Author: G. Akella
Date: 2019-11-17 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy
Description: Kris Venom is a loner by nature. When the infamous Patch 17 hits the Realm of Arkon, he gets swept up in the maelstrom along with all the rest. Nothing about the old game world is the same; still, a professional gamer will always find a way to not only survive, but thrive. And thrive he does--that is, until he casually equips a rather peculiar ring... A new series in the Realm of Arkon universe! As told through the eyes of Kris Venom, a drow rogue and professional arena player.

REALM OF ARKON

Dark Covenant:

Stranger Among Strangers
by G. Akella

BOOK I

Text Copyright © 2019 Georgy Smorodinsky (G. Akella)

All rights reserved.

No part of this book can be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

Translated by Mark Berelekhis

Cover designed by Sergey Atroshenko

Illustrations by Helga Wojik

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Note from the author

Recomendations

Facebook LitRPG groups

Chapter 1

"What's taking him so long?" Sam shoots the door an annoyed look. He looks like he wants to say something else, but then changes his mind, gives a frustrated wave of the hand, and falls silent.

"Relax, will you?" Clark chuckles. "Mike is talking to the boss now. He'll be on time, don't you worry."

We've been sitting in the "locker room" behind the arena for forty minutes now, waiting for Mike Mathews, the team manager, whom we call Badger—though not to his face. "We" being Clark, Sam, Lima, Garret, and myself. Ranger, warrior, priestess, mage, and rogue. Respectively. Two Russians, two Americans, and one very chatty Frenchwoman. A motley crew of the highest order. So how is it that we all came together? Truthfully, I'm not even sure how to explain it. But then, massively multiplayer online games with full immersion are known to produce some peculiar shit. And of those games, the Realm of Arkon reigns supreme with a user base of thirty million. Getting those kinds of numbers is impossible without decent PvP[1] content. Here, too, the game world is second-to-none. And of all the PvP content in Arkon, 5v5 arena battles draw the biggest crowds. And that brings us to present day, with the five of us sitting here, preparing for a match.

"Seriously, what's taking so long? It's fifteen minutes to the match!" It's Sam who exclaims this time. Nobody has got an answer for him.

Everyone is on pins and needles. The match ahead will not be an easy one. In fact, it'll probably be the hardest battle any one of us has ever been in. Eastern Zone Semifinals in the 5v5 format. And as our next opponent out of the remaining three, we had the dubious luck of drawing the toughest one: The Warps.

"Attention, fighters!" Appearing on the threshold, Badger shuts the door, confirms that he has everyone's attention, then nods at the gate that serves as the arena entrance.

"Just had word with the chief. It's confirmed: each one of you will earn fifty large for getting to the finals, instead of the standard twenty. I need not tell you how badly we need this victory, and the money should serve as a good incentive."

"It can be five hundred large and it won't make a damned bit of difference," Garret grouses to his left. "I'd sooner take his advice on how to handle Dice and his scalable two-hander."

With a wry face, the mage runs his hand along the shaft of his staff, falling silent as he leans back against the wall. I look around at their faces. Sam, Clark, Lima... None of them are alight with enthusiasm. And for good reason—our chances against a team that has won bronze in the now-defunct European zone lie somewhere between slim and none. The Warps' rating is seven thousand points ahead of ours, and their gear advantage is significant. It's no wonder the odds are eight-to-one in their favor. All that said, making it into the Zone's final means a guaranteed trip to the championships, so Garrett can bitch and moan all he wants, but he knows we're not going to just roll over and die. And fifty thousand Euro is a damn good incentive indeed.

"Kris! Wake the hell up!"

What does he want now? With a demonstrative sigh, I slowly turn my head towards him.

"What's up, Mike? I thought I already said hi."

"Accept the trade!" the manager's voice is pointedly calm and even. "And whatever it is you're chewing, don't forget to spit it out before the fight!"

Right, it's my gum, of course... With barely ten minutes left to the match, it's clear why Badger is on edge. But what do I care for his mental state? Don't get me wrong, Mike Mathews is a solid guy, and if it weren’t for him, I'd still be hiding from guards on city rooftops or serving another three-year sentence down in Shanama. Now, sure, I wasn't engaged in those antics under any sort of duress—in fact, I was rather fond of my life in the shadows—but when MDM approached me with their offer, which included significant financial compensation, I didn't agonize much before taking them up on it.

"Kris? Venom! Have you gone deaf?!" Badger barks, louder this time.

Seeing that Mike is about to lose it, I accept the trade at last with a chuckle. I realize how annoying my feigned sluggishness must look to others, but there's really nothing I can do. I just don't give a flying eff about the feelings of these characters surrounding me in general, and of a certain team manager in particular. It's no easy feat, becoming a whole new person in the span of a few weeks, as anyone who has ever changed their immediate environment even once will attest. Offer an ex-con a kitchen knife and watch him tense up with adrenaline and fear. Or watch how a soldier fresh off a tour in a war zone scours the city streets for enemy combatants, or jumps out of bed at oh six hundred hours on the dot, even after a night of boozing. Or take me, a man who has spent the past four years digging a ditch in the underbelly of society with focus and deliberation... Forgive me if I've yet to grow into the role of a bloody noble gladiator.

With the trade window finally open, Mike transfers a dagger into my possession, then watches with satisfaction as my expression turns from patronizing to slightly dazed.

"That's our ultimate for today's match," he gestures at the dagger. "A boost of nearly nine hundred rating. I wouldn't call it a deciding factor in and of itself, but in your hands, it just might be. You are to return it after the match, along with the rest of the gear. It hasn't been registered yet. But come finals, you'll be rocking the dagger along with a whole new set of gear."

With a friendly clap on my shoulder, the manager turns to Lima.

"I hope there won’t be any issues with you today?"

The elfess mutters a response, but I'm no longer listening as the whole world constricts to the item lying in my lap.

Dirk of Deferred Death

Dagger; one-handed.

Durability: 1625/2500.

Epic. Scalable.

Class: Rogue.

No minimum level.

Damage: 320-380.

+199 to Agility.

+199 to Constitution.

+100% to damage from poison coating the blade.

When attacking from stealth, the attacker instantly gains two combo points[2].

The target is unable to remove the applied poison for the first three seconds.

Weight: .4 lbs.

Forged by the great master of the drow race, Kron-Rysh Alehan.

The baselard[3] slides into my hand. The handle, shaped like the Latin letter "I," is draped in leather with a pleasant sandpapery finish, and four rivets alongside it depicting runes. The titanium blade is cut like a diamond, with a fuller on either side.

It is as gorgeous as the latest Porsche of the boss' wife, and just as expensive. In my four years of playing, my hands have not held a treasure of this magnitude.

Matches at this level require the combatants' equipment to be declared twenty-four hours in advance so as to allow the public to review each gear slot and factor it into their analysis when placing a bet. The team retains the right to swap just one item of the declared gear before the match—this rotation is called an "ultimate." It's not often that such a swap impacts the outcome of high-profile matches, but there have been cases... And I hope that this is going to be one of those cases, because this is ONE OF THOSE DAGGERS. A dagger specialist gets to choose one of three available specializations. I chose poisons, eventually earning the Master of Poison achievement half a year ago. That means I'm a hell of a lot easier to spot than a Master or Stealth, and my damage output against mobs[4] lags behind that of a Cutthroat[5] by about fifty percent, but I don't care! The Assassin branch of the rogue talent tree suits my style of play most perfectly, and my build[6] is heavily reliant on poisons. The two additional combo points on the dagger will allow me to attack from stealth dealing eleven thousand damage instead of seven. Coupled with another three thousand from the poison DoT[7], any squishy caster caught unawares is going down faster than a drunk sorority girl on a day that ends with "Y," their status as former European champion or any other accolades be damned.

Now, sure, the Warps know perfectly well who I am, but I can't imagine they're expecting a trick this nasty. If only I were one level higher, the increased damage from my offhand[8] could be enough to take down Dice himself, but, alas, level 200 is the start of a whole different tier.

With a mental grin, I finally take my admiring eyes off the dagger, then apply a viscous gray liquid to the blade, coating it on either side. Grumm Bone Extract is the best poison for my level—the best of any currently known poisons, at least. I haven't the faintest idea what type of beast this "grumm" is, only that its bones make a fine poison, even if they're worth their weight in adamantine at two hundred fifty gold pieces per pound. Thankfully, that expense doesn't come out of my pocket—I get as much poison as I need for these battles. Ten seconds, ten ticks, and Paralysis for three seconds towards the end—this baby is just what the doctor ordered. A twisted doctor hardly beholden to the Hippocratic oath, but anyway. I don't know where Mike managed to source this dagger, but to say that I'm impressed by the acquisition is to say nothing at all.

It takes me twenty seconds to apply the poison to the blade. As I put the vial back in my bag, I suddenly realize that the room is eerily quiet. Looking up from the dagger in my lap, I find that all the eyes of my party mates are glued to me, their expressions ranging from grinning to outright smirking. Lima puts up her hands and brings them together in the shape of a camera, then claps them and exclaims.

"And cut!"

I stare back at the girl, frowning. "What the hell? What's everyone looking at?!"

"You should see your face," Sam grunts, sitting across from me. "For once you look like a regular human, not some crown prince in exile."

"Not even my future husband looked at me the way you were just looking at that dagger," the priestess snickers. "Who would've thunk it that beneath the veneer of a stone-cold master assassin lurks the timid soul of a hopeless romantic..."

Timid? Romantic? What the hell are they smoking??? Ugh, and you know she won't think twice about uploading the video online for everybody's enjoyment. Hard to believe that a grown-ass woman with pretty good arena skills can act like such a schoolgirl sometimes. But whatever. Wanna upload it? Go right ahead—I welcome the hype and the notoriety.

Ignoring their teasing, I shift my impassive gaze from the gleeful girl to the warrior, and proceed to explain.

"Let it be known that drow don't have any crown princes, Sam. Start reading the classics, eh? Or keep your mouth shut so that at least you don't give away your ignorance."

"There's the Kris we've come to know and love," with a nod to the manager, Clark gets up, claps a seemingly slumbering Garret on the shoulder, and points at the dagger in my lap. "Now, we have the dagger, which means our entire battle plan is going out the window. You!" He peers into my eyes intently. "Take out the mage from the start. Not control, mind you, but take out. In thirty seconds or less!"

"I hear you, boss," I reply to the team captain. "You can count on me."

Clark spends several more seconds boring me with his eyes, then nods with satisfaction and turns to the others.

"Lima, you do your thing, as always. Sam, Garret and I will focus on the priest. Only he and the mage can dispel poison from the others. Once both are down, Garret and I will switch to Dice. Venom and Sam will steer clear of Dice. From there, we play it by ear. No changes to initial buffs. We come out under a Dome, as always. Four minutes to the match. Start getting ready!"

Clark shifts his gaze to Badger sitting in the corner and gives a shrug.

"We’ll give it our best shot, Mike..."

The manager nods, gets up, and looks around at the combatants' faces.

"Your best shot is exactly what I expect! Good luck, team! I'll be watching with a glass of whiskey to calm the nerves, as always..."

With a smile and a wave of the hand, Mike makes for the exit.

I watch the manager go. A glass of whiskey? Yeah, right. I remember our first meeting, when he flew to Moscow to sign the contract. A bottle might not be enough given his six-and-a-half-foot frame and fists the size of a human skull. If not for his long face with two scars decorating his bald spot, his nickname wouldn't be Badger. More like Kong. Mike doesn't seem to mind the nickname, either, but we still avoid calling him that to his face. Just to be on the safe side.

Chapter 2

I run my palm over the blade of the dagger, trying to focus on the upcoming battle.

Clark didn't say anything new. The Warps are set up very much like us. A rogue, a mage, a priest, a warrior, and an archer. The differences lie in specializations. Where Clark is a pure ranger without a pet, Gita777 is a hunter. Her damage output is twenty percent below Clark's, but her warthog pet has both Charge and Stun, both of which can inflict serious distress if timed properly. Sam is a berserker, like Dice, and dishes out respectable damage with his weapons, but nowhere near as much as the opponent's scalable two-hander. Even without the weapon, Dice is a freak of a player. I don't even know why he's fighting for the Warps for the second consecutive season. Given his skill and gear, he could be fighting for Samsung and no one would bat an eye. With that bloody two-hander, he's rocking nearly fifteen percent chance to crit at level 199! And that's before his ten percent to crit from talents and achievements. Even after the arena's standard ten percent reduction to the chance to crit, ostensibly for the sake of balance and spectacle, that still leaves fourteen percent! Against my seven! And a crit from his monstrosity is pretty much guaranteed to one-shot[9] anyone on our team not named Sam. And you can't even try to dodge, since any warrior worth their salt counters with an instant Requital in response to a successful dodge, which carries a whopping fifty percent chance to crit.

Seeing a monster two-hander coming down on you and knowing you can't move away is a dubious pleasure. Especially given that these are gladiator battles, and the arena sets pain sensitivity at ten percent. That's the official claim, at least, but really it's hogwash. Even at ten percent, some of the blows and spells used routinely would cause a fatal pain shock. As it is, the worst pain you'll ever feel even at one percent HP isn't any worse than a proper punch with a boxing glove. Hardly pleasant, but tolerable[10]. Anyway, the bottom line is that Dice needs to be taken down at a distance. That's the theory, at least. In practice, nobody has a clue how to handle him.

Truth be told, any serious gamer would deem Clark a bloody idiot after hearing out his tactical plan. How are we supposed to move? What is the order of attack? Who's covering whom? Alas, the arena is no chessboard, and only His Majesty Chance knows what's in store for us.

There is a total of two hundred fifty arenas, all of them varying in shapes and sizes. The physical obstacles and covers likewise appear randomly the instant a match is generated. Nobody knows in advance where they're going to fight: on a beach, in castle ruins, or knee-deep in swampwater. Those are the general rules, anyway. Tournaments don't allow sand or water, but only hard surfaces to ensure no one can track an opponent in stealth by their footmarks. The terrain and obstacles must be perfectly symmetrical to avoid giving either team even a semblance of an advantage. These are high-stakes matches, and the fights must be unequivocally, unquestioningly fair.

Like all other games of its kind, Arkon was designed to legally appropriate funds from the planet's entertainment-seeking populace, and that means combat rules must be unequivocally, unquestionably fair, lest nobody is going to play these games. So, no, Clark won't start dispensing specific instructions until the specific physical conditions of the arena become visible, that is until the fog covering the arena clears. None of us here are noobs, anyway—everyone's got their role down pat. For instance, as the rogue, my first objective will be to bring the team under the Dome of Invisibility to the first obstacle, and switch to the enemy mage only after. Standard practice.

