Stolen Lives: A LitRPG/GameLit Novel (The Underhill Chronicles Book 1) Keith Ahrens (best e reader for epub txt) 📖

that I'm getting better at them, while ones like ‘Driving’ have no place here, so they don’t improve. I mean, I have other skills. Everyone does. I guess these are the ones someone deemed the most useful or necessary. Interesting that ‘Firearms’ are listed even though this society doesn’t seem to have any. Maybe they found magic an effective enough killer that they didn’t need to evolve something new.

I'm beginning to learn to fight as a unit with my cellmates. A few days a week, we've been doing small skirmishes against other squads, always in full armor and with blunted weapons. There are a few other squads that Haynes and Des know and trust to not overtly try to kill us. We rotate through three or four of them to keep things fresh. By fresh, I mean new and exciting bruises in places I never knew could bruise. Most of these folks have been fighting a few months or years longer than I have, so it’s still a steep learning curve. We're trying to improve while not killing each other. However, this sentiment doesn't seem to exist much past the small circle of groups we spar with. In the past two weeks, I've counted at least four people in other areas around the yard killed during these daily training sessions, but none with us.

Pain is an excellent motivator, and self-defense is a great reason to get better. If I ever want to get out of here, I’m pretty sure I’m gonna have to fight my way out. But that won't happen alone. I already consider Haynes and Des allies, and I think Jesse and the Gnolls can be counted on also. We still need more people willing to band together if we want any chance of getting home.

My group has gotten into the habit of talking at night and any time we can’t be overheard, planning and plotting a way to break out from this accursed Hellhole. Slowly, I discover a bit more here and there about from my cellmates this world. We all agree that we need to get out of here before any more of us die. So, we've come up with a bit of a plan. During the skirmishes with other squads, we start to reach out and ask some questions, try to feel out the moods and motivations of the other prisoners. We’re looking for others to join us and who we can trust with our plan.

This is more dangerous than it sounds. The guards are always watching, and there are probably spies among the groups. We also know that if we say the wrong thing to the wrong person, they’ll sell us out for extra rations in a heartbeat. Our circle of trust is pretty small, and our paranoia runs pretty high.

During one of these long, interminable nights, Jesse wakes up and listens to our conversation. He is bleary-eyed and looks confused for the first few minutes, but seems content to sit and listen to us talk.

Des is just starting a story about the best steak he ever ate when Jesse straightens and looks at me with an intense stare. “You know what’s going on, right? It took me a few minutes to remember, but now I know again.”

Well, this should be interesting… “Yeah, I think so. But why don’t you tell me anyway?” I reply.

“Don’t patronize me, new guy. I know things.” He waits, staring at me, almost daring me to argue with him. I stay quiet. No need to poke the bear right now.

After a few moments, he goes on, “Almost three hundred years ago, we chased the elves from our lands. They took with them most every other creature native to magic out of our world. A hundred years ago, we began to find evidence of their history; these were written off as fairytales or hoaxes. Until a record was found in the form of a scroll in England around 1950 in our time. More were found, and these scrolls were widely studied and published for everyone to see. In the early ‘70s, some genius got the idea to use these past stories and make them into a game. Something to rival Dungeons and Dragons, the most popular game of the time. It was a hit, and it renewed the world’s interest in the Fey and Little People. The scrolls, and this newfound belief in them, called out to the Elves Under the Hill. They reveled in finally being remembered. They saw it as a chance for their revenge, a way of bridging their world with ours, partly through the power of belief and partly through the game. They use the game to enslave us… it was supposed to be fun, harmless fun… but then came the kidnappings and the screaming… no one even knows what happened to me; my whole life… left behind…” By the end of his speech, his voice has risen in both pitch and volume. This torrent of information, the longest speech I've ever heard from him, seems to exhaust him to the core.

Haynes quickly walks over and sits next to Jesse, trying to calm him down before the jailer hears him. Jesse, tears rolling down his face, has gone slack-jawed, a look of profound fear on his face. After a few minutes, he just lays down and rolls over, fast asleep like it never happened.

Haynes looks at me with a knowing look. I get why they wanted me to hear it from Jesse himself. It really does sound crazy. I still have a lot of questions though…

“Why do we say ‘Underhill,’ but the Fey says things like 'from Under the Hill' or 'Above the Hill'?” I ask.

“Perspective. Humans and the Fey are looking through the same door from opposite sides. We call it ‘Underhill’ because it's shorter, and it pisses off the elves by being dismissive of their home. Now let’s get some rest. If you wake up Jesse"—he points to our slumbering cellmate—"you get to sit