Jakob H. Greif
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Outrage of the Ancients Chapter 82: Whitechapel
🕑 Added 2025-09-12 13:05:16 +0000 UTCArthur
London had taken a lot of damage, but nowhere near as much as many other cities hit by the resurgent Nazis, for one simple reason.
London was big, and very, very spread out. It had been hit with more than enough bombs to flatten most other cities, true, but its sheer size meant that the majority of its buildings were still intact, relatively speaking.
Though people were still leaving, which was an understandable impulse, but misguided.
Yes, a capital city that had had said role for centuries was functionally guaranteed to have seen a fair sight more wars, battles, and general disasters, so there was little doubt that, over the next few months, it would see no end of monstrous avatars.
But there were very few places in the British Isles that the same thing could not be said off.
Arthur made his way towards one of London’s “historic” areas, which was only a fraction of his own age, a place by the name of Whitechapel, which seemed to be far, far foggier than even the worst rumors about old Londinium had ever suggested.
Wonderful.
He sighed.
And then he smelled it. The smoke. Thick, dark, choking, a sickening miasma of burning coal that was said to once have been the source of British supremacy.
Yet, at the same time, it managed to be wet, heavy, practically a solid barrier against his stride until his inability to be magically ensnared wiped it away. The restriction, that was, as the fog remained, twirling through the air, spiraling and winding together with the smoke to form a wall functionally impenetrable to his sight.
A creature of fog and smoke … or were there two? And where? A massive area was drowning beneath the blanket of grey clouds, more than large enough for anything short of a Nation Boss to hide in. Of course, it couldn’t be too powerful either, otherwise, this place would have already been thoroughly destroyed, but there was a vast divide between “not yet a walking calamity” and “weak.”
His fingers curled around empty air until he felt the familiar hilt of Carnwennan fall into his hand, the dagger manifesting soundlessly as he called upon it.
The shadows around him began to come to life, then, slithering across the walls and floor and beginning to crawl up his body, wreathing him in the darkness, a cloak made up of the night itself, shielding him from view as he stalked into the murk that had consumed Whitechapel.
He was unlikely to see coming what was waiting for him, but at the same time, it would never see him coming either.
Arthur Pendragon strode confidently into the gloomy, dreary streets of Whitechapel … and absolutely nothing happened. For an entire hour.
Any people who’d gotten caught in the smoke and fog had fled, showing more common sense than he’d have ascribed to the vast majority of modern humans.
Which left him wandering through the streets practically at random, trying to catch any glimpse of the creature or creatures responsible for the whole affair.
Fruitlessly.
He caught the occaisional sound of breaking shindles, as though something were scampering across the rooftops while being just a little too heavy or careless for said roofs, but the sound was always distant, and there was never anything there by the time he arrived, it only ever serving to highlight where the creature wouldn’t be by the time he reached the location in question.
Yet after a good sixty minutes of running in circles, something changed. The near-perpetual stink of smoke mixed with the heavy wetness of fog giving way to a smell far more familiar to Arthur, and far more foreboding.
The stench of freshly spilled blood, and lots of it.
He quickly passed his dagger over into his other left hand, then manifested Excalibur in his right, ready for anything.
And then, he followed his nose, searching for the source of the new smell, which rapidly became overpowering, nauseating, choking.
Just what kind of monster was this?
Rounding the final corner, Arthur came face to face with something even he had never seen before. Even battlefields were “clean” compared to … to … whatever this was supposed to be. He couldn’t even tell how many people had been torn apart to create this scene, even troops of men pulverized by catapult stones were easier to pick apart than the blanket of body parts that covered the flagstones, some neatly sliced off, others dissected with varying degrees of carefullness … nothing to be said of the various organs carved out/up, and splatters of blood covered every place devoid of mess, reaching so far up the wall he was having a hard time seeing where they ended.
He set his mouth in a hard line as he glared around, trying to spot the perpetrator. He couldn’t.
Too late.
Too late, again.