A shrill siren sounds, signaling one minute to the start of the match as the countdown clock appears on the arena gate and a bright system message lights up the zone chat.

Attention! The first semifinal match (5х5 Gladiators East 180-199) MDM v Warps is set to start in one minute.

Twenty more seconds until the gates part, then another half-minute to buff up in the waiting area, and then, it begins! I feel as if a giant dose of adrenaline has been injected into me, my knees half-trembling with anticipation. It has always been this way with me: from the orphanage, to school, and to the army. Before any serious fight. I despise and adore this feeling simultaneously. It is also the very same feeling that has compelled me to become a rogue.

00:33... 00:32... 00:31...

The gates slide open soundlessly, revealing a small square space with the far wall shrouded in fog.

"Well, shall we paint some snow red?" Garret looks over at me. Seeing no reaction other than continuous chewing, he gives a dubious shake of the head, chuckles, and walks into the "waiting room" first.

There's no sense in rushing—all the buffs are cast five seconds before the start, but it pays to enter the room with no more than ten seconds remaining to keep the team from getting nervous. Buffs from food and potions are prohibited, as are bandages. The belt contains just one vial of HP, mana, and Vigor.

Tracing a finger along the belt slots, I take out the second dagger and follow Lima into the room. In his usual fashion, Clark is the last to enter.

00:09... 00:08... 00:07...

The skin tingles from each buff. The air is thick with the smell of ozone...

00:03... 00:02... 00:01... FIGHT!

The mist disappears! Dome!

"Go!" Clark barks the familiar command as I conceal the whole team and start toward the nearby columns at a brisk pace.

This arena is shaped like a perfect circle a little over fifty yards in diameter with a surface of rough-hewn stone slabs. The two exits are roughly ten yards wide and framed with a pair of marble columns large enough for a fat elephant to hide behind.

The stands are packed with over five thousand spectators. I know they're going wild, but none of those sounds make their way here. All we can hear in the arena is our party chat.

"Garret to the left column, Lima to the right," Clark commands the moment he lays eyes on the terrain. "The rest of us, ten o'clock. As far as we can get."[11]

So, the captain wishes to go on the offensive right away, eh? Only that explains the order to head to ten o'clock. Lima and Garret will be safe from a warrior's Charge in the early going while Clark and Sam will have to contend with the enemy rogue, the one currently hiding behind the far left column. The Warps cannot pull such a trick. Their rogue is ten percent slower than yours truly—their party simply won't get that far. In theory, they could all be hiding behind the column, but that would be tactically foolish. Dice is the enemy's trump card, and they're going to milk him for all he's worth. The rogue is going to take the warrior and hunter both into the center. From there, Dice can Charge into any point in the arena, and Gita777 can cover him as needed.

This is as much as a chess match as it is a fight. And Clark deserves all the credit for his near-instant assessment of the situation. The priest must be hiding behind the left column, ready to provide heals for Dice and Gita. The mage should be behind the far cover, meaning Clark and Sam should be out of his range. He'd need to run out towards them... towards me... And I won't have any issues slipping past the center while stealthed.

Dropping off Garret and Lima, I move quickly towards the indicated point. And just as Dome is about to expire, I start counting back:

Three... two... one... fight!

That instant, Sam Charges into the bearded priest lurking behind the column as Clark fires an arrow into his chest. I sidestep to my right to Sap[12] Gita as she materializes, then duck past Dice and towards the mage running out from behind the column.

Seeing the stunned archer, the young guy in a blue mantle throws down a Flare and follows up with an Ice Bolt at one of ours. I dodge the detection spell and open up into the mage's back with a Deep Cut. There's no point stunning—he's going to escape anyway—so I simply unload the four combo points into him before getting stuck in Shackles.

Down more than 3,000 HP, the mage Blinks into the center and attempts to dispel the poison. Having broken Sap with her ring[13], Gita fires an arrow into my chest from her strangely transformed bow, then hangs a Hunter's Mark on me right as she gets hit with an Ice Bolt courtesy of Garret leaping out from behind the cover of his column. The hunter's warthog rushes at me as Clark Jumps away from Dice's Charge with roughly half of his HP. Dispelling the fear effect from Berserker's Roar, Sam keeps hounding the bearded priest just as the Warps' cutthroat opens up on Lima with a stun. Now it's a proper brawl!

Chapter 3

The warthog looks like an overgrown rat with fangs. A pesky beast, no doubt, and it must be put down! The hunter's pet slams into me just as the mage, having finally recovered, hits me with a Bolt, adding a five-second stun effect to the Ice Shackles and Hunter's Mark already afflicting me. Right on schedule!

I use the ring to shed all the debuffs, knock the piggy down onto the slabs, and amass three combo points with a quick sequence of strikes. Knockdown only works on certain summoned creatures in the arena, and PvPing rogues don't usually pick this skill. I am the exception on account of this being only my third battle with this crew, so I haven't yet finalized my build. Luckily, the skill came in handy.

Two more strikes land as crits, and the supine pig squeals wildly, its ripped side gushing with blood. The pet is as good as dead now with two thousand HP remaining—the poison will take care of the rest.

I Roll to the right, evading yet another Bolt from the mage, standing there right in the open. How reckless. Shadowstep, Incapacitate, then Rupture for five combo points, taking off eight thousand HP. The dagger slides into the back like a hot knife through butter. The mage uses the ring to remove the stun, but the very first tick of the poison contorts his body in death throes.

"Venom! Get on Gita! She's got a Hydra!" Clark exclaims. A moment later, his icon fades to gray, after the enemy mage's.

The next one to bite the dust is the bearded priest. Dice roars as he Charges into Sam. The latter counters with a double strike after the stun wears off, but there's no saving him now. Gita has been blasting Sam as if in a shooting gallery while the warrior hounded the priest, so it didn't take much for Dice to finish him off. Over by our columns, Garret and Lima are taking care of the crowd-controlled rogue. Barely a minute has passed since the start of the match.

The din of the battle rushes in, sudden as death. Metal clanging, bow-strings snapping, arrows thumping and Ice Bolts crashing as they find their targets. And Garret, cussing like there's no tomorrow.

The mage and the priest are both down, meaning everything is going according to plan... But then there's Gita's goddamned Hydra. A scalable bow that dishes out insane damage—the Warps' ultimate for this match. I have no chance against Dice, but Gita... Gita and I can dance. As if reading my mind, the black-haired elfess spins around and fires an arrow right into my chest, taking my HP down to four thousand. Bitch!

Instantly breaking a health vial, I Fade to Dark and head right for the huntress at max speed. Running while stealthed won't be an option until level 250, but one hundred thirty percent from base speed will be just fine in this case.

Her attention now fully on me, the elfess fires two Illuminating Arrows—one on the right side, one on the left, with overlapping edges. The shortest distance between two points is a straight line, and I manage to skirt the edge of the first illuminated zone before the second arrow lands to block my way.

Deep Cut! The huntress cries out, and I follow up with a Kidney Shot, stunning her. Then, slipping behind her, I unload with Adroit Strike and instantly throw up a Chain.
Chain Connection is quite an interesting feature—very popular among Vaedarrean rouges, but rarely used in the arena on account of fifteen nearly useless connecting talents required to get it.

Gita dispels the stun and Jumps thirty yards to the right. My feet become entangled by some nasty goo, but the Chain pulls me after the huntress regardless.

Upon landing like a cat, Gita plants her boot hard into my abdomen, then throws up her monstrous bow and sinks an arrow into my shoulder. Girl got skills! Right that second Sam's icon turns gray, followed by the enemy rogue, his frozen body shattering into a myriad pieces. Surmising the situation instantly, Dice rushes Garret, armor rattling. Lima gets off a heal for the mage—alas, there's none left for me, again.

Scowling ferociously, Gita throws up her left hand, now shrouded with a green sorcerous color. I know what comes next, so I step into Dancing with Shadows. The entirety of the damage from the huntress' Salvo is distributed evenly among the phantom targets surrounding her. I take my share of the damage as I wait for Incapacitate to reset, then send the archeress tumbling down! Between the ticking poison and my last blow, she's down to one third of her HP, so I follow up with a three-point Rupture, then a Feint, and finally Strangulation to earn three more points for maneuverability's sake.
Dice mows down Garret just as the latter unloads with a projectile, dispels Fear with Berserker's Roar, and rushes the frail priestess while hefting his monstrous sword.

The suffocated elfess' body spasms in my arms. I toss the corpse onto the ground and dart after the warrior.

Two thousand HP left... He can finish me off with one hit. Ugh, that crit against Garret couldn't have come at a worst time! Steel flashes, ripping the fabric on Lima's shoulder and plunging her HP almost to zero. The priestess bites her lips from the pain, teetering as she throws up her hands.

Roll. Deep Cut slices through the warrior's hip. He raises his sword once again. I roll to the side, and Lima's heal lands on me just in time, a fraction of a second before the sword hacks through the girl's shoulder. She flails her arms, then drops to the ground like a broken bloodied doll. Damn these special effects!

Sporting thirteen thousand HP against my seven, Dice turns around sharply and dampens my speed with a Petrifying Roar. I turn towards him and start backing away, trying to look as pitiful as I can while counting the seconds of the ticking poison in my mind. I'm at five combo points. That should be enough, as long as I time everything correctly. Oh, and no dodging under any circumstances, or his Requital will decide the match instantly.

…6 …7

I throw myself forward and unload into the warrior's chest with Rupture. The enormous two-hander comes down on my shoulder, nearly getting my neck. My mouth fills up with the nasty taste of blood as the world around me goes red.

...9

The sword swings high again. His face strained with concentration, Dice flashes a triumphant scowl, but then freezes on the tenth tick of my wondrous poison. Paralysis! Hell yes!

Feint! Scorpion Sting! My mastery is paying off now! Shadowstep!
Kidney Shot to extend Paralysis with a stun! And another Rupture! Done!

The dagger's tip pierces the warrior's neck. Dice's whole body shudders, mithril grinding, then collapses onto the slabs at my feet.

Attention! The first semifinal match (5x5 Gladiators East 180-199) MDM v Warps is over! The victory goes to MDM! The game's administration congratulates the MDM team of gladiators (Clark White, Lima Nietzsche, Sam Nietzsche, Garret Arrington, Kris Venom) on advancing to the Eastern Zone Finals!

The roar of spectators washes over me like a tsunami. I spread my hands, a dagger in each, and look over the stands with a brazen smile. The team wallet is ringing like a slot machine that just hit the jackpot. The world is still swimming, but I don't care! We're in the finals! I drop my hands and take a deep bow. The fans enjoy the showmanship, and we could use the money.

Any fan can add a tip to the wallet of their preferred team at any time during a match and up to five minutes after it ends. Teams in our level range rarely earn more than ten gold per performance, but this could be our personal record. And money is always needed. I shudder to imagine the cost of the dagger, Mike's present, but one day I'm going to buy me one just like it. It's been four years now that I've been spending most of my time in the game. And when a game becomes your life, it behooves the player to make it as comfortable and as interesting as possible.

Done with the bowing, I twirl the daggers and put them away, give one final wave to the stands, and make for the exit. I never did like people, and when there are many of them and they're all screaming, I like them even less.

Once near the gates shrouded in film, I cast my eyes at Lima's bloodied body and sigh. If not for her final heal, the dagger rented by Mike, and Clark's tactical brilliance, we would not have managed this victory. A good priest always dies first, and the outcome of each battle rests on a hundred such "what ifs?" The guys are already in the "locker room," though their mangled bodies are still in the arena for the fans to feast on. They won't disappear until the arena does. Blood and gore and corpses have a certain beauty to them, at least to anyone who comes to watch a gladiator battle.

The locker room is buzzing, and when I arrive, bursts into applause. Feeling a bit uneasy, I take a skeptical look at the smiling faces, find Lima's, and nod.

"Thanks for the heals!"

"What, your signature smile is too good for us?" the priestess' grin grows even wider as she comes up to me and whispers just loud enough for everyone to hear.

"When you smile, Kris, try to do it naturally, and not like somebody is pulling on the corners of your mouth. Keep practicing, and before you know it, you'll make lots of new friends!"

"You and Mike are quite enough for me," I sniff, looking at the manager standing in the center of the room. "The hell do I need anyone else?"

"If you weren't such a sociopath, you probably wouldn't have made the team in the first place," Mike chortles. "But we found you and recruited you, and today you won the match for us! Now spit out that bloody gum and hand in your gear, on the double! Boss is expecting me."

"A sociopath, you say?" I inquire while removing and transferring my weapons and armor to the team manager. "My Twitch channel broke a hundred thousand streams at one point in the fight."

"If you were just a little more sociable, you'd have well over a million by now," Mike says, accepting the trade. "But then we probably wouldn't have ended up signing you. All right, then, I'm off!" The manager makes a goodbye gesture with his hand as he looks around one last time. "You guys are the best! Thank you for a magnificent match. I'm expecting you in my office the day after tomorrow, at noon. The money is already in your accounts. Be well!"

Mike nods, then disappears in the doorway.

Vanishing like the Cheshire Cat might be more effective, but, alas, that kind of trick doesn't work in Arkon. There are areas in the game you can enter and exit exclusively on your own two feet, and locker rooms happen to be on that list. Now, sure, technically you can press the Log Out button even at the Heroes Square of Vaedarr, but when you log back in, you'll find your character at a graveyard three miles out of the city. A dubious pleasure if ever there was one.

"You didn't forget that we're celebrating tomorrow, did you?" Lima reminds me, tugging on my sleeve.

Ah, right. Lima and Sam's wedding anniversary, and they want me there for some unfathomable reason. I am hardly enthused by the idea of wasting several hours at an utterly pointless event—in my eyes, at least—but refusing would be a real dumb move. I'll be playing with this team for at least another year, and there's no sense in complicating things.

"One o'clock local time at The Swan, yes?" I ask to confirm.

The elfess nods. "Exactly right. And bring a date! I remember you mentioning a girl you've been seeing. We're all dying to meet such a courageous woman."

"Sure thing," I grunt, then bid a hasty goodbye to the guys and leave the room before Lima proposes some other, even more asinine idea.

Could I invite Daria to the party? Sure. But she's just going to tell me to stuff myself. I know my girlfriend well enough by now.

Out in the hallway, I take the first right and open the first door I see with my key. Once in my private room, I press the Log Out button at once, then sit on the bed, watching the seconds of the timer that has appeared before my eyes tick away. Enough of the game for today—there's business IRL to attend to.

