The Grand Pilgrimage shadowed the path that the Ancient Heroes of Yore traveled to bring order to the savage, menu-less world.

  It started in Riverglen. Hometown of Calaf, and long ago, a small village of no renown. At the holy cloister south of town, the old heroes had been blessed with the Menu. And it was in the Riverglen sewers that the heroes perfected their skills with the Interface.

  The first town on the route had thrived following the heroes’ holy crusade. Sewers that once were swarming with rats had been tamed. Early good deeds performed by the grace of the Menu had cleared out the dire-scorpions from a nearby cavern, driving their foul kind to extinction in these lands. The Cleric and The Scout had introduced the concept of crop rotation to the subsistence dirt farms of the hinterlands, allowing the fertile river valley to support increasingly larger populations. Why, legend had it that the first Paladin, then but a lowly Shielder, even rescued the village alderman’s daughter from bandits.

  In short: the Ancient Heroes of Yore had, in a few weeks, solved every problem preventing their minor, beleaguered hovel from succeeding. And as they left their hometown, they tamed all the wild ravenous beasts of the field and local bandit, dire-scorpion, and goblin populations with the inheritable Brand of the Menu. The area around Riverglen had been constrained to threats no higher than a level eight boar or bandit group for centuries.

  Well, until this very afternoon…

  Calaf stood at the north gate. Now fortified with the preponderance of the city watch. A horde of particularly beefy looking wild hogs awaited outside.

  A wall of guards with level 20 shields, so hefty they could only be wielded two-handed at this stat distribution, maintained the line. They stood firm even as the full force of twenty-five slovenly dire-boars pushed against them. Each mighty dire-bovine slobbered ravenously, waiting for the chance to break into Riverglen and make a beeline for the local nursery and orphanage, no doubt!

  “Hold the line!” a level nineteen guard captain cried.

  Deacon stepped forward, hands raised. With deft control of the Interface as befitting a member of the church of some renown, he cast with a muttered prayer:

  A burst of pink light erupted from a catalyst in the deacon’s left hand.

  With 75% base chance, nineteen rabid beasts should have dropped dead. Deacon must possess a prodigious effect hit rate, as twenty-four pigs dropped dead. One last very confused boar remained, swiftly speared down by enterprising guards.

  Experience points were evenly distributed between the deacon and the dozens guards who’d been grappling with the beasts.

  Calaf stood, gazing down the long road north. At one point, it had been but a simple dire-goat path. Church maintenance crews had widened the trail in the intervening century or two. And of course, the constant flow of pilgrims during peak season kept the road level and well-trodden.

  “Nervous?” asked the deacon.

  “No.” Calaf shook his head.

  He’d traveled the pilgrim’s path before, at least part of the way, a few years back. Can hardly call yourself a faithful adherent of the Most Holy Menu if you don’t make it until at least Deepwood. Monsters there were stronger than even these wild boars, but the sheer number of pilgrims provided safety in numbers.

  Maybe, by the time he returned to Riverglen, he’d be worthy of his beloved Charlotte. Calaf thought of how different things would be if he returned at level twenty, or even thirty. Rat Kings would be felled in a single blow. Indeed, he’d be overdue for a promotion.

  But he’d have to survive this journey first. To that effect, he had Deacon there to ensure he remained healed. Gorman, too, was there, a few levels higher.

  Party gathered, Calaf took one last look at his stats and inventory before heading forth:

  He would level up soon. Even one battle would do it – if he’d arrived but seconds sooner, he could’ve stabbed at a pig or two to finish that task off. No matter. The journey was only beginning.

  Calaf stepped onto the worn pilgrim’s road. Gorman carried most of their rations in his Inventory.

  Every convert memorized the itinerary of the Grand Pilgrimage. It was an essential part of church education, taught to every schoolchild.

  From Riverglen, the Ancient Heroes of Yore marched north, shadowing the river. This continued until they reached a natural funnel at Granite Pass. A small trading post sat there now, the second major station on the pilgrimage.

  A great gate, constructed centuries past, controlled access to a high plateau. The old heroes achieved level sixteen within this narrow valley before continuing onward.

  These highlands started arid but gradually gave way to a great alpine forest. Here, carved into the very trees, was Deepwood. A church library sat in the grandest hollowed-out tree, home to the Wall of Converts.

  From there, the itinerary pointed to the north-west until they reached Twelthnight. A small and cozy hovel, this represented where the old heroes managed to camp after exactly one fortnight’s travel. Most pilgrims made it there much faster in contemporary times.