Knives in the dark, schemes in the shadows, and he only found out by the time it was too late to do something about it.
Arthur took a deep breath to try and quell the fury beginning to build deep in his chest, only to immediately regret it as the stench of the scene before him sank deep into his lungs, making even him, a veteran of countless battles, gag.
“You know, they said that King bloody Arthur was going to come save them,” a voice announced, from deep within the alley, beyond the field of corpses, yet that did not seem to match what he was hearing. But there was nothing there … and even if it was, how had it seen him beneath his cloak of shadow?
“That’s you, isn’t it?”
The voice was smooth, aristocratic, jovial, the speaker’s broad grin clearly audible.
“Show. Yourself. Bastard.”
“Oh, come on, why do you have to be so hasty? Can’t we enjoy this reparte?”
There was an edge to it now, a slight grumpiness, a hint of irritation … yet it sounded more petty, more disappointed, than angry.
Since the dagger clearly wasn’t doing anything, Arthur sheathed Carnwennan so he could grasp Excalibur’s hilt with both hands.
This wasn’t going to work. He couldn’t just stand here and wait for the damn thing to reveal its ugly mug.
So he began to walk forward, into the charnel house, feeling organs and squish and blood squelch underfoot as he scanned every surface for any hint of the monster.
Yet only it was only thanks to [One Against the World] warning him of the blade at his back that saved him from getting his throat slit by the figure that had risen up from the pool of blood behind him, crimson liquid solidifying and transforming into a man, one with pale yet healthy skin, shockingly white hair, and ice-blue eyes as cold as the Arctic Sea.
Moving on instinct alone, Arthur whirled, Excalibur’s steel deflecting a scalpel made from crystalized blood into the nearby alleyway wall, where it carved through the brickwork as though it were cheap cloth.
Lunging with his sword, Arthur tried to end this in a single move, to skewer his foe and end it right then and there, even if that thing’s body was actually of blood that merely took the shape of a human being, Excalibur would slay him all the same.
That being said, it wouldn’t be a fight if everything went according to plan.
The man turned back into blood and slipped back into the carnage on the ground and Arthur’s sword took another chunk out of the wall, yet he was forced to twist around again to block a razor-sharp arc of blood that flew through the air, hurled by the crimson blade of the murderer, who was currently only half-way emerged from the ground, a savage grin on his face.
And this time, the bastard stayed still long enough for Arhtur to read the nameplate.e
Jack the Ripper (reborn serial killer) Field Boss Level 75
That name felt distantly familiar. Not enough for him to outright identify just what this monster had been named in reference to, but enough to know this had been a big thing, back in the day.
And therefore, it was a huge problem, now.
“Hello, Jack,” Arthur spat, raising Excalibur high above his own head, a move that left him wide open and would have been suitable only a manner of execution … yet he’d judged his opponent correctly.
The distance was too large to easily be closed, the attempt to cross it too risky, the chance that the attack would land during it too great for a cowardly backstabber to take.
“Goodbye, Jack.”
And then Arthur brought down Excalibur in a grand arc, unleashing [Grand Slash] at the apex of the cut, energy washing off the sword as though it contained the energy of a star, blasting outwards and forwards, forming a massive wedge of power the length of the entire alleyway, hammering into the ground and splitting the pool of blood, then sweeping outwards, the buildings on either side crumbling as though they were cheap crockerty while the crimson portal on the ground was splattered all across the devastated area of dust and stone fragments.
Though whereas, normally, the liquid would simply flow back together into the newly-formed crater, Excalibur could cut just about anything, especially those things that should be impossible to part with a blade, leaving the blood unnaturally clumping all over the place, forming jelly-like blobs that quivered in place, about to flow down into the remains of the alley, yet held back by the magic of the blade.
And that just left one place where the monster could emerge from, assuming it hadn’t already been wiped out. Behind him.
Arthur whirled, again, slashing at where he expected the enemy to emerge, the place where it did appear … about half a second too early for the hit to land.