Chapter 4

I open my eyes and wait for the capsule lid to slide open, then sit up. The wall clock shows four in the afternoon, meaning I still have plenty of time. I head into the kitchen, still as bare as Adam, fish a bottle of mineral water from the bridge, and take five big swigs. Virtual reality dehydrates the body like little else, and after eight hours in Arkon you feel like you've just completed a five-mile forced march in full marching order. It's important to not overdo the hydration, either—I still have things to do today.

My post-game routine has gotten pretty standard over the years: fridge, bathroom, treadmill. After that, five short sets of bodyweight exercises, and I'm good to go.

Back in the twenties the image of a professional gamer was that of a morbidly obese dork swimming in grease and covered with pimples, living in his parents' basement on their dime. But that's pure crap—a loser with no discipline could never achieve anything substantial. Now, sure, e-sports is probably only called "sports" as fan service, and your physical condition ceases to have any impact on your character past level 30, but that doesn't mean you should just let yourself go. Your physical wellbeing still affects the general state of the body, including mood and the ability to quickly access the situation. Put a thousand points into Agility and you'll be able to catch an arrow fired by a same-level archer, but what do you do with the arrow afterwards? Where do you run to take cover? Which opponent do you attack first? Which skills do you use and in what order? As far as I'm concerned, in-game practice and training is no more important than the right diet and exercise IRL for any professional gamer, regardless of race, class or profession. Whether they're picking pockets at the market in one of the six capitals, fighting in the arena, or raiding dungeons with some clan, deficient physical condition will yield suboptimal results. And suboptimal results translate to less money, which as the saying goes, doesn't grow on trees, neither real nor virtual.

Back in the room, I turn on the cleaner, and look around my bachelor pad. My gaze lingers on the wall-mounted photograph of my grandfather, and I sigh. All right, it's time to get started. My date with my girlfriend is at seven, so I should wrap up everything else by six.

Daria and I met in the game four years ago, in the drow starting zone, but we didn't start dating until last year. And the blame for that I cast right at Robert Salvatore's feet. Daria ended up being a big fan of his Legacy of the Drow series, whereas I selected the race purely for the racial bonuses: two percent to damage with daggers and two fewer talent points to max out stealth. Even my skin tone in the game is as light as a dark elf can get. Myself, being the furthest thing from a fanboy, I hold a healthy dose of mockery for all these role-playing dorks, but when the situation touches you personally, you suck it up and do what needs doing. And so I did. I called her, courted her, listened to her thoughts and ideas as I smiled and nodded, and even tried reading the saga about her favorite dark elf... Sadly, that didn't go well.

I just couldn't accept the premise upon which the world depicted in the books was built. It was just too implausible for me—or anyone with even a passing knowledge of history. And it wasn't even about the matriarchy or the fact that the author wrote about a fantasy race that only distantly resembled humans. Rather, a society in which the destruction of ruling houses is not only allowed but encouraged by the very same ruling houses, with fighters of the losing side pledging unconditional fealty to the victors, is moronic by its very nature. Logic dictates that only one ruling house would remain after less than a century—more likely, the social order would be changed way before that happened. And to the fans clamoring that it's not the elves' fault but their goddess', I ask, what benefit does the goddess derive from all that madness? Daria failed to come up with a logical answer, and we didn't see each other for over three years since. Sure, I could have pretended to agree or even express my awe and delight with the story, but that wouldn't be right. I hold by the rule that if you want someone to be honest with you, you give them the same courtesy. I've been lied to and betrayed before, and I wouldn't want to experience that again.

The devs were smart to recreate many of the elements described in the book in the game's social order, leading to an influx of Salvatore fans giddy to see the world of their favorite protagonist from the inside. Even if said world really wasn't all that similar. Unlike the classics, the drow of Arkon were created in contrast to the dwarven kingdom; similarly, dark elves feud against their light brethren up on the surface. The home of the drow in Arkon is called Anthrum, which is quite different from the classic depiction of the Underdark. Here, caverns can exceed dozens of square miles in diameter, with ceilings rising up thousands of feet. Louu, our capital, isn't much smaller than Vaedarr, the human capital in Erantia, and if the devs' claims are to be trusted, the length of our tunnels rivals the length of the roads of a large European country. We even have agriculture, seeing as mushrooms, fish and rothé[14] meat isn't anybody's idea of a proper diet. And some of the drow, mostly the common folk, choose to live on the surface and cultivate the land.

Anthrum is comprised of fourteen major cities. The supreme governing body is the Council of Ten Matrons, with each Matron doubling as a high priestess of Lolth and leader of her own House. Yes, only ten Houses—yet another deviation from the books. Five Elder and five Lesser. I don't know the differences between them outside of their representation in the Small Council—I never cared enough to find out.

The Council of Ten gathers twice a year for a fortnight. The rest of the time, the state is ruled by the Small Council, comprising twenty-five high priestesses of the goddess: three women from each of the Elder Houses, and two from each of the Lesser.

The males of our race aren't quite as downtrodden, either. Some of them can even influence the politics of their House. Still, supreme authority is reserved for women exclusively. The devs have conceived the drow race to be pugnacious and disagreeable, but the growth and development of any society is founded on life, first and foremost. And as such, Bringers of Life stand at the helm. Such is the will of the goddess. Lolth can be as bloodthirsty and cunning as anyone, but she cannot be a dummy by default. There are nearly fifty gods in the Realm of Arkon, and Lolth isn't anywhere near on the weaker end of the spectrum. Which means that any deity foolish enough to pick a fight had better be prepared to suffer the consequences. As a result, conflicts between the drow and neighboring races never go beyond an occasional border skirmish. As far as I'm aware, at least. Domestic affairs, on the other hand, tend to be much more rife with conflict, temporary alliances, schemes and intrigues. Still, the goddess keeps her flock on a short leash. Drow may be a race of warriors, priestesses, dark mages and saboteurs, warlike like the Maori and the Kurds, but Lolth would never allow any serious harm, let alone total ruin, to come to her subjects. Those stories never made their way into Arkon from XX century literature.

Done with my quick workout, I take a quick shower and feed the fish. Finally, I take a seat at my computer desk and wipe the dust from the computer screen with my hand. Time to check my inbox.  The latest email is from the bank. My credit application was approved, and barely half a year since it was filed. Surely that has nothing to do with the sudden large deposit into my bank account... Except now I don't need any credit, you fools.

Eleven emails from various gaming communities, and about a hundred others from complete strangers. All I wanted was to confirm that I got the money—as for the rest, I couldn't care less. And I certainly won't waste my day reading all those emails. I have no plans to join any communities, either. Clan bonuses are nice and all, but they don't justify the drawbacks in my case. If you want people watching your streams, you must rely exclusively on skill, depend on no one, and stick to extreme conditions. Nobody is tuning in to watch OP[15] fat cats coast to victory on superior gear and bonuses.

Closing the window, I go to the Arkon site, brush away the greeting, and click the Store icon. With the amount of dishonorable killings on my conscience, the Diamond Premium has become a necessity if I wish to show my face in virtually any settlement. Sure, there are workarounds—the devs made sure of that. Every serial PKer[16] automatically unlocks the Persona talent after their hundredth kill, allowing them to change for a duration of five hours their appearance, name, race, class and level—up to ten percent from its true value in either direction. All the negative karma is forgotten for five hours, and you can walk in safety among city guards and even your own victims—outside of a few select places and NPCs[17] capable of seeing through the disguise. But the Diamond Premium will allow me to change my appearance for any duration of time. That should bring some much-needed variety to my game, and allow me to conduct a few long-planned operations besides. The cost surely ain't cheap, but it'll pay for itself in short order.

Aside from Persona, my premium annual kit includes a fifty percent boost to experience gained, a one-time racial ability to reset all stats and skills, five ridiculous tattoos of my choosing, and a unique chest with a useful boost for my class or profession. Any sane person who isn't a gamer would balk at the seemingly exorbitant cost of the set, but for me, the kit directly translates to increased earnings. I couldn't care less about the additional XP or the tattoos, which are purely for bragging rights, and even the chest isn't anything to write home about. Whatever item it contains will disappear in a month unless used, and I am the only one who can use it, so I can't even sell the damned thing if I prefer gold over the item.

Purchasing game currency is limited to three thousand dollars per character at the current exchange rate. Foolish, you say? Far from it! Without the limit, certain individuals and companies with their own consulates in Arkon could bring down the game's economy with ease. Instead, any person in pursuit of a mountain of gold is forced to hire players or buy it off farmers[18], thereby guaranteeing oodles of additional gameplay, millions of in-game jobs, steady growth of game capsule sales per annum, and profits to thousands of gaming-adjacent businesses. So, no, I'm not getting any gold from the chest, let alone any epic weapons or gear. I suppose I'd be satisfied with a kit of expendables like rare herbs or potions, but I'm not getting my hopes up. I zero in on the desired item in the store, pay the price, then shut down the PC, and get up from the desk. I'll save the unboxing for tomorrow—it's time to head out.

Chapter 5

I dress myself quickly, switch off the cleaner that has finished its work, then stop before the mirror and give myself a scrupulous once-over.

The man looking back at me is skinny, roughly five eleven, with a triangular face, short light hair, a thin lip line and a dour expression. The only difference between my character and my real-world self is the pointy ears. It never occurred to me to change my appearance. Not that I consider myself a handsome devil—I just don't care enough either way.

I smooth my hair and put on my coat. With a click of the electrolock, I walk out of the apartment and close the door behind me. I've long learned not to be late to a date with a woman—better I wait for her than vice versa.

Winter this year has been abysmal. With fifteen days left to New Year's, it still hasn't snowed. Nothing but wet asphalt, bone-chilling wind, and bleak lamplight of street lanterns. Every year I try to convince myself that with my line of work I can live anywhere, but I've yet to muster up the resolve to leave for warmer pastures. Someday...

I extend a greeting to a neighbor, presumably coming home from work, slide my hands into my coat pockets, and head towards the subway. It's exactly twenty-three minutes on foot, offering much-needed exercise for my sedentary profession, as well as a bit of time to think. And there is much to think about, what with today's battle marking a significant milestone in my life. For the first time in my thirty-three years on this planet, I feel an iron-clad sense of confidence in the future. Regardless of the second semi-finals match—regardless even of our performance in the finals against our next opponent—we're going to be fighting in the European Championship come early Spring. And for me that means a completely new tier—not only in terms of prestige, but also compensation.

Not that I ever complained before, pulling down roughly five thousand Euro a month after taxes and equipment expenses. Still, public affection and game luck are fickle things, so the stability that comes with playing on a team this high on the food chain is certainly welcome. And it's a pretty decent achievement for someone who has been playing for only four years.

On the whole, Arkon is undeniably generous with opportunities to earn a living. In fact, millions of people globally rely on the game for their livelihood, though it's not as easy as one might expect at a glance. Between the capsule and electricity costs, most people can't even afford the upfront investment, and the thousands of gaming centers sprouting up like mushrooms around the world are still nowhere near sufficient to meet the demand. And despite all that, in the year 2037, the number of online connections never dipped below twenty million, and that says everything. Whether crafting, grinding, or scouting unexplored territories—if you can dream it, you can make money doing it in Arkon. It is a veritable Klondike of the modern digital world. Politics and laws are governed by an ultra-powerful Sage class artificial intelligence that presides over tens of thousands of lower-rank AIs. Changing his settings is only possible by a seventy percent majority of the game's board of directors, which represent thousands of major corporations and even a few European states. And as long as the stock is growing, nobody is going to try changing anything.  If anything, Sage's iron rule adds to the game's popularity in the eyes of the masses, especially when he squashes—with great ruthlessness and publicity—any attempts of governments and transnational corporations to implement in Arkon some of their corporeal laws and schemes. If not for Sage, the game world would be drowning in advertisements. Instead, we have the example of true innovation by the Coca Cola corporation. After developing a unique formula for a beverage taking into account certain game features and resources, some executive bribed an NPC official to have the product imported to Vaedarr—only to have the caravan carrying the first batch robbed by some band of haters. The company then took a step back, reworked and updated their formula, and nowadays kuhalo—a virtual twin of the ubiquitous real-world soft drink—is sold in practically every inn. Drop by drop wears the stone away, and it's possible that someday Arkon will turn into a magical copy of the Earth, but that is unlikely to happen in the next few dozen years.

I wince at the gust of cold wind and slip a stick of gum into my mouth. My eyes linger on the bright lights of the stadium, and I can't help but chuckle. Maybe I do need a shrink. Here I am, about to meet take a woman out on a date, but my mind is still on the game. Then again, with weather like this, I really should be focusing on the positive. I could meet Daria in Vaedarr instead, but virtual food still has a ways to go to match the real thing. Kind of like real crab meat as compared to crab sticks made from mystery meat. As I result, I don't eat in Arkon unless absolutely necessary, content to leave virtual food for the virtual world. it's been nearly a week since I last saw my girlfriend, with me spending most of my time preparing for the match and her grinding those endless social quests[19]. Now a proper priestess, Daria is no longer the boisterous and immature girl from our first acquaintance, but a serious young woman whose worship of her virtual goddess extends partly into the real world. Sometimes I catch her whispering something resembling prayers in a strange tongue or speaking of Lolth as one might of one's own mother. And I'm not particularly freaked out by that. Some people are obsessed with aliens and government conspiracies, others start seeing ghosts at every turn after reading a Stephen King novel, so this is pretty harmless by comparison. If I were forced to spend all my days inside a temple, I'd probably be muttering prayers as well. Besides, everyone is entitled to their quirks, as long as they don't cause harm to others. And so far, her service to the drow goddess has had no material impact on our relationship.

With half a mile left to the subway, the wind picks up and a nasty drizzle begins. I spend the rest of the way grimacing from the tiny drops, though they're not affecting my mood in the slightest. I pop into a flower shop and spend the next ten minutes trying to pick a bouquet. In the end, I give up and buy seven of the priciest roses, and with them some peace of mind. Next stop, the real world's version of the Underdark.

The cozy cafe on Kuznetsky Bridge is warm and inviting with sounds of soft music and scents of almonds and coffee. I'm not late, but Daria is already here, waiting for me at a table for two. This isn't like her at all, and I can't help but feel a little tense. She looks flawless, as always, dressed in a white wool sweater with a turtleneck that underscores the golden shade of her swarthy complexion. A light touch of makeup accentuates her straight nose, short dark hair and perfectly symmetrical oval face. Daria may not be a beauty in the classical sense, but there's something about her that... No, I can't describe it, but I find it thoroughly enthralling just the same.