  Only the particularly devout, those on a second or third pilgrimage, or faithful with a church-sanctioned mission, continued past this point. The route only grew more dangerous. But for those wishing to travel the heroes’ path, the church fully funded and sanctioned more devout worshipers in their climb up the path.

  Those of unwavering faith carried onward along a gradually sloping plateau to Plains Junction. A central trading post that funneled pilgrims north-south, and funneled goods and resources from the periphery onto the pilgrimage route and throughout the churchlands.

  From there, the pilgrim’s path sloped down towards a fertile river delta. Something of Riverglen’s sister city, this region held most of the church’s faithful amidst leagues of genteel farmland and dense swampy abodes.

  Another long route skirting the river cut across a series of pontoon bridges at a busy port town, then broke off through a highlands gap before the river reached its headwaters. There, pilgrims should be leveled enough to brave the high desert to the next station, Firefield. It’s said even the ancient heroes nearly perished in this desolate wasteland.

  And yet, under the Menu, Firefield and even more dangerous areas further north have become bustling centers where pilgrims often emulate the many side activities the old heroes did to prepare for the increased challenge ahead.

  At the edge of the desert, another, more temperate forest awaited. This was Autumn’s Redoubt, where the Ancient Heroes of Yore wintered in a microclimate of eternal Fall. The Menu was so efficient now, the pilgrimage route starting so early in the year, and Pilgrims so adept at retracing the heroes’ footsteps, that nobody ever had to winter there any longer.

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  The path sloped ever upward. Up a steep, nigh-impenetrable mountain range and through mines and caverns to a high plateau containing The Olde Capital. A walled city, mostly ruins now, that represented the decadent order of an older, Menuless world.

  The outer plateau continued until it reached volcanic fumaroles amid an ancient, silted-over riverbed. This was the Fellmarsh. Only the truly faithful dared venture further along the pilgrimage path. Casualties marked this station on the path every season.

  Beyond all that, the swamp’s outskirts prowled by horrible beasts north of level ninety, was the last resting place of a hundred-league-tall -tall demon king. Slain by the legendary heroes. The bones of the old lord still littered the plain at Demon Lord’s Fall, his corrupting influence leaking out from the very soil even today. Good thing all the church higher-ups resided directly on top of the corpse in the First Cathedral of the Most Holy Interface, preventing this foul contamination from spreading further. If the demon lord ever did rise again, all the top-level faithful that made up the bishops and cardinals of the church would be there to put him back in the ground.

  There was no route back to the start of the pilgrimage at Riverglen, for the original heroes willingly chose to stand vigil over the slain demon king, forming the basis of what would become the renowned and benevolent church.

  The level ranges were thus:

  Such was the full and unabridged list of stations on the Grand Pilgrimage Itinerary. Riverglen, through Granite Pass, to the blessed groves of Deepwood and the hot springs of Twelthnight. Through Plains Junction and the fertile river delta beyond, through the desert oasis of Firefield. Up into the ever-fall highlands of Autumn’s Redoubt, through the ruins of the Olde Capital, over the unsteady ground of the Fellmarsh, and to the grand cathedral, the First Church of the Menu carved from the bones of the behemoth and terrible Demon King at Demon Lord’s Fall.

  The goodwill of the church helped regulate the levels of various threats. Where once any old beast could be a threat to even the most powerful knight if caught unawares, now they were properly cataloged and maintained at a level appropriate for their region.

  The late unpleasantness had thrown Riverglen’s level ranges off course. Hopefully, they could reach Granite Pass before any reliquary thefts caused further Interface-related problems. With the blessing of the Menu on their side, they could stop Jelena’s crimes before further damage ruined Pilgrimage season.

  Rolling foothills turned jagged as the trio ventured north.

  At peak season, this road would have been an endless line of devout and faithful between here and Twelfthnight. Even with the current emergency, there were few foes along the road. Until…

  Calaf and Gorman walked around a bend, a great glacial boulder masking the view of the path ahead. Immediately thereafter, they discovered the site of a massacre. Carts were overturned and their supplies pilfered.

  All were holy items that the Heroes of Yore would have brought with them on this stage of the journey. That would point to an attack by the newly beefed-up dire-boars. But the potions and stolen gold, though, that was evidence of something far worse…

  Strewn about the cart were the corpses.

  There were many others, all hovering between -3, still capable of preserving and consecrating, and -6, so decayed they were nearly skeletons.

  “Eyes up.” Gorman could be alert when the chips were truly down. “Someone comes.”

  A trio of figures approached.

