light, offended rustle, but obediently nonetheless. I return the blade to the scabbard, running my fingers over the hilt in farewell, gently, as if over the skin of a beloved woman. A cool, real, manly toy.
I raise my right hand, on the middle finger of which gleams a ring with a large red stone, likely a ruby (I can't vouch for that, because I've never seen one in the flesh). The presence of the ring on my finger is almost more unusual to me than the scabbard at my side: I've never worn such things. For a long time, I watch the play of light in the stone, turning it at different angles. In reality, this toy is even more manly, for power is hidden there, inside. Straining with all my might, I try to remove it — useless. That's how it should be; it is mine alone: it cannot be given away or taken away; separating me from it would possibly only be possible by chopping off the finger, and even then, it's far from certain...
Concentrating, I give a mental command. A large black rectangle appears in the air beside me, lying horizontally, with a tiny green speck in the middle. Another command — and the rectangle begins to enlarge, the speck grows, swallowing the blackness, and now a tiny lonely figure standing on a forest road can be seen in its center. Involuntarily shuddering, I glance up at the point from which such a perspective opens, like on a magical map, but, of course, there are only clouds. Looking again at the image hanging before me, I manage to notice that the little man there was just looking straight at me, but quickly turned away, and now stared down and to the side again. I try to zoom in further — no further, maximum magnification. I close it.
I pat the tightly packed, heavy leather bag that presses mercilessly on my shoulder. After a bit of fussing, I overcome the tricky ties, reach inside, and pull out a handful of brightly sparkling gold coins that seem to glow of their own accord. Yes, there is a fortune by local standards, and a considerable sum in earthly equivalent — all my savings over many years, and something more. I pour the money back. It is very good when you are not a pauper at the start, but already a quite affluent person.
I turn my hand palm up and imagine that I see an open book lying on it. I barely manage to catch and save from falling the materialized tome, which turned out to be of quite impressive size and considerable weight. With trepidation and reverence, I begin to leaf through the ancient yellowed pages, from which actual book dust flies, and examine pictures of all sorts of creatures and monsters, buildings, items of not always clear purpose, as well as lines of text, seemingly handwritten in a beautiful Gothic script. I have to study all of this; so far, I have only skimmed the contents of the coveted volume. I bring it closer to my face and inhale the scent of the old book with pleasure. Yes, working with it will be a true delight. Closing the tome with slight regret, I mentally hide it again in that unknown immaterial storage where it was kept before.
Finally, clenching my suddenly sweaty palms, I proceed to the final check. A silent command, and a human figure appears before me, dressed strangely and funny, like an illustration from an old fairy tale book: in an embroidered linen shirt and linen pants, wearing boots with slightly upturned toes. Only the cleanly shaven head and face do not fit the clothes, but it doesn't matter, it's not a fashion show. And I feel an unusual emptiness inside; I probably won't do this a second time in a row, which is not surprising, since my magical abilities are only rudimentary, and there is no controllable magical source to fuel me yet. Another command — the figure turns around, draws a sword from the clumsily dangling scabbard, and chops the trunk of a thick pine tree. The blade passes through the wood as if it weren't there: naturally, since I only created an illusion. I dissipate it, and joy begins to swell within me again. I pull myself together — too early, still too early, although the first, giant step forward has been taken: I am here, and before me is a new world that will very soon become my only home, despite the fact that for many this is just a game, and despite the fact that I will effectively become just a record in an artificial neuropamięt, exabytes of information. And nevertheless, I rejoice like a child, in a way I haven't rejoiced for a long time, and continue to laugh like a madman.
Added after 54 seconds
Prologue
I laugh, watching the heavy leaden clouds racing away, seeing how the teeth of the formidable, snarling mountains mercilessly tear and torment their tender, fluffy bodies. I laugh, shifting my gaze downward to the dense dark forest, stretching in two grim, deaf walls forward and backward on both sides of the broken country road, as if squeezing it. I laugh, squatting down and scooping up a handful of dust; I laugh, plucking a long, juicy blade of grass growing on the roadside; I laugh, touching the cold, damp earth; I laugh, swatting away a fat fly that buzzed past. I laugh because I cannot believe what is happening. That a long streak of failures has apparently finally been replaced by victory, and that everything around me is now mine.