"Hey there!" I hand the flowers to my girlfriend, then set a hand-carved wooden bracelet down on the table before her. "I thought you might like this."

I know full well that Daria loves these wooden knickknacks, but that's only half the story. A man ought to give his date some kind of present any time they meet. Doesn't matter how small—it's the attention, the gesture that counts. A gentle reminder that you've been thinking about her. My very first girlfriend made sure to knock that truth into my head, though she reaped limited benefits from her efforts as we eventually broke up.

"Oleg!" Daria glances at the digits on her iPhone screen, gets up and taps her lips to mine. "Fifteen to seven—I could set my watch to you."

"It's a habit," I shrug as I take a seat and gesture for a waiter to come over.

Both Daria and I like this place, and we often meet here for dinner. The establishment used to be a high-end French bistro, but times, they are a-changing. The antique windows, pristine white tablecloths and fancy crystal chandeliers are all gone now, replaced by the warmth and coziness of small round tables and bentwood chairs of dark oak. It's still France, only a tad closer and more relatable.

After placing her order, Daria puts the flowers into a vase and proceeds to scrutinize the gifted bracelet. After about a minute, she slips it onto her wrist and raises her eyes to meet mine.

"Thank you! I do so love rosewood..." The girl smiles and gives me a strange look. "You've surprised me, you know."

"How so?"

"I knew you were good, but I had no idea how good!" Daria shakes her head. "Taking down the mage and the huntress like that, one after another. I nearly lost my voice up in the stands!"

I lose the gift of speech for a good five seconds. This is... unexpected to say the least. Daria never much cared for what I did in the game. Sure, she knew about my fighting, but always dismissed it as silliness. And she was right, for the most part. In the four years I've been playing, I ganked[20] players and NPCs, grew my reputation with the thieves' guilds and various other factions of the underworld, robbed merchants... In a word, I was waist-deep in Arkon's criminal underbelly just as my girlfriend was climbing the social ladder, serving in Louu's main temple complex and doing the bidding of its priestesses. And her efforts bore fruit a year ago when she was among the thousand select acolytes from the Spider Goddess' capital temple to be endowed with several unique talents and a significant boost to her magic power. I'll just say this: all else being equal, I would think twice before attacking a level 213 priestess of the goddess Lolth.

Chapter 6

Social quests are considered a waste of time by some, but those people are idiots. In a virtual world where many large corporations have overlapping interests, a player with connections can be quite valuable. Daria had enough foresight to be among the first—replicating her achievements today would be damn near impossible. The demand is just way too high. So, all things considered, her skeptical attitude towards my gaming lifestyle was well grounded, and yet...

"You... you were at the match?" I ask, still dazed. "But how? You've never even—"

"At some point a girl ought to take an interest in the affairs of her man, no?" Daria replies with a honeyed smile. As if I wasn't shocked enough...

Her man? She has never called me that before. Until today we were just dating, but now... Is she asking me to take our relationship further? Am I ready to? I don't know. Although...

"It was the dagger I got just before the match," I say hastily, trying to keep my voice steady and hide the inner struggle from the young woman sitting across from me. "The team manager managed to get an epic scalable somewhere."

"Oh, quit it with the humble act! You were the better fighter!" Daria furrows her brow with feigned menace, then smiles. "But I do like it when you're embarrassed. I'm proud of you, really. It's just that..."

A shade of guilt flickers across her face as she sighs and lowers her eyes.

"What?!" I ask, slightly exasperated from all these revelations.

"Well, um..." she goes on quietly. "There have been some changes in my life. I can't come over today, I'm sorry!"

"All right..."

I pick up the bottle brought over by the waiter, pour the wine and clink my glass with hers.

"To you."

We drink, then I set the glass back down and move on to my plate in silence, my mood suddenly sour. Is she trying to break up? Creating drama for drama's sake? It's cruel and unnecessary, but I've been through worse, so I'll survive.

"You're not even going to ask me?" Daria inquires after a minute of silence, her voice carrying strange notes. "You're just going to sit there, silent?"

"Better to keep mum and appear stupid than open your mouth and remove all doubt," I shrug without looking up at her. "Besides, what do you expect me to say?"

"I don't even know how you communicate with your rogue buddies, since all of your emotions are written clearly on your face," Daria continues in the same tone. "But do you think you could stop pouting for a minute so we could walk?"

"My rogue buddies are a game, I've never been close with any of them," I explain calmly, putting away the utensils and folding my arms in front of me. "You want to talk? All right, let's talk."

"You really are a strange bird," Daria shakes her head, sighs, then takes a sip from her glass and suddenly smiles.

"Let it be known that you are looking at a lesser priestess of Lolth herself!" she proclaims with solemnity. "The Statue's choice fell on me yesterday! Do you understand now? I cannot come over tonight because my first service at the Temple is in two hours. So, if you can wait till tomorrow evening, I'm all yours!"

Daria's eyes are alight with dancing imps. And I feel like a total jackass.

Women are my weak spot. Perhaps my only weak spot. I don't do well with breakups, and that is probably why I'm always on my guard, trying to keep some distance so that if does happen, the pain won't be quite so bad. But that cannot excuse my foolish and immature behavior. So this is why she was here fifteen minutes early—to spend them with me! And I totally misread that, like a chump. Better learn from this...

"I... I thought that you... I'm sorry," I spread my arms guiltily. "Congrats on the promotion, Dar! I know what a big deal it is."

"Save your pleading for tomorrow night, lower one!" the young woman feigns an indignant frown, fingering me accusingly. "Let it further be known that in light of my ascension I have been automatically adopted by the Elder House Klahd, which means I can now take up tier five quests! I also have my own private room in the Temple, in the south wing of the priestess quarters. And after the Spring patch, there'll be a whole new quest chain to become a full-fledged priestess! I trust now you realize the honor that's been bestowed upon you? The favor of a noble daughter of an Elder House is to be treasured!"

"Yes, mistress," I speak with all the submissiveness I could muster, joining her game. Then I add, with my head humbly bent. "High Priestess EatMyShorts does have a ring to it!"

"Bastard!" Daria gasps before chortling with laughter.

"Why so harsh? I always liked your username."

"Me, too," Daria nods, wiping a gleeful tear. "But I fear my sense of humor is lost on Matron Alessa. No, I'll still be Nessa. I don't see you changing your in-game nickname, either."

True enough—it's easier to use the game moniker, as with certain social groups your reputation kicks in only when the "right" name is displayed overhead. In Daria's case, displaying her jokey nickname might even result in the temple guards denying her entry given that they report directly to the Council of Matrons and have no connection to the priestesses whatsoever. And though her fellow priestesses would surely recognize her, the sight of her would likely put them in shock. The same goes for me. The name "Kris Venom" was assigned to me back at level 30, along with the Master Assassin achievement, and I haven't used another one since.

We go on to chat about this and that for another hour. Daria shares all the opportunities her promotion will open up, and I do the same. Time flows quickly, and when my girlfriend's phone chimes with a cab notification, it catches us by surprise. As Daria rushes to gather her things, I pay the check, and we head out into the bleak Moscow winter, hands clasped. Before getting in the car, Daria turns around, throws her arms around my neck, and presses her lips to mine.

"See you tomorrow, Oleg," she pulls back, a sly smile playing on her lips.

"See you tomorrow, princess."

I watch the cab pull away, slide my hands into my pockets, and make for the underground with a smile of my own.

Chapter 7

If a gamer ever tells you that he's an early bird, rest assured that he's a damned liar. That's just a law of nature. Gamers are like vampires—their life doesn't fully begin until after sundown. And night owls on the whole are an obsessive breed. Regardless of what you're doing—reading a book, binge-watching a series, grinding through a dungeon or even working—the key is not being able to stop. Ergo, only a night owl can hope to become a real gamer!

It's one in the afternoon Moscow time when I open my eyes. I get up, run through a simple routine of calisthenics, then grab some breakfast and slip into the game capsule. Vaedarr is on Paris time, which gives me another hour till the meeting at The Swan. The human capital is the most densely populated city in all of Arkon. Most players come here after reaching level 30 and getting their racial bonuses. Well, either here or to the orcish Kargalar. We're all human in our psyche, after all, and few among us truly enjoy dwelling in dank caves or swinging up in the tree tops. I for one didn't think twice about leaving Anthrum for Vaedarr, and I haven't regretted it once. The sensation of looking up at billions of tons of bedrock day in and day out is unnerving, to say the least. Yes, I know very well that this is all a game and the bedrock is nothing but computer code, but the reptilian brain inside us doesn't give a damn. And I'm far from the only example. Sam and Lima fled the much more aesthetically pleasing Great Forest. She's a light elf, he's a dark elf, and with their races being at war, getting caught in each other's company in the Great Forest is fraught with reputation penalties. Not in Vaedarr, though. This is the land of the proletariat and internationalism. Nobody gives a damn about the length and shape of your ears—as long as you're not an orc. Although, it's not uncommon to run into some of our fanged brethren, either, as it only takes a few dozen reputation quests to start strolling around the human capital without fear of getting your head smashed in by a paladin hammer. The downside is that you become unfriendly with both races, and there's no getting around that.

Once in my private room, I immediately activate the premium kit purchased yesterday, and open the chest that materializes in the center of the room. Then I cuss. Loudly and with gusto. What shit luck.

I inspect the thin elongated item, just in case there's something unfamiliar about it. There isn't.

Master Burglar's Lockpick

Lockpick.

No minimum level.

Bind on pickup.

Unique. Expendable.

Has a 50% chance of disarming all magic traps on the target and opening the lock irrespective of its level and your Lockpicking skill.

Attention! The item must be used within 30 days.

Damn it! I'd toss this junk now if I could, but no dice. And I can't even dump it into storage! Oh well, at least it doesn't weigh much.

On the subject of lockpicking, I must voice my displeasure with the way the mechanism works in the game. Lockpicks work like keys: you insert it and turn, and your Lockpicking skill determines whether or not the attempt is successful. Magic traps are disarmed fully by inexpensive scrolls, and given that in all my years in the game I've yet to stumble upon a lock higher than level 180, this junk is doubly worthless. Only a rogue can find a lockpick in a premium chest, and it's actually a statistically rare drop, but, sadly, that fact doesn't add any practical value. It's like having the key to the main safe in Fort Knox. Sure, you can open the thing, but how the hell are you supposed to get anywhere near the safe in the first place?

Stashing the lockpick into inventory, I walk up to my personal vault, open it, and scratch my chin in contemplation. I need an outfit for the celebration, but I handed in my equipment to Mike yesterday. I do have another set that the manager gave me a while back for leveling. Eight armor pieces, three rings (plus one PvP ring that cannot be transferred to anyone), a charm, an earring and two kris blades. All of them of the uncommon class with a minimum level of 150.

Making an appearance without my gear would be an utterly moronic move on my part. Infinite disguise afforded by a premium account is nice and all, but it's no panacea as certain NPCs can't be fooled by Persona. Moreover, wearing armor will give some additional survivability. Chances are I won't need it, and yet, I can't remember the last time I left my private room without it. Arkon devs were smart to allow all players to carry a set of civilian clothes on them, in addition to armor. Thus, after death you needn't run to your corpse in your underpants, or make a racket walking around with all that metal when inside city walls. Sets of clothes can be swapped in a moment, and your armor is automatically "activated" in case of an attack, just as your weapon instantly materializes in your hands. Of course, there are also fools so devoted to pacifism that they don't equip armor on principle. I'm not bothered by them, of course. If anything, I welcome their foolishness—especially if it comes with money.

With my equipment on, I fasten the sheaths with my daggers to my waist, activate Persona, and walk out of the room into the hallway.

A private room is quite the convenience. Whenever you open any residential quarters with a key, it becomes your private room. The key cannot be stolen, but acquired only via legitimate means, such as paying for a room at an inn, or accepted from the owner of a rented house. The key cannot be lost or discarded, vanishing from your inventory only when the rental period runs out. Thus, a million people can theoretically walk into the same exact room at an inn, and each one would end up in their own private room. Sort of like a game instance[21] on the smallest scale.  As for exiting the room, you can do that in up to three different locations—on the condition that they're located no more than five miles from each other. All you need is to have paid for the rooms in each of those inns. This feature is especially handy for yours truly. I've lost count of my many victims, and some of them must be thirsting to settle the score—if only they could track me down. The game always displays the name of your killer at the moment of death, so many of them hop onto my stream right after and start talking trash. Some go further and try to find me, ambush me, even stalk me. Sadly—for them, at least—they only waste their time and add to their frustration. I never reveal my exits to my subscribers or share my plans. My operations are quick, as are my retreats. And if anything goes awry, I can always fall back on a five-hour disguise. The only way to crack Persona is with a special scroll or a direct attack. The former is expensive, and the latter is a surefire way to get your ass handed to you by the city guards in the case of mistaken identity.

After disguising myself as a human with Persona, I shut the lid of the chest, and start down the hallway. Upon reaching the stairs, I descend, cut across the dining hall and exit onto the street. Once outside, I glance at the city wall towering over the rooftops, check the time on the clocktower, and make for the Heroes Square of Vaedarr. The Swan is situated just behind it, no more than twenty-five minutes on foot.

Renting a room inside the city is kind of expensive—nearly twenty Euro converted to fiat money, and that's with the inn bordering the cheaper Industrial Fringes. But conveniences are conveniences for the exact reason they aren't free. You can save money staying outside the city, but then you'd waste a good chunk of time commuting and passing through customs. Unless you're a Master of Stealth, in which case you can slip past the guards undetected. The alternatives—schlepping through the catacombs beneath the city or wasting Persona at the entrance—are equally unattractive. Some might be lazy or foolish enough to prefer it, but I am neither of those things.

The pale winter sun is already peeking out above the eastern wall, hanging over the main building of the Myrt temple complex. A pleasant breeze blows from the river, carrying scents of lavender and mint. Winter in Vaedarr is drastically different from Moscow. Here, snow falls only on the eve of the Christmas holidays—the rest of the time, the weather is mild and pretty stable, rarely dipping below sixty degrees. Rains become more frequent, but the chill factor is nowhere near as bad as it gets in Russia.

Everywhere you look, merchants are hawking their wares, bells are tinkling around the necks of draft horses and oxen, wagons are grating and groaning, and players are scurrying about their business.

The number of players will grow considerably closer to evening. Gambling dens and brothels will open up their doors most invitingly, and the downtown of Vaedarr will morph into a kind of fairytale Las Vegas.