  The raiding party wore leather armor. Sturdy, but not comparable to what a city guard would use. But their levels were buffed, the same as the dire-beasts. Their axes were under-leveled for their new, beefed-up forms. Still, they didn’t need the best equipment to massacre some low-level initiates on the pilgrim’s path.

  “For untold generations, your kind have kept our clans at a lowly level eight,” said the lead bandit. “But no longer. The Great Leveling is nigh! Now we shall overwhelm your pathetic city guard. And it is us who will level up, and you who will perish under the Menu!”

  Gorman was two levels below this trio of bandits. Calaf was even more under-leveled. Deacon, though, had a significant level advantage and access to a wide range of church-exclusive spells. So fast were the incantations that the abridged, combat-optimized Interface designations passed by rapid-fire.

  The spear of light struck the nearest bandit dead center. His skeleton was displayed in x-ray amidst blinding light as he reeled backward. In the time it took Calaf to blink, the lead bandit’s health plummeted to -8/34. So dead he’d never be consecrated.

  “Should even the odds.” Deacon heaved, out of breath.

  All that stamina consumption left even the well-leveled church deacon winded.

  Calaf’s spear tip glowed with holy lightning. It was a buff that lasted prohibitively shortly, maybe forty-five seconds max.

  He would have to strike fast. He thrust at the nearest bandit, still cowed from the smiting of their leader.

  The bandit reeled back, bleeding health. 20/35 HP remained, most of that a result of the lightning buff.

  Gorman whacked the third bandit with the flat of his spear. Empowered (and with a more reasonable level delta), the bandit was left with a mere 6/35 HP.

  “Retreat!” the cowed bandit yelled, already running off into the field. He didn’t even try to return a hit on Gorman.

  Gorman wasn’t done yet…

  The spear impaled the bandit in the back. -4/35 HP. Deader than dead.

  One last bandit remained. The one locking axe-to-spear with Calaf. The bandit gave Calaf a most unmenu-like shove. Once he was off balance, the bandit lunged:

  The bandit lunged first. There was a ‘plong!’ sound as the axe whiffed, ineffectual, off the holy aura that was shielding Calaf. That aura faded, and now the guard was vulnerable.

  A second swing. Critical hit, the lowly axe rending Calaf’s armor.

  HP: 6/18.

  All that from a buffed bandit wielding woefully under-leveled weaponry.

  Just need… to beat this one. If I can off him, then any damage I take won’t matter…

  The holy buff on his spear wasn’t gone yet. And it compounded with subsequent strikes. 14… 5… 1 HP. The bandit was almost gone!

  Only, there was one more blow Calaf had to endure… the bandit raised his axe…

  Another diminished holy aura surrounded Calaf. Deacon wasn’t quite out of power yet. The bandit’s third strike whiffed off the aura, and Calaf struck with a standard spear thrust. The bandit fell, HP: 0/35.

  Victory. Rewards flowed through the Interface:

  The gold, distributed three ways, was nothing special. The banner was for some quest they could turn in back at Riverglen in emulation of The Old Heroes Taming and Conversion of The Bandit Clans. The bandit axes were used in crafting or some such. But the experience, even distributed 3 ways, was more than enough…

  While representative of a non-branded warrior’s strength, vitality, swiftness, etc., the Menu enhanced human capabilities exponentially with each level. Brands made the faithful more than human, as church scholars said. Such a blessing was the Menu and its Interface. The nature of each stat category was oft meditated upon while visiting shrines. Having prevailed against higher-level enemies, Calaf was nearly to level 10 already! Gorman, too, should be hitting level 15 on his next battle. The mere level 16 bandits were a drop in the more experienced Deacon’s XP bank.

  “Good work, my brothers-in-faith,” said Deacon. “Now, if you’ll allow me…”

  The Deacon moved to each corpse, finding those whose decay had not yet passed -5 HP and waving his seal over their Brand.

  “May their bodies be preserved for future use,” said Deacon, solemnly.

  Consecration was too late for many. The party would have to leave these forsaken corpses where they lay. It would make more sense to continue to Granite Pass, where the garrison ought to be sufficiently leveled to secure this ruined caravan.

  Even the bandits were consecrated, at least those whose bodies were not decayed or destroyed. For their ancient ancestors were brought under the Menu’s sway with these inheritable brands. And it was by the Brand that the church ensured these bandit clans remained level eight or below. Even these slovenly brigands served the Menu, and were bound by its Interface.

  All proper consecrations performed, the trio set off down the pilgrim’s path. A little bit stronger. Still no sign of the outlaw Jelena and her vicious wildman pet.