Jack the Ripper landed on the ground with a wet splat, scrambling to open the distance, glaring at Arthur with venom in his eyes.
“So that’s the way royals do things, is it? The moment something isn’t going your way, you destroy everything?” he scoffed. “The local artisans must be praying for the likes of you to pick up an instrument.”
And that would be his last words.
Excalibur was raised, ready to come down atop the short-lived reincarnation of this bastard … when he heard the impact behind him, the thud of something heavy landing on the rubble behind him, and whirled around, interposing his sword between himself and …
Springheeled Jack, Specter of the Industrial Age (reborn myth) Field Boss Level 75
… and whatever the hell that thing was.
A massive hooded black cloak, eyes that glowed like burning coals, hot smoke flowed from its maw as though there were a furnace in its guts, and its fingers had been replaced by vicious metallic claws that scraped off Excalibur amidst a shower of sparks.
With a curse, Arthur threw himself to the side, triggering [King’s Advance] as he did so, the Skill carrying him nearly fifty meters across the field of rubble, well clear of the area of danger. Almost too far, but he didn’t think these two would be engaging in another game of cat and mouse again.
Not with the angry glare the first Jack was sending his way, a pair of bloodformed knives in his hands.
Fighting two against one wasn’t exactly easy, but now that he wasn’t trapped between them, it should be perfectly doable. Should.
The Ripper threw himself at Arthur even as the other monster leaped over his head to land somewhere behind him, yet he was easily able to slide out between the pair, and slashed at the Ripper, who ducked then surged forward, blades angled to slip beneath his ribs … and then Arthur’s boot landed squarely in his face, sending the figure backwards and against the legs of the living coalstack that was Springheeled Jack, who promptly tripped over his first opponent.
Yet before Arthur could capitalize on that, he was forced to back up from a series of wild slashes and projected blood blades from the Ripper.
And then the other one jumped at him once more.
Over and over, the same pattern repeated. Any time he was able to attack one, the other was there to stop him, to drag away his attention, or outright force him to block an otherwise lethal attack.
Either one would have been easy enough to take down; he’d have been able to defeat them in relatively short order if only he’d had a good shot at one of them … which he never got.
Arthur could feel himself about to boil over, the anger about the betrayal and civil war that had destroyed Camelot and cost him his first life that he had done his damndest to keep down since emerging from Avalon, his frustration at the chaos of this modern world and the endless predations of the System, all of it …
Why was he even playing it safe?
As Springheeled Jack threw himself over Arthur’s head, the King of Camelot ignored that particular enemy to attack the Ripper.
He ducked under the first arc of blood that was thrown at his face, slashed the second apart, and then stabbed the first Field Boss in the heart, just at the same time as Springheeled Jack’s claws drove into his back.
Triggering [Resurgent Strike], Arthur whirled in an instant, the force of the Skill and his raw fury lending to the power of the attack, to the point where the second monster’s head flew off in a high arc after a brief screech of tearing metal.
Even as the monster fell apart into pieces, the stench of smoke vanishing from the air as its source died, he returned his attention to the Ripper, bringing down Excalibur over and over again.
Jack only ever tried to counterattack after the first couple of times, but Arthur continued to slash him to pieces for a good minute beyond that until he finally straightened and turned to touch the wound on his back with a hiss of pain.
He needed to get a handle on his temper at some point.
Cursing internally, he flicked the blood off Excalibur, sheathed it, and began to march off in search of something else to fight.
***
Tristan
I shoved yet another pile of papers off to Mr. Deeds, which made for what felt like an entire metric ton of wills delivered by now.
He was actually, in fact, not a human being but rather a projection of [Phantom Courtier], which manifested my idea of a “perfect assistant” as a specter.
A specter that, for me, had taken the form of a British Butler by the name of James Deeds.
Then, as I reached for yet another piece of paper to scribble on, an old-fashioned scrap of parchment manifested out of thin air and fluttered down towards the table, though I snatched it out of the air before it could land and began to read.