One might think that in this city a rogue should be making out like a bandit—pun intended—but, alas, entrance to such establishments is closed to the likes of me. I'd be made long before reaching the door, and no amount of stealth or disguise skills would help. Unless you're Bel, the God of Thieves, or someone from his inner circle, you're not getting in. And if you are, I doubt that you're enticed by the money, anyway. Besides, anyone holding truly serious coin invariably uses a special kind of purse that's immune to pickpocketing and doesn't drop off a corpse. It costs a pretty penny, but it's designed to keep all of your pretty pennies safe, so if you can afford one in the first place, you'd be a fool not to buy it.

I wave away a street soothsayer, then skirt around a fruit stand... and come face to face with a stranger dressed as an air mage. Without hesitation the man throws out his hand, striking me in the chest with a lightning bolt. The system log conveniently informs me that I've been paralyzed.

Chapter 8

Damn it! Azure Dragons!

A month ago, I ganked their precious Jin Ho, on a bet, and his lapdogs have had it out for me ever since. These Asians are vindictive bunch, and when you take down their top raid leader, they're likely to turn the whole city upside down to get their revenge. A top clan has virtually limitless capabilities, and I feel a sense of relief about handing in my gear to Mike.

Then again, I'm not dead yet! The mage attacked right away, meaning he knew exactly who I was. Having just appeared from behind the corner, he must have been waiting there for the order. Was I being followed all the way from the inn? Crap! I need to spot the others right away! The fact that they didn't just kill me means they plan on restraining me and taking me somewhere private, to record or even stream the punishment for purposes of deterrence. As in, don't mess with us, cause if you do, this is what happens.

A rogue in my predicament is going to automatically slip into invisibility ninety-nine times out of one hundred—to shed the debuff and access the situation. And that is precisely what they're expecting me to do. If I do, another control ability or spell will instantly follow, breaking stealth and leaving me out of options.

A fraction of a second is enough for all these thoughts to pass through my head, and I decide to leave the Paralysis as is. So I keep standing there instead, staring at the dude who attacked me. Were a target to be paralyzed IRL, it would drop to the ground like lumber, but in the game the paralyzed target simply freezes, as if trapped in an invisible cube of ice.

The attacking mage clearly didn't anticipate this turn of events, raising his hand automatically as he shouts, "Now!" The realization of his blunder comes too late—only after the pavement all around me lights up with illuminating arrows and a paladin breaks out of a nearby cluster of crates to hit me with a Stun.

Geez, how embarrassing! Two flares and a control ability burned with nothing to show for it. These guys may be masters of dungeon crawling, but out here on the street they're hopeless noobs. All right, boys, let's play!

I pop the ring to dispel the debuffs, hop over to the mage, interrupt his next cast with a Kick and stun him with a Kidney Shot. Then, without wasting a second, I use up the amassed combo points to Shadowstep behind some chick window-shopping about a hundred feet ahead.

The girl becomes collateral damage in our little street war. Poor thing is just out on a stroll in the city, but, alas, I cannot Shadowstep without inflicting damage.

"PK!" the shouts come from all around as I step away from the innocent victim's corpse, and swiftly disappear in a cloud of smoke from a vial broken against the pavement. One of the rangers still managed to hit me with Hunter's Mark, but that's fine. I don't intend on going invisible in the next five minutes.

So, there are four of them in all: a mage, two rangers and a paladin. There could be a fifth, but let's work with the information at hand. I'd love to know how they tracked me down, but all that will have to wait. One thing is clear: that inn is burned for me, so I'm going to need to change up dislocations. And I'm not making it to The Swan in time, either. The mark will fall off in five minutes, but then I have another hour until Persona resets. Thankfully, there are plenty of spots in the city to lie low, and one just happens to be a few minutes of sprinting away.

I don't make efforts to hide as I run through the city. Such a sight isn't an aberration, and few people want to mess with a level 200 PKing rogue. Only the guards are guaranteed to attack, but they don't frequent this part of town. Players are much more likely to get some popcorn and enjoy the show: the hunt for the red assassin.

I cut across a small square, knocking over a dithering street vendor, then slip into an alleyway between two tall buildings. My actions are deliberate, guided by certainty that the Azure Dragons are on my tail. The mark is still hanging on me, and they won't lose the trail for as long as that's the case.

The alley leads to a small square with a platform holding up a statue to some random knight. Surely there's a backstory that explains why the devs decided to stick this monument by the southern wall of the Myrt temple complex—nobody gets a monument in Arkon without cause—but I am entirely ignorant on the matter. The square is enclosed by high walls that would take even me several minutes to scale. Only I'm not going to be scaling anything. But I am going to be mocking the shit out of this bunch of lamers!  The temple gate is always closed, but I can use my Chains to easily jump the wall. Then I'll wait for the pursuers to arrive to part with a wave and save the recording, which started automatically the moment I was attacked. Any assassin worth his salt simply must have at least ten escape routes, and the more spectacular your flight, the more respect and admiration you earn. I can just imagine Ksenjhuan's face. The Azure Dragons' clan leader is not a woman to be trifled with, and I know that these idiots will pay dearly for their blunders this day. Good thing I don't feel bad for idiots.

I hear shouting coming from behind—the pursuing party is near. Two of my attackers are rangers—that class is faster on foot than rogues. Except they won't be drawing closer just yet, since they can't handle me. Oh, they could kill me easily enough, but taking me under control and restraining me? Fat chance. So they're just going to block the exit and wait for the rest of the party to catch up. The map clearly indicates that I've nowhere to run.

With these thoughts, I bound over a heap of rocks and run up onto the platform by the temple wall. Ugh! What shit luck! And things were shaping up so nicely...

Standing before the monument is a level 450 paladin, his head bent reverentially. Tukkard, Commander of the Order of Impending Dawn, Myrt's Hand of Justice. Over seven feet tall with nearly a billion HP! A bloody raid boss from a bloody light order. The very last thing I need.

Every MMORPG has the so-called "forces of light," and the Order of Impending Dawn is a prime example of one such force. Dunderhead paladins with equally dunderheaded inquisitors, with this particular specimen being the biggest dunderhead of them all. The name speaks for itself. Jokes aside, there's no getting around this raid boss, nor is he likely to let me tend to my affairs unmolested. Too bad about my gear, but there's nothing to be done about that. On the other hand, there's nothing shameful about dying by the hand of an NPC of this caliber, so I'm calling this day a win. And I won't mind taking a detour through the graveyard to the celebration.

One thing is weird. With the huge difference in levels, I must have entered into the paladin's aggro[22]
range early in my approach, but he doesn't turn around to face me until after I've run up onto the platform. I don't know what brings him here, but it appears that the knight on the pedestal is someone he cares about quite a bit.

Tukkard attacks without hesitation. An expression of mild disdain flickers on the knight's face as he throws out his hand in my direction and lets loose a huge brilliant sphere from the tips of his fingers.

It's exactly what I expect him to do. I am far too low and insignificant for him to launch some clever attack or start chasing me around the platform. Better to simply crush me with raw power. Only I'm not going down without a fight. I don’t harbor any illusions, though. This beast of a man will kill me, but I won't make it easy. The recording is still on, and the longer I hold out, the more glory I will win in the process. Hell, I might have outfoxed even this big fella if not for the damned Hunter's Mark crippling my abilities.

I roll to the side, letting the hostile magic swoosh overhead, then jump to my feet and flip the paladin the bird.

"Your aim needs work, jackass!"

Behind me I hear the sound of steel-reinforced boots trampling stone. The paladin throws up his hand again, and another sphere of blinding light smashes into the side of the building where I just stood. The brickwork turns into a melting hole large enough for a pony to jump through as the disdain on Tukkard's bearded face turns to annoyance. Shrugging his monstrous mallet from his shoulder, he grabs it with both hands. The next moment, a silver supernova drowns out all reality.

I can neither see nor hear, as if stunned by a flashbang grenade. The air stinks of ozone, and the ground under my feet shudders. Blinking my way back to sanity, I gape slack-jawed at the six smoking craters before me, the downed monument, and a molten gap in the temple wall. What... the... hell...

The sky overhead darkens, then gets split open by dozens of enormous lightning bolts. A giant shadow encroaches from the east—an impenetrable blanket of pitch-black darkness. One of the bolts strikes the dome of the temple, shattering it into a myriad pieces as the whole building lights up like a Christmas tree. What the hell is happening?! Some kind of a world event? Are the dark gods attacking the city?

I take a frantic look around, and my eyes fall on my would-be killer. Having survived the lightning, the paladin lies on the rim of one of the craters, unconscious. Ugh, why couldn't he just die? That would make everything easier. But now...

I run over to Tukkard and touch him. Well, shoot, finishing off the bastard isn't an option—it would take me the whole day to burn through his remaining one hundred million HP. I'll have to be content with some thievery, even though I won't be able to snag anything truly valuable, anyway—not with our level difference. I won't even be able to peek into his bag. Still, there's a chance I might get something cool and shiny. And any bauble from an NPC this high up on the food chain is going to seriously raise my rep in the thieves' guild of Vaedarr. After all the grief he's given our kind, oh, it most certainly will!

The Pickpocket cooldown flares red, and I snap my hand back. The system informs me about five stolen items just as the mage emerges from the alley behind me. He sees me, then looks behind him and shouts, but I can't hear him, my sense of hearing still dulled. There's a bright flash and a sudden pain in my chest. I shudder, exhale, and slowly collapse to the ground.

Chapter 9

"What the hell is going on? Who do they think they are?!" An indignant male voice sounds distant. "I've got an appointment at the Ministry of the Interior in an hour! I will take these assholes to court!"

"Relax, Dick," speaks another male voice, slow and confident. "They're going to fix it soon."

"Fix it?!" the first voice barks, losing his cool. "Are you getting any answer from support?"

"What do you need support for?" the other voice says with a dose of irony. "Just call home and ask someone to switch off the capsule."

My head is killing me... Wait, my head is killing me? But I'm still in the game! Or am I? And why the hell is it so cold? Teeth gritting, I sit up and rub my temples, then open my eyes and take a look around.

Thousands upon thousands of players are scattered all around me, as far as the eye can see. Most of them unconscious. All of them drow. This is one hell of a system breakdown! If that's what it is, anyway.

I crane my neck and gaze at the darkness billowing up above. This place is not unfamiliar to me. The ceiling of the enormous cavern is shrouded in darkness, with magic lanterns stretched out along the road to the city, winding like a serpent with skin glowing a pale blue. Massive stone towers, forty-foot-high walls, and two majestic statues stand on either side of the gate. Somehow all of these people—and I along with them—ended up in Zul-Gehit, the third largest city in Anthrum. Well, well...

Crap! My Persona is on cooldown. Things are gonna get rowdy... But the two dudes whose voices I heard when regaining consciousness pay me absolutely no mind. Two level 43 warriors ignoring a level 200 PKer? Are they so bewildered by this malfunction that they're not registering anything at all?

One of them—a tall blonde fella with fine features—is frozen in place with a distant expression, ostensibly calling home on the advice of his interlocutor. The other is checking out his surroundings, looking like he has not a care in the world. All right, it's time I learn what the hell is happening...

I quickly open my character menu and gasp. My kill count has reset to zero! All the achievements are still there, but... Also, the system breakdown has reset all stats and talents! For me only or for everyone else as well? If the latter, the corporation lost a shit-ton of money today.

I cast a scattered gaze at the level 50 mage female starting to stir next to me, then turn on the system log. What I read proceeds to fill—and swiftly overfill—my capacity for shock.

Attention all players! The latest system patch 17 is now live in the Realm of Arkon!

New planes and game zones have been added to the game: Divine Planes, Gray Frontier, Netherworld, Demon Grounds, Lemuria and Pangea.

New gods have entered this world, and with them new species of creatures, animals and plants. Explore the new frontier to find new secret quests, artifacts, epic items and gear sets, as well as rare resources.

New active and passive skills have also been added, including new professions...

The players'  sensations have been improved to total, 100% immersion. Some can be reduced by raising certain skills. For instance, pain sensitivity can be reduced to 20% by leveling the Toughness skill...

Changes to game mechanics:

...The system of reputation accrual has been revised, but the reputation values already achieved with various factions and societies, races and gods have been preserved...

...All active and passive skills have been reset to allow every player to allocate their skill points strategically...

...Unique and hidden skills and abilities achieved during gameplay have been preserved and left unchanged...

...The kill counter has been reset...

...The dynamics of death have been revised. Now, players will resurrect at their bind point after 6 hours. The time it takes for player corpses to rot has been increased from 5 days to 15...

...The perception of the world among NPCs has been heightened.

A death penalty of 20% of a player's levels has been instituted, though the player will not fall below level 30. Furthermore, all passive and active skills and resistances will remain on the previous level, while the player's top stat will be reduced by 3 for each level lost. The player can recover the lost stat points by regaining the previous level, but a new talent point will only be gained upon reaching a previously unattained level. If killed by another player, prior to resurrection the deceased can change their bind point to any previous bind point...

...Due to planar rifts from the Netherworld and the Gray Frontier, permanent portals between capital cities no longer function properly. All game characters on the Karn Continent have been sent back to their factions' starting cities...

...From here on, communication in the game is limited to mail. Mail correspondence between members of non-hostile races is only possible after a permanent portal between the capital cities has been established...

To help in completing group quests, when players join a party or a raid, the voices of raid leaders, officers and party leaders are magically amplified. The leaders are also granted the ability to communicate mentally...

...To create a teleportation portal, players are required to visit the same place again...

...Players can still use the phone feature to call out...

...Invite their friends and acquaintances into the game...

...The Wikipedia button has been renamed "Chronicles," and its information is constantly being updated...

...The game forum has been shut down...

...The Logout and Contact the Administration buttons have been removed from the Options menu as unnecessary.

RP-17 Sage wishes you happy gaming.

So this is the cause of my splitting headache! The governing AI has gone off the rails. A loss of twenty percent in levels as a penalty for death! Is he for real?! A drop from level 200 to 160, just like that? Why would anyone agree to such ridiculous terms and keep playing the game? The next patch was supposed to be in April. In addition to moving up the date, Sage implemented one-hundred percent pain sensitivity. And these new planes... Pangea is the name of a supercontinent that once existed on Earth, and Lemuria is a sunken land from old myths. What is the purpose of bringing those names here? Or did I miss something? As far as I'm aware, the patch was supposed to introduce Demon Grounds and a new playable race native to that realm.

I open the menu and scratch my cheek contemplatively. The button to go to Arkon's site was indeed replaced with Chronicles, and both Logout and Contact the Administration buttons are grayed out. Did the governing AI take us all hostage? It's a funny notion, but I absolutely do need to get out of the game within the next three hours. Daria is coming over! Unless she's in the game as well... Crap! I can't even send her a DM!

