The Distinguished Mr. Rose Chapter 23: Chapter 23: World of Charlemagne

Read chapter 23 of The Distinguished Mr. Rose by QuiteTheSlacker on NovelPedia.

Chapter 23: World of Charlemagne A bright, blinding light enveloped Lucius. He felt his body collapse, as if every little cell was being broken down and relocated across time and space, but the sensation didn’t last for long. In the snap of a finger, his legs landed with a thump on something hard: marble. A pastel white marble so glossy that the gentleman could see his own reflection in it, and he was not alone. Hundreds, nay, thousands of people crowded around him in what seemed to be a grand throne room of colorful stained glass, columns, and arches. They were all fellow players, and the air soon filled with a great cacophony of confusion and panic, voices merging to deafening heights. Lucius could barely hear himself think, but the noise did confirm one thing: everyone was likely American. There were men with southern dialects, women from the east and west coast: Latin Americans, Asian Americans, African Americans, Caucasian Americans. Americans from all walks of life gathered here in this place, yet one common trait was shared between them. That trait was a deep-rooted trauma—the memory of a hell they could never hope to forget. It seemed Lucius and his party weren’t the only ones to have struggled. “... Lucius…? Lucius!” A familiar gruff voice came from behind. Before he knew it, Lucius was trapped within the tight hug of the affable Mister Bernardi. “Thank god you’re safe,” the old mobster said. “I was worried for a second after ya disappeared on me.” “Fortunately, It would seem our fates are still intertwined. I am elated to see you again, Mister Bernardi, but what of Miss Mili?” Right on cue, Mili’s head popped up from beside Marco. “Don’tcha even think about countin’ me out! I actually found the big guy first - pretty easily actually considering he’s like a foot taller than everyone else.” With the trio reunited, they discussed their experiences with the waiting rooms. Marco and Mili had received fewer rewards than Lucius, mainly in stat points and coins, and though they each tried to ask their respective questions, they were similarly disappointed with a string of vague responses. “It ain’t all that bad,” Marco remarked, scratching his head. “At least we’re around some proper livin’ folks now. Time was I used to avoid crowds like these, but after wanderin’ around that god-forsaken maze, I’d even tolerate the devil if it meant having a good ol’ fashioned conversation.” Mili furled her brow and leaned in. “Huh? Didn’t catch that. Someone must be stomping on the damn floor with all this racket.” The noise was getting louder; it drowned out all within the room. However, something was different. The sound wasn’t coming from the players. It felt more orderly, more rhythmic, like the synchronized drumbeat of a marching band— t hump, thump, increasing to a crescendo. The source laid not from within, but rather outside. Soon, a pair of wide doors parted with a loud creak, and the players all abruptly turned their heads. “Welcome, heroes,” a calm and worldly voice spoke out. “We have awaited your arrival.” An elderly fellow wrapped in long, flowing robes of white stepped forth to greet the crowd. He wore a large headdress that had the pattern of an eagle stitched in front, which made for a striking image, but the man himself expressed a more somber disposition. He moved in slow, practiced steps. He waved toward the people with a benevolent smile. Lucius knew it instantly: This was a holy man, one of considerable rank. Individuals dressed in full suits of black and gold armor quickly flocked to the priest’s side and guided him towards an altar at the far end of the room. The steel-clad warriors resembled the knights often fantasized in classic medieval literature, but to witness them in person was quite intimidating. They were no mere soldiers; each knight exuded a tempered discipline and an honed martial might. It was as if they embodied the very spirit of the blade: sharp, refined, and ready to strike at the slightest hint of