I draw the sword from the scabbard, which hangs awkwardly and uncomfortably at my side. I admire it, stroke the cold metal, and test the sharpness of the blade with my finger. With a swing, I chop a branch from a tree that happened to be nearby; it falls to the ground with a light, offended rustle, but obediently nonetheless. I return the blade to the scabbard, running my fingers over the hilt in farewell, gently, as if over the skin of a beloved woman. A cool, real, manly toy.
I raise my right hand, on the middle finger of which gleams a ring with a large red stone, likely a ruby (I can't vouch for that, because I've never seen one in the flesh). The presence of the ring on my finger is almost more unusual to me than the scabbard at my side: I've never worn such things. For a long time, I watch the play of light in the stone, turning it at different angles. In reality, this toy is even more manly, for power is hidden there, inside. Straining with all my might, I try to remove it — useless. That's how it should be; it is mine alone: it cannot be given away or taken away; separating me from it would possibly only be possible by chopping off the finger, and even then, it's far from certain...
Concentrating, I give a mental command. A large black rectangle appears in the air beside me, lying horizontally, with a tiny green speck in the middle. Another command — and the rectangle begins to enlarge, the speck grows, swallowing the blackness, and now a tiny lonely figure standing on a forest road can be seen in its center. Involuntarily shuddering, I glance up at the point from which such a perspective opens, like on a magical map, but, of course, there are only clouds. Looking again at the image hanging before me, I manage to notice that the little man there was just looking straight at me, but quickly turned away, and now stared down and to the side again. I try to zoom in further — no further, maximum magnification. I close it.
I pat the tightly packed, heavy leather bag that presses mercilessly on my shoulder. After a bit of fussing, I overcome the tricky ties, reach inside, and pull out a handful of brightly sparkling gold coins that seem to glow of their own accord. Yes, there is a fortune by local standards, and a considerable sum in earthly equivalent — all my savings over many years, and something more. I pour the money back. It is very good when you are not a pauper at the start, but already a quite affluent person.
I turn my hand palm up and imagine that I see an open book lying on it. I barely manage to catch and save from falling the materialized tome, which turned out to be of quite impressive size and considerable weight. With trepidation and reverence, I begin to leaf through the ancient yellowed pages, from which actual book dust flies, and examine pictures of all sorts of creatures and monsters, buildings, items of not always clear purpose, as well as lines of text, seemingly handwritten in a beautiful Gothic script. I have to study all of this; so far, I have only skimmed the contents of the coveted volume. I bring it closer to my face and inhale the scent of the old book with pleasure. Yes, working with it will be a true delight. Closing the tome with slight regret, I mentally hide it again in that unknown immaterial storage where it was kept before.
Finally, clenching my suddenly sweaty palms, I proceed to the final check. A silent command, and a human figure appears before me, dressed strangely and funny, like an illustration from an old fairy tale book: in an embroidered linen shirt and linen pants, wearing boots with slightly upturned toes. Only the cleanly shaven head and face do not fit the clothes, but it doesn't matter, it's not a fashion show. And I feel an unusual emptiness inside; I probably won't do this a second time in a row, which is not surprising, since my magical abilities are only rudimentary, and there is no controllable magical source to fuel me yet. Another command — the figure turns around, draws a sword from the clumsily dangling scabbard, and chops the trunk of a thick pine tree. The blade passes through the wood as if it weren't there: naturally, since I only created an illusion. I dissipate it, and joy begins to swell within me again. I pull myself together — too early, still too early, although the first, giant step forward has been taken: I am here, and before me is a new world that will very soon become my only home, despite the fact that for many this is just a game, and despite the fact that I will effectively become just a record in an artificial neuropamięt, exabytes of information. And nevertheless, I rejoice like a child, in a way I haven't rejoiced for a long time, and continue to laugh like a madman.