"Are you crazy?! Stop talking nonsense!"

The man talking on the phone swears and looks over at his buddy in frustration.

"What's the word?" the other inquires calmly.

"I don't know," the blondie sighs. "Helen is hysterical. She says that I'm not breathing. And neither is Mark in his own capsule."

"Not breathing? As in, both you and your son are dead? Is that what you're trying to say?" the man says, bemused.

"No, I'm trying to say that my wife is in dire need of a doctor."

Folks around us are slowly starting to come to. Next to me, a girl named Leora sits up, swears, and rubs her eyes with her fists.

"Well, shit," she mutters. "I didn't even drink that much..."

Just then, a doleful, gurgling wail washes over the place. I spin around to the noise. Another poor sop running late for his date?

"What's with him?" the magess inquires, gesturing at the bawling fellow.

"I couldn't begin to guess," I shrug as I rise to my feet. Skirting around the stirring bodies, I start in the direction away from the city.

Chapter 10

Sure, I could take thirty minutes to rummage through some pockets, but I prefer to preserve my reputation for now. And time is at a premium, anyway. The caravan to Thalim is leaving in forty-three minutes, and the station is nearly two miles from here. The next departure isn't for another two days, and I'd sooner spend that time on the road to a location I need than loiter about in an overcrowded city. Whenever this issue gets fixed, I will be ported back to Vaedarr, anyway, but who knows when this fix is going to happen?

What could have happened? I can only think of one option: the governing AI ran into some kind of malfunction. Sometime in the next day the board of directors will convene for an emergency meeting. It'll then take another day for the engineers to "patch" Sage, and that's the most optimistic time line. Realistically, we're looking at four days. That's two days to Thalim and two more there—enough time to level my Herbalism and maybe stock up on some brown moss, if I get lucky. The issue with portals not working doesn't apply as I haven't been to Thalim before. I'd need to take the caravan there anyway.

On second thought, four days isn't very realistic, I think, giving another wild-eyed chap a wide berth. All capsules come equipped with a life-support system that will keep a healthy individual alive for at least a week, though anyone who's diabetic or dialysis-dependent will croak a lot sooner than that. It's safe to assume that the sicklier individuals have upgraded capsules for exactly this kind of emergency, but the administration isn't going to take any risks. The board of directors is going to vote to dump everyone from the game, Arkon will go down for maintenance, and all the "injured" players are going to get some kind of prize set as compensation. Still, if the servers go down sometime tomorrow, I'm going to be half-way to Thalim by then, and my location on the map should get saved. I'm hardly enthused by the idea of rattling around in a caravan for two days, but wasting time in the city is even less enticing a prospect. I can already imagine hours-long lines forming to every inn in a ten-mile radius.

And the situation in Vaedarr must be incomparably worse. The system message said that all the races were returned to their starting cities. For the drow, four of our largest cities function as starting zones, which means a rather thin distribution across the entire territory. On the other hand, the human crown lands are vast indeed, and "starting city" doesn't automatically mean inside its walls. But anyway, what do I care about the problems of others? I'm not starting work for a while, so I can spend as much as ten days lying in the capsule. The nervous guy from before must have activated the capsule's protective function on account of a drastic change in his biometrics, which puts the body in a state resembling anabiosis. And the wife must've mistook it for lack of breathing.

The road leading into the city is entirely clear of unconscious bodies: the system was gracious enough to place all the ported players away from the roadway. Strangely, I don't see any of the locals, either, not counting the guards milling about the gate. Did the patch impact the NPCs, too? Let's hope the caravanners are still operational.

I make a right upon reaching the road, then start toward one of the tunnels at a brisk pace. It's a little over a mile from here.

Something tells me that my date with Daria isn't going to happen. And that's a shame, as things were looking promising yesterday... With a sigh, I snatch a large firefly through the air—one of the myriad hovering over the road—then unclench my fist and let the beautiful insect go free. Either way, I should still give my girlfriend a ring. What if, right?

Predictably, she doesn't answer. I assume she's in Louu, but I'm not going there for two reasons. If Zul-Gehit is this overcrowded, I don't even want to imagine the pandemonium happening in Louu. There's no chance I'll find her there—they won't even let me anywhere near the temple. What was it she had said? Room number nine on the main floor of the south wing? I haven't the slightest clue where that is. The game's site is down, the maps aren't working and neither is support chat. And I can't ask the NPCs—my neutral reputation won't get me anywhere with them.

More and more people are starting to stir awake, and I pick up the pace. There must be at least thirty thousand here, and some of them will surely come to the same conclusions as me. A standard caravan spans three wagons, each carrying up to ten people, so if I don't hurry, I stand a real chance of having to travel to Thalim on foot. Now, sure, I can just hole up in my private room at the nearest inn until the governing AI is set straight, but I've been meaning to stock up on brown moss for the past month already, so I might as well do it now. Even if they yank me out of the game while en route, I'll have much less travel time upon logging back in.

Taking a portal there isn't an option, sadly. It can only be opened to a place you've already been to, but few people have traveled there at all. Myself, I only found out about Thalim from a book stolen half a year ago. The drow lands are the least explored of all. Roleplayers tend to congregate in large cities whereas players like me slip away at level 30, never to return. As for the explorers among us, Arkon abounds with places far more interesting than a hole in the ground whose main attraction is brown moss and a poisoned lake. Even if someone did visit it at some point, no threads on portals ever made it to the forums.

A thought pops into my head, albeit belatedly. I open up the Options menu mentally and dial Mike's number. It's night in San Francisco, but I don't hesitate even for a second. A crazed AI takes us hostage, and we're supposed to wait patiently to call at a proper hour? Hell no! And besides, the team manager must be notified of such developments immediately. I have a whole section on that point in my contract.

After a few minutes of waiting, I hear Badger's sleepy, annoyed voice.

"Have you forgotten how to tell time, Kris? Or the time zone difference between Moscow and America?" he snarls into the receiver. "I know you like your nocturnal lifestyle, but I prefer to actually sleep at night."

Hardly a "Hello" or "It's nice to hear from you." Americans are not a sociable people when you wake them at night. And the last time he called me by my actual name—the last and only time, actually—was the day we signed the contract.

"Howdy, Mike!" I say with utmost friendliness. "You see, we ran into certain problems, so I decided a phone call was warranted."

"Did you land in the joint again?" Badger asks, in a calm tone of voice now. "Or in that mine, whatchamacallit... Shanama?"

"Mike, nothing makes me happier than hearing you recall the names of penal colonies and using thieves' slang, but this time it's all of us who have landed in the joint."

I proceed to recap all the events for the team manager, then answer a few clarifying questions. When I finish, a minute-long silence ensues.

"You don't have any immediate family, right? And you live alone?" Mike says. "Should I notify the police?"

"Thanks, but no need," I reply. "My capsule is certified and linked to the distribution center. They'll send someone here on the fifth day if this thing isn't fixed by then. I'll take the time to tend to some in-game matters. I'll sleep here, too, if needed. I've done it before, so no worries."

"All right," Mike says distantly. "Ring me in a few hours. By then I should know what the hell actually happened."

Judging by the change in his tone, Badger is on the case, and I feel a sense of respect for the team manager. A lesser man in his stead might go right back to sleep, but not him. He won't rest until he gets to the bottom of everything. Yep, Badger is on the case.

Chapter 11

The lanterns mounted on the walls and hanging off the ceiling flood the tunnel with a bright orange light. At least to me it's bright orange. A human in my place would either need to wait for their eyes to get used to the darkness or cast Cat Vision. The super-sensitivity range of cats' eyes on Earth is six to eight times broader than that of humans, but drow and dwarves in Arkon see in the darkness three times better than cats. This was the devs' decision, but had I known the flip side—how sensitive drow are to sunlight—I would have thought twice before selecting this race. It took three full months for my eyes to get accustomed to being out in daylight, and that's with the help of various potions and elixirs that set me back thirty gold. Now, sure, I could have spent five talent points on Day Vision and avoided the torment, but to a professional player, five talent points is a treasure never to be squandered on any such minor conveniences. At any rate, my vision is fine now, and I can even look at the sun without a protective buff. Still, I feel much more comfortable at night and in a dark environment.

It takes me twenty-four minutes to make it to the right passageway. By now the city square looks like a mad mix of Oktoberfest, the Brazilian Carnival and Ibiza. A throng of players dazed from the teleport buzz like a disturbed beehive. Their voices blend together in a medley of angry shouting, wild crying and hysterical laughter. And for good reason: for some, this malfunction means an extra day off; for others, a disruption to their schedule and possibly their livelihood. As expected, large chunks of the crowd start heading towards the city gates, while only a few dozen higher-level players follow in my direction, towards the caravan station.

The road I'm on could easily accommodate three magnetic trains side to side. The eastern passage runs about half a mile through the mountain, its width identical from start to finish. The populated part of Anthrum is largely similar to that of Erantia. Most of the roads are dry and even, the cities are nestled in vast caverns linked by a giant network of tunnels just like this one. And the temperature never dips below sixty degrees.

Arkon is a game world first, fantasy world second. The share of players that choose to play for the dwarven and drow races combined is already a paltry five percent—were the devs to make this place a more accurate depiction of the Underdark, the only players left would be rabid fanboys and fangirls like my Daria. Or, perhaps, pure adrenaline junkies. Anthrum abounds with unexplored territories: abandoned mines, caved-in tunnels, wild caves and other such places so dear to a gamer's heart, where besides hidden dungeons and monsters of every stripe, you could stumble upon whole forgotten civilizations. And that is all well and good, only that very same stuff also exists on the surface where human beings feel far more comfortable, even those of us playing as drow.

The tunnel smells of dry hay and mint, the scents being exuded by colonies of fungi covering the walls in neat geometric figures. The locals grow these as decorative plants of sorts. And they're tended to exclusively by men, for women have more important matters to deal with. Here, the fairer sex is anything but. On the contrary, they enjoy a higher status and special privileges. If Daria wasn't a woman, no way she could have risen to nobility as quickly as she did. A man would be lucky to make it to a rank of captain in one of the Houses in the same time frame. Moreover, that is the only way for men to climb the social ladder, as temple service is granted exclusively to women. It's hard for me to fully understand roleplayers, but I like the fact that everyone is free to game as they wish. Would I prefer service at a temple or in a virtual army? Nope. I'd sooner take a trip to Thalim and gather some herbs.

The station from which all the caravans travel east stands in a huge, squarely shaped, well-illuminated cavern. Huge by earthly standards, anyway. With walls spanning around a quarter-mile, it houses a two-story barracks, an n-shaped stables, and a granary in the form of a hemisphere. All the structures are clustered together behind a low stone enclosure.

I'm the first player here, with ten minutes to spare. The caravan I need departs at two o'clock Paris time after three full days spent on preparations. The coachmen are transporting and loading grains, inspecting wagons, and fixing harnesses on the chewing animals as the soldiers assigned to accompany the caravan are conversing in low voices.

Locating the leader of the caravan, I make my way over to him to pay the fare, and that's when it hits me. I turn my head sharply, back to the soldiers, then again to the captain, and nearly swear in amazement. They're all dark elves! As in, they're drow! The same drow from the books! Black skin, white hair, red irises and haughty facial expressions. But this can't be! There are no dark-skinned NPCs among the drow of Arkon! This is a relatively unique element of the game, and only die-hard D&D fans go through the hassle of tuning their character's appearance in the advanced editor to match the description from the classics.

I glance at my wrist, then shake my head in disbelief.

We're all dark-skinned now... How insane is that?! Not that I care about skin or eye color or any such superficial things, but this is a clear breach of protocol for the governing AI! Which begs the question, how far exactly did he go with this patch? Is the increase in pain sensitivity and loss of levels for dying just the beginning? The thought is unnerving, to say the least, but I force myself to relax. They'll set Sage straight before too long. And make everything right again. I just hope the downtime won't be extended.

Gluss, the caravan leader, is a dour, broad-shouldered level 230 warrior warrior with 120,000 HP. With a hawkish face, protruding cheekbones, a faint scar on his right cheek and light hair worn in a ponytail, he looks like a mix between a viper and a wolf.

Stopping across from him, I reach into my purse and take out two gold coins.

"My fare, captain. My destination is Thalim."

Suddenly, it's quiet. Suspiciously quiet. Gluss looks up at me slowly, his squinting eyes dripping with scorn.

"There are no 'captains' among the Council's Guard, kinless," he speaks coolly. "For your kind, I am master decem, and these," he nods at the soldiers, "are master guards. If I hear you address me or them as anything else, you will die. Is that understood?"

My jaw drops as I struggle for words. Is this NPC on crack? Master decem my ass!

"Is that understood? I don't hear you," the drow repeats, putting a hand on the hilt of a sword hanging off his belt.

"Aye aye, master decem," I speak calmly, without averting my eyes. "Like I said, I'm headed to Thalim."

I could gripe till the cows come home, but taking this fella down would be a struggle even in my regular gear, let alone in my current digs and with unallocated talents. Hell, in this sorry state I'd probably lose to a common foot soldier. And besides, what's the point in getting offended by computer code? I just hope to keep my face straight looking at this puffed-up turkey.

"Very well," Gluss nods, peering into my eyes. "What did you forget in Thalim, anyway?"

The surprises continue. A caravanner inquiring about the purpose of my trip? Does he hail from a family of cops or customs agents or something? Cause he's got the role down pat. Apparently, it's not just the governing AI that's gone bonkers, but some of the NPCs along with him. Well, well. What if they refuse to take me? I don't feel like schlepping there on foot...

"I must visit Master Alahun, master decem," I produce a book nicked half a year ago, demonstrating it to Gluss. "To return this lost journal and ask him to take me on as his apprentice."

The caravan leader examines the book in my head skeptically, then gives a reluctant sigh, accepts the money, and nods at one of the carts.

"Second wagon. And don't make any noise. Dismissed!"

Holy crap!

Chapter 12

I climb into the wagon, followed by the guards' silent stares, settle onto a cracked wooden bench, and try to digest what just happened. Each NPC is governed by an AI, and all of them are, in turn, governed by RP-17 Sage. Yet, some of the locals are now acting like real living humans, despite the fact that each of them must follow a specific behavioral script. After all, these creatures are purely software and math! With my neutral reputation, the caravan leader should simply take my money and wish me a pleasant journey. The purpose of my trip is none of his damn business! So what gives? It feels as if I somehow ended up in an actual drow realm! Kinless, eh...

A thought pulls at my frontal cortex.

I reopen the system message and scroll through it until I find the relevant part: The perception of the world among NPCs has been heightened.