“Hear ye, hear ye …”
Oh, right, I knew what this was.
One of Arthur’s Skills, which allowed him to easily share information about his successes, but much like Charlemagne’s [Diplomatic Message], it added a whole lot of unnecessary fluff and frippery that no one, not even the Skills’ users, could remove.
So I skipped halfway down the page to get to the meat of the matter, which was conveyed with only a couple of lines.
Jack the Ripper was back, and therefore, we had proof that the System was now drawing from the 19th century as well.
He’d been spotted around noon, and that had been on the fourth day of the challenge. Considering the “reset” was around 9 am, Greenwich Mean Time, it wasn’t too unlikely that he’d appeared at the very start of day four, thereby also giving us the interval at which the System spawned in more enemies.
“The thing that worries me is how far back this goes,” Charlemagne said, after I’d shared the information. “The fifth Challenge will last for one hundred and fifty days, with every three days heralding the rise of monsters from one century earlier than the previous wave, which indicates that by its conclusion, we will be dealing with threats from prehistoric times, quite literally.”
I had to admit that idea had been bothering me as well, though we’d had enough unpleasant surprises that I didn’t want to rely on historical data to predict monsters too much.
Not that there would be too many safe spots in Europe, even if we limited ourselves to famous historic messes.
***
At the end of the day, I was pleasantly surprised to receive another couple of Levels, given for … for “doing paperwork real good?”
[Arcane Wanderer Lv. 54 -> Arcane Wanderer Lv. 56]
[Skill gained: Wanderer’s Gift]
[Skill Boost Available]
Most likely a combination of the wills, the portals, and the one time I’d managed to flatten a horde of little beasties who’d actually approached the Untersberg directly with a [Century Storm] made even more lethal by combining it with [Acid Rain].
I was falling behind Mia, though the Levels were still nice.
Wanderer’s Gift
Conjure and give a perfect gift, can only be used once per day, limited to one gift per recipient community
So basically, a bribe for a guard, or a present to win over the local leadership, I guessed.
I mean, my Class was called [Arcane Wanderer], it was meant to be all about me visiting strange places, encountering new civilizations, and the System could be pretty old-fashioned. So it made sense. But was that Skill useful? It sounded like it could conjure a whole lot of different things, but without any control.
Actually, no, let’s not spiral into theorycrafting, not when I could simply try it out.
So, gift for Charlemagne, what are you going to give me, oh Skill?
I held out my hand, palm up … only to have to lurch forward and throw forward my other hand to catch the heavy book as it dropped into my extended hand.
What on Earth was that thing?
I frowned at it, trying to read the cover. The alphabet was definitely the Latin I was familiar with, but the writing style was incredibly old-fashioned, and what I thought it spelled out didn’t mean anything to me.
Although … yeah, no, that was a language I didn’t understand, though I was pretty sure I could identify it as Latin. Which I’d taken in school, hated, and utterly wiped from my memory, save for a handful of words, none of which were present here. And I hadn’t been “exposed” to it enough after gaining the [Burgeoning Omniglot] Skill to (re)learn it.
So I just handed it over to Charlemagne.
“I got a new Skill that can conjure something useful to another person. This is supposed to be helpful to you,” I simply said.
“I see,” he said, picking it up and frowning at it. “Unknown Battles of Antiquity. Hm ..”
For about five minutes, he seemed to be utterly absorbed by the “gift,” flipping through it so quickly it was hard to imagine he was actually reading it, though I assumed that he was managing to absorb every single iota of information. Then, he finally put it down.
“This is very useful,” Charlemagne finally said. “It’s a complete collection of battles that failed to make much of an impact in the commonly told history.”
In other words, it told us all about the sort of things we were most likely to miss for the next few waves of historical foes. A perfect item for him, one that had taken everything about the current situation into account.
So I’d be handing over a whole bunch of “gifts,” to everyone working to fix this mess, the original purpose of the Skill ignored as usual.
And as for the boost, I banked it for a rainy day.