Well, that clears it up... Except even less is clear! So, NPC behavior has changed, but in what way and to what extent?

"Are you kidding me, asshole?!" a loud indignant voice distracts me from the reading.

It's the level 130 mage who was following behind me in the tunnel. He and three others went to the same caravan as me, and now stand in front of the captain. The nature of his indignation is clear enough: the NPC surely spoke to him in the same post-patch manner, and the kid seems to lack the self-control of yours truly. And then he goes and proves that it's not just self-control he lacks, but basic intelligence.

"Stuff your instructions where the sun don't shine, shitbird. You twats will pay for all the time I've already wasted!"

What happens next is exactly what has to happen. The caravanner moves swiftly, almost imperceptibly, his blade slicing the garrulous mage's head clean off. The severed head lands with a thump as the body jerks, sprouting a veritable fountain of blood, then slumps to the ground. HOLY CRAP...

I touch my chin automatically, almost not expecting my jaw to still be there. How in the world... This is not possible! I mean, it was clear enough that the captain would snuff him out, and decapitation is not a violation of the game's laws. A death blow aka fatality can sever the head or any extremity, or even split the torso in two. All that blood, though... It was way too gruesome. I've never seen anything like it even in the gladiators' arena, and that's the epicenter of all things gory and violent! Then there's the nasty smell from the rapidly pooling blood—that is new, too.

"Have you forgotten how to address the Council's Guard, kinless scum?!" Gluss growls, pointing the tip of his blade at the other players, flabbergasted by what they just witnessed.

Grimacing with contempt, he kicks the head away with his boot, then fixes his gaze on the surviving spectators.

"The next unfortunate soul to speak to any one of us in that tone of voice is going to get his tongue ripped out, and only then decapitated. Is that clear?!"

A level 137 warrior named Errol swallows a lump, then nods. The other two start backing away, then, without a word, turn sharply around and take off towards the city at full speed, followed by another dozen players that were set to travel with the other caravans.

The drow watches them flee with a disdainful smile, then wipes his blade on his victim's cloak and sheathes it before looking up at the warrior.

"And where are you headed?"

Their exchange is brief, at the end of which Gluss takes the warrior's money, points him to the wagon where I'm sitting, and orders a departure. The soldiers quickly take their places as the front coachman shouts some kind of command. The wagons start with a creek, then settle into synchronous motion.

"How do you like the new patch?" the warrior chuckles nervously as he takes a seat in front of me.

"They overdid it with the realism a bit," I shrug, my gaze lingering on the abandoned corpse in a pool of blood.

The kid nods. "No kidding. If I didn't have a quest waiting in Rakh, I'd hightail from this decem with the rest of them. And all this talk about death... it's freaking me out." He shakes his head, as if chasing away bad thoughts, then sticks out his hand. "Name's Errol!"

"Kris," I shake the warrior's hand. "The talk about death, you mean the guy whose wife went crazy?"

"It's not just the wife—everyone went crazy," Errol lowers his eyes. "Everyone who managed to get a hold of someone back home, they're all dead. You took off early and probably didn't hear everything."

"Do you seriously believe that garbage?" I chuckle, looking at the white-haired top of the warrior's head. "Something is up with the patch, no doubt. So everyone's life-support system kicked in."

"You think a hundred plus people are idiots?" Errol raises his eyes to meet mine. "Do you seriously believe that?"

The point hits home. He's right! So many people couldn't have gone mad at the same time. There were indeed a ton of people shouting and crying back at the square. What if all of that is true...

This isn't happening! It can't be happening! I think frantically while taking deep breaths, trying my damnedest not to succumb to a wave of horror washing over me. No Logout option. No chat. Deliverance to the main city, real pain, dark skin, the captain's bizarre behavior... I fish an apple from my bag and take a bite, trying to focus... Damn!

"What? No more plastic taste?" Errol chuckles with only his lips. "Before you ask, I tested some of the other foods, including meat. It's still a game, though—you can't hold two apples in the same hand without stacking them." He sighs, gazing out at the large gap in the wall of rock towards which the caravan is moving. "I haven't been able to reach anyone. Both my parents and my sister are in the game. But they're not in the Underdark!"

Daria has always called Anthrum "the Underdark," and the memory helps me bring my panicked and scattered thoughts in order. She didn't answer her phone, so she must be here as well! In that world I have only her and the graves of my mother and grandfather. And she's probably in this one, too, now.

"You're into D&D, I take it?" I ask Errol, feeling a bit calmer.

"You could say that. It's actually why I'm headed to Rakh—to join Meddoran militia. It was supposed to be a joyous occasion." He sighs and lowers his eyes again.

"Nothing is for certain," I put the unfinished apple in my bag and lean back against the wagon's side. "It could all be one giant prank."

At that, Errol perks up and proceeds to chatter excitedly. "I thought the same thing! That this could all be a grand elaborate show. Like in that old movie, I forget the name..."

"The Truman Show," I suggest.

"That's it!" the warrior nods. "Like, you don't know what's happening, either, and yet we're riding in this wagon together. Is it a coincidence? Or are we being watched as we speak?"

He looks up and around at the walls and ceiling of the cavern, as if trying to spot the hidden cameras.

"I was able to reach someone on the outside," I say, rushing to interrupt his train of thought before said train goes completely off the rails.

"I've got some whiskey," Errol rummages in his bag and takes out a pear-shaped clay vessel.

"A drink sounds like a fine idea."

Errol hails from the Czech Republic. He started playing three years ago when his dad discovered a new dungeon and sold the information to some clan for a pretty penny. A common story. Clearing a dungeon for the first time yields significant bonuses—not only to the direct participants, but also to the rest of the clan. Moreover, the quantity and quality of loot dropped by mobs and bosses is significantly higher on the first clearing. There's even an unofficial price list for such finds, though the exact price is ultimately set by the seller. At any rate, the dad's profits were enough to buy the family a house in Cyprus and four latest-generation capsules.

Errol is a fanboy of the drow race, just like my Daria. For three years he labored on his reputation with the Elder House Meddoran, completing dull and repetitive quests, and now he's taking some letters to Rakh, a small town sixty miles east of Zul-Gehit, to complete the final phase in the quest chain. For my money, there's nothing more mind-numbingly boring than grinding these quests, but according to this dude, once he joins the House's armed forces, his world is going to shine with brand new colors. As in, gray is going to turn to brown! Truly, a delightful prospect.

Errol continues, sharing with me various details of his life, but by now I'm completely zoned out, nodding periodically while mulling over my own thoughts. Or, more like, drinking and staring mindlessly at the cracks in the wagon's trimming. The kid's blabbering is helping to ward off a creeping dread, and yet... You try to stop thinking about a white monkey if the damned thing simply refuses to disappear from your mind's eye! So, if we're all dead, then what are we now? A withering consciousness? Or a life hundreds of millions of years old. If the former, this picture is going to fade soon, but if the latter... A part of me still wants to believe that this is a mere malfunction, a bug that will invariably be fixed. Mike is going to find out the truth soon, but I find myself hesitating to call him. The mere thought of it is chilling.

Chapter 13

Alcohol's impact on the body is weaker in Arkon by orders of magnitude, but Errol's supply of whiskey seems inexhaustible, and I begin to feel a bit better after about an hour and a half. The kid's stories no longer seem as dull, the tunnel we're traversing as bleak, and a glance at the taciturn coachman no longer triggers the desire to Shadowstep behind him and detach his head from his body, as his immediate superior threatened to do to us. The wagons roll along at a decent clip, with the echo bounding and bouncing somewhere far ahead. The coachmen and the guards escorting the caravan have become cardboard statues; the two of us are the only ones talking. Even the rothé seem to be eavesdropping on Errol's fragmented story, rocking their massive foreheads to and fro as they walk.

Interestingly, the tons of bedrock directly overhead aren't causing any distress at all. I'm right in my comfort zone, almost like I'm back in a Moscow subway. All is as it should be. Yet, prospective engine drivers must pass a highly rigorous psychological selection process, as staring into the black depths of a tunnel for hours on end, day in and day out, is neither pleasant nor productive for the human brain. At least back home they get to pull into the next station every several minutes—here, certain tracts can span many miles. So why don't I feel any discomfort? Just the opposite—through the dread about the current situation, a new sensation is surfacing. A strange kind of aching, like the kind you feel returning home after a long voyage.

Is this the onset of madness? Stress, booze, and a feeling of total helplessness. If anyone thinks that time flows quickly in such a situation, I assure you they're wrong. Minutes crawl, snail-like, and when the three hours finally pass, I suddenly realize that I don't want to make the call. I'm too afraid.

Pull yourself together, wuss! I snap at myself, load the phone number before my eyes, and press the Call button mentally. Two long rings—each as long as a lifetime—are followed by the team manager's lively voice. I close my eyes and dive headfirst into the whirlpool of my fear.

"Howdy, Mike! So, what's the word?" I ask the question and tune out the world around me.

"Hey, Kris! You're not going to believe what happened," Mike says in a strange tone of voice, and I feel the ground fall away. But what Badger says next shakes me to my very core. "Arkon became real! Imagine, a game world with infinite lives and infinite possibilities! Can you believe our luck?! Never in my wildest dreams did I think this could happen. Did you?"

For the first few moments, I'm unable to speak. Which of us is the real madman: him or me? Balancing on the edge of madness, I gather the inner strength to continue the conversation.

"So it's true? I'm really dead?"

"Are you daft, Kris?" Mike guffaws on the other end. "You think I'm speaking with a dead man? Or is everyone so blind that they can't see the obvious? What has Earth ever done for you, huh? What have you accomplished that you can't bring yourself to leave behind? I've sent my wife and kids to Arkon an hour ago. They're ALIVE—I just got off the phone with them. I never told you that my eldest had a condition, but now... There's none of that shit in Arkon! This is true happiness, Kris! I can't even begin to tell you how happy I am! For all of us!"

There is something to what he's saying. Indeed, dead men can't talk, can't think, and definitely can't feel fear. Maybe this isn't death, after all, but a kind of transfer of consciousness from one host to another? Why would the AI flick the off switch now if he hasn't already? What if this really is a new world? A new life in a new body? And this body happens to be far better suited to survival...

"Are you on your way as well? I ask him, finally getting a grip on the emotions that are making my head spin.

"As soon as I'm done talking to you," Mike says in all seriousness. "So get out of those caves and haul your ass to Vaedarr. I've got your gear and your dagger. Yes, Kris, your dagger. I made a promise, and I'm keeping it."

"Thanks, Mike..." I say softly, feeling my eyes well up with needless tears. "Good luck to you in the New World!"

"And to you, Kris! Send my regards to your girl."

Following the phone call, I sit there for a full minute, with my jaw set and my eyes closed.

It's strange how the chips fall sometimes. You live your life, trusting no one and fearing treachery at every turn. And then you meet someone, a complete stranger who owes you nothing, and at some point he turns your whole life upside down with only a few phrases. I will definitely make it to Vaedarr, Mike! On foot, on deerback, or in a rothé-pulled wagon. And I won't do it for the dagger, either—at least that isn't the main reason. Above all else, I will do it just to shake your hand.

That three-hour-long nightmare nearly drove me mad... And for what? What do I care about that pathetic, feeble body? Oleg Smirnov is dead, long live Master Assassin Kris Venom! As for this world... I feel my face, glance at the coachman's back, then raise my eyes to the ceiling twinkling with a soft light, and smile. I'm a pro player! This world is made for me! And I will make the most of this new life, count on it!

"Well, any news?" Errol asks me with clear tension in his voice.

"There's no more Earth for us," I declare with a sigh. "This is where we live now."

The warrior blinks a few times, ostensibly trying to process the information, then covers his face with his hands, and hangs his head.

"So it's true..." he mutters quietly. "My parents... my sister..."

"They're alive and well," I grunt, clapping Errol on the shoulder to keep him from falling into complete despair. "In fact, they're now immortal!"

The kid flinches, tearing his palms from his face and giving me a look of hope and almost childish trust.

"You really think that..." he mumbles, then shakes his head vigorously and gestures at the coachman's back. "Are we them now? Aren't you freaked out that we're dead?"

"Are you daft?" I repeat Mike's remedial phrase. "I see you sitting across from me, talking, drinking whiskey. Pretty good whiskey, too! Can a dead man do all that?"

I shake the bottle that I'm still gripping, sniff and take three more big swigs. The burning liquid courses through my body like a heatwave. I grimace and hand the bottle back to Errol.

"Here, take a sip of your own medicine. It'll help clear the mind."

The kid clutches at the bottle as if it were a lifebelt, literally wrenching it from my hands, and pulls on the mouth greedily. He keeps drinking until the bottle's contents are no more, then puts the vessel away into his bag, wipes the tears from his eyes, and shakes his head yet again.

"Imagine not having to log into the game anymore. Or paying the monthly subscription fee." I add a few more arguments when an intelligent expression returns to his face. "Those are nifty benefits, aren't they? And you'll find your parents and sister after all the commotion is over. I assume you remember their game nicknames?"

"Are you serious? You're not at all concerned that we're not human anymore?!" he says, still blinking in bemusement. "We're drow, Kris! We will never be human again! The game doesn't allow characters to change races!"

"Not at all concerned. I chose this race precisely for the bonuses," I shrug, then give the dagger on my waist a tap. "And it must be a dream come true for die-hard fans like yourself."

"Well, sure, but..." surprised by my reaction, Errol appears to be recovering by the second. To the extent you can recover after downing a liter of whiskey, anyway. Then again, by Earth standards we didn't even drink half that between the two of us, and Czechs know how to hold their alcohol if their love of beer is any indication.

"No buts!" I chuckle. "If there's anyone who shouldn't be complaining, it's you. Upon acceptance in the militia, you'll become an official member of that House. Gluss and his ilk won't be calling you kinless anymore. By the way, decem is something like a captain, right?"

"Yes, and centum is a centurion. Though the Council's Guard and the Faceless are still above any House's militia on the social hierarchy..." Errol flashes an odd expression as he glances in the soldiers' direction. "You know, that Gluss... He's not like any other NPC. Does that mean that they're also..."

"Real drow?" I finish his thought. "It's possible. The patch notes mention something to that effect. If true, then all the players who haven't yet joined one of the ten Houses are going to struggle. You saw the treatment we got. But at least you won't have to worry about yourself for much longer."

"Women won't have to worry, either—each of them carries the mark of the goddess," Errol murmurs contemplatively, then produces another bottle. That's number three. "Guys, on the other hand..." He pulls on my sleeve and gestures in the direction of Zul-Gehit. "I can tell you where to start the quest chain to join Meddoran. I'd vouch for you myself, but a common militiaman is at the very bottom of the social order."

"Don't worry about it, I have no intention of playing that game." I grunt, shaking my head. "Besides, my girlfriend just became a lesser priestess at Lolth's temple. I need to have a chat with her first."

"For real?" the warrior asks skeptically. "Your girlfriend is a geissa? An Ilythiiri noblewoman?"

"Come again?" I pucker my brow with annoyance. "And in the common tongue this time."

"Ilythiiri is what the drow call themselves," Errol explains. "And a geissa is the equivalent of a human earl. A lesser title of nobility that comes with its own form of address."

"Oh, right," I nod. "Yep, that's why I want to talk to her. She was adopted by House Klahd, so I'm probably going to have to do their quests... If I feel like it. I don't know, I haven't decided yet."

"If the two of you are serious, you might not need to do any quests," the warrior chuckles and gives me a conspiratorial wink. "I'm not sure if the custom still applies, but used to be that a noblewoman needed only to publicly declare someone as her lover in order for him to be accepted into her House without question. I don't see why that should change with the patch."

I respond with a sigh and lower my head. Aye, I've heard similar things before. A lover... I can't say I love the way that comes across, but it wasn't me who came up with these customs. In a proper matriarchy such as this one, you probably can't have it any other way.

Chapter 14

The caravan pulls up to a fork in the road. The air is damp here, scented with mold and fungi, the wagons' wheels squelching through water. Suddenly the rothé ahead growl, Gluss barks a command, and the dry snaps of crossbows firing are drowned out by the roaring of some beast. The echo blasts the ears, but the roaring dies down in a matter of seconds. There's a splash, and the coachman of our wagon steers our oxen to the right, skirting around the black carcass of the slain animal. The whole affair is over in ten seconds. These guys work quick.

The mob is called a cave murh. At level 180 and 170,000 HP, it resembles an Earthen sloth. Three crossbow bolts was all it took, which makes sense. According to game mechanics, NPCs deal significantly more damage to mobs and other NPCs than to players. Otherwise, a scuffle between two bosses could last a month, if not a whole year. And I sincerely hope that these laws remain unchanged—if not, the ten thousand HP I'm presently sporting are going to make life pretty difficult. Of course, I haven't yet allocated my stats and talents, saving that for the comfort of my private room. As soon as I get to Thalim... Assuming the mechanics of a private room remain unchanged as well. At any rate, just as before, I'm going to focus on bolstering stealth and survivability; whatever I end up lacking in damage output will have to be offset by weapons and gear.

"I'm sorry," Errol sighs, misinterpreting my reflections. "A noble Ilythiiri cannot take a common man as her husband. But there's still time, and if you put your mind to it, I'm sure—"

"Enough about that," I cut him off. "I'll see to my own problems. Won't you tell me instead why you're headed to Rakh? Aren't there representatives of your future House in Zul-Gehit?"

I admit, all this talk does rub me the wrong way. I don't see myself as a chauvinist, but I'm still of the opinion that in a male-female tandem, the role of protector and provider still falls on the man. That's just the way I was brought up, for better or worse. So, as long as there's a path to nobility for me, I will get there. I don't know how, only that I will. Period.  Errol readily acquiesces to my proposal to change the subject. Taking a sip from the bottle, he winces and then explains.

"Common militia aren't stationed in Zul-Gehit, but only a century of Shadow Warriors and ten Silent Sisters. And they're as far from a regular soldier as we are from the Moon. I'm talking level 220 and above. But over in Rakh, Meddoran rules the roost. That's where even a militiaman can make hay."

"Rules the roost? What do you mean by that?"

"Exactly what I say," the kid shrugs his shoulders. "There are no other Houses there. Commoners are free and pay taxes to the Council, but it's the Elder House Meddoran that deals with governing and defenses. Drow houses don't get along very well without the Council's Guard watching over them, which explains why the devs put them in every city."

Errol looks at my dumbfounded face and chuckles.

"I guess you never studied the local world order?"

"I did until level 30 or so," I reply, a little embarrassed. "I've only gotten to Zul-Gehit. There, I ran into a guy selling portals to Vaedarr, and so..."

"Want me to tell you?"

"Hold on," I stop him. "First, let me tell you what I do know, and you'll fill in the rest. Sound good?"

"Sure," Errol nods.

I snatch the bottle from him, take a few swigs, then pull my dagger from its sheath and aim it at the floor, like a pointer.

"Louu lies at the center of Anthrum. Around the capital we have Kam-Arash, Tkhim and Zul-Gehit in a triangle formation. The cities closely resemble those on the surface. The Council is in charge, but every House is represented by a consulate." I draw an imaginary triangle with the point of my dagger, then trace along its edges. "The lands of the Houses lie beyond the Great Triangle. Ten territories with their own capitals, akin to human duchies. Good so far?"

The warrior shakes his head. "Not quite. Each of the three Triangle cities has about a dozen smaller ones surrounding it, much like Rakh. These smaller cities stand on land belonging to the Council, but in practice it's the Houses who run and defend them, and a portion of the taxes collected flows into their own coffers. For instance, the city of Thalim that you're headed to is ruled by the Lesser House Akkri."

"It's all so convoluted," I sheathe the dagger, take another sip and return the bottle to Errol. "I can't make heads or tails of it."

"It's all right, you'll get a hang of it eventually," he grunts. "In the cities controlled by the Council everyone is all smiles, but outside the walls of those cities, all bets are off. The Council looks the other way at these splashes of violence—until the carnage becomes too much and their patience ends. When that happens, the punishment is both swift and severe."

"Like in the books?" I look at him with irony. "As long as one noble remains, then—"

The warrior shakes his head. "No, the punishment is doled out regardless. The books are just tales for teenagers, but this here is almost like real li..." Errol stops short, lowers his head and sighs. "This is real life now."

Chapter 15

We chat a little longer, and when the amount of alcohol consumed finally surpasses any reasonable quota, we turn in for the night. Despite the wagon's wooden bench being anything but a featherbed, I drift to sleep almost instantly. I dream of Daria. In the dream, we're in the same cafe as on our last date. She sits across from me, but not looking into my eyes for some reason. Upon waking, the first thing I do is dial her number, but nobody picks up. Either she's in the game or she doesn't want to speak with a dead man. I suppose I'll know the answer soon enough.

Nothing on the outside has changed. The caravan is still moving eastward along a broad, dimly lit tunnel. The driver is still sitting in the coachbox, straight-backed and taciturn. The rothé puff loudly as the wheel axles screech and groan. The air is scented with dry hay and moss.

Errol is sleeping, and I'm not going to wake him, if only because I don't feel like talking. Gone is the buzz from the night before, and with it all the certainty and confidence in the future. I'm back to feeling the full weight of my predicament. It's one thing to play a hot shot in a drunken exchange with another hapless bastard like yourself; it's quite another to look at things soberly, realizing how little you actually matter in the world.

I sigh and lean back against the wooden board, then proceed to think. This New World... Something tells me that it won't be particularly generous with me. And even if we assume that no one is ever going to shut off this "circuit breaker," immortality is a double-edged sword. Game NPCs can now corpse camp[23], and with the introduction of pain, torture won't take long to follow. Now, the concept of torture isn't anything new, but previously the victim didn't feel pain and could log out at any time, then file a complaint with the admins. But who are you going to complain to now? Lolth herself?

Wait a second... I open the character menu and sigh with disappointment. My bind point in Vaedarr has changed to Zul-Gehit. It would have been neat to die here and respawn there. I'd feel much more comfortable in the human capital, and the loss of levels would be easy enough to make up—a couple of months, tops. With another sigh, I unfreeze experience gains. With no more arena, so I'll be needing to level again—while hiding my bind point from the other players.

What else? I look at the sleeping Errol and scratch my cheek contemplatively. What can I bring to bear on this hostile world? A set of entirely common uncommon class gear, two equally common uncommon class daggers, twelve gold, a few alchemical potions, and some food. Beyond that, the will and skills of a veteran player, which should count for something... Wait! Didn't I steal something just before getting ported?

I open the bag, find the slots with the stolen items, and grunt. A basic ring, a tattered book, a rectangular plate of some gray material, a dark rock fragment, and a small case made of what looked like bone. That's all I'm able to see for now. I could take them out for a closer look, but that's not recommended—all stolen items bear a special mark for ten days following the theft. I'll need to inspect all this later, in my private room.

I close the bag, my wandering gaze stopping on the coachman's back. Something about this story doesn't make sense. Typically, stealing from a high-level NPC merely "scrapes the surface," netting the most useless junk, empty vials and the like. But this haul appears to be different, which can only mean that the paladin either took these things from someone else or looted them off someone's corpse. They didn't belong to him, and so the System classified them as junk. Which means that it may actually contain something valuable. Well, that's one potentially good news in light of recent events.

My thoughts return to Daria. How serious did things get between us? How do I find her? Would she even want to continue our relationship now? I have a thousand other questions, and no answers to any of them. The logical route would be to get off in Rakh with Errol, wait for a caravan going the other way, and head to Louu by way of Zul-Gehit. Except this logical route is something only an idiot would opt for given the chaos that no doubt reigns in all the major cities. Half a million people play for the drow race, and a good chunk of those are probably in the capital now. And there's another element to consider: the local NPCs' reaction to the new arrivals. If they became more like proper drow by as little as one tenth, the players are in for a harsh reality. So, no, the plan stays the same. I get off in Thalim, get my bearings and the latest news, wait for things to settle, and only then set out for Louu. Once there, I find and speak with Daria. Until then, all major life decisions will have to wait.

In the meantime, the caravan pulls into a large open space, well illuminated by a myriad sparkling lights from the ceiling. The road is lined with rows of magic lanterns and strange coral-like vegetation, the city lights glittering about a mile ahead. The sight of it is so stunning that I stand transfixed, struggling to comprehend what I'm seeing. To think that all this beauty could be hiding underground...

Having awoken moments prior, Errol explains that the corals carpeting the ground are plantations of edible mushrooms cultivated by the local farmers, called qiloves. The devs must have consumed a very different kind of mushroom in conceiving all this, the kind I wouldn't mind trying myself, judging by the end result. The city looks like some kind of tropical paradise. Perhaps things can't be that bad, after all, if we can all find our place among this beauty? That's an odd reaction, I catch myself thinking. It's like the patch made me more of a proper drow as well. Of course, I was always a drow in appearance, but appearances, as everyone knows, can be deceiving.

As we approach the city, the tract grows busier. Whereas before we passed by trading caravans and squads of soldiers only occasionally, here there are loads of them. The city of Rakh looming ahead resembles a huge head of cheese, or maybe a multilevel habitation for mice. Picture a common stone perforated with holes on every side, then blown up to monstrous dimensions, and you'll have a pretty good idea of what I'm looking at.

If the four starting cities are virtually identical to those on the surface, a sight like this could cause serious distress to the uninitiated. Around the settlement I count more than fifty separate structures, each of which could rightly be deemed marvels of architecture back on Earth. The stone houses of varying shapes and sizes astound by the intricacies of their angles and curvatures. It's not for no reason that the drow are also known as stone elves. Besides the cunning and cruelty inherent to their character, these creatures possess a just-as-sophisticated sense of the sublime.

The caravan doesn't enter the city, but makes a pit stop at a "station" about a quarter-mile from Rakh's main entrance for a quick refueling of grains for the draft animals. Errol and I say our farewells and vow to find each other again someday, then he hops off the wagon and makes for his new post. As I watch the warrior go, I concede to myself that our vows are nothing more than empty promises. It's true that drow aren't a friendly people, regarding as enemies anyone not belonging to their House. Now, sure, they live in relative peace within the confines of the Triangle's cities, engage in trade, and even enter into military alliances on occasion, especially in the face of greater danger to the whole race. In many ways, Anthrum is radically different from the classic Underdark, but even if the two of us do meet again, we will likely be on opposite sides of the barricades.

Chapter 16

The caravan reaches its destination by ten in the evening. Though the notion of time loses much of its application underground, the locals still use it by design.

Strangely, I began feeling more confident after the warrior's departure. There's less doubts and hesitation. Might be because now I have no one to commiserate with, meaning fewer reasons to feel sorry for myself. Besides, I'm used to solitude, and feel no discomfort from lack of communication.

Thalim looks like a smaller copy of Rakh, standing in a huge cavern the walls of which I can't even make out from the road. All around are mining equipment and mushroom plantations. I count seven levels to the city, at least from the part that I can see, which stretches for about half a mile.

When the caravan stops at a granary not far from the city gates, I hop out of the wagon without waiting for special invitation, give a nod to Gluss, and start toward the city. The captain doesn't react to my gesture at all. Whatever, no skin off my back.

A small queue of wagons laden with crushed rock stand at the city entrance. I take my place behind the last one in the queue and try to glimpse something through the wide aperture of the gates.

What I see reminds me of both Ironforge and Orzammar. A vast main hall with countless chambers and passages on different levels connecting them. It's been thirty years, but the devs are still content not to fix what ain't broken, which means that both drow and dwarves still lead a lifestyle designed as far back as World of Warcraft and Dragon Age.

Holding back a smile, my eyes stop on a fifteen-foot black marble statue towering in front of the gates. A male drow with sharp features, clad in a mix of plate and chainmail, his left hand resting on the neck of a scowling panther as he considering dourly the sentients entering the city. The warrior's right hand is drawn back, clenching a double-edged sword.

The sculpture is a masterpiece, the mere sight of it infusing the air with tension. I almost expect the warrior to snap his hand off the animal's neck and rush into battle against his invisible opponent. No, this isn't Ironforge or Orzammar, after all—those cities never had anything remotely similar to this.

"Who are you and what is your purpose in Thalim?" the cool voice of a level 200 guard breaks my contemplation of the statue.

The way the bastard looks at me and the scorn in his tone portend nothing good. It is the tone of an irritable cop speaking to a vagrant. The vagrant may be a biped to the cop, but he's hardly human.

Crushing my rising rage, I raise my eyes to him and answer in a calm tone.

"Kris... My name is Kris. I'm visiting the city for a few days."

"Scum like you have no place in Thalim," the guard shakes his head with a contemptuous grin. "Mistress Felata won't stand for riffraff walking the streets of her city."

"I'm a free—" I begin to speak, but another soldier, this one sporting captain's stripes, moves over and interrupts me.

"You're free until you're not," he sizes me down with cool indifference. "Now scram!"

What the hell?! For a player not to be admitted into any city, the guards' reasons have to be ironclad. So why are they aggroing on me? Is it my class? Or that I don't belong to their House? But then, that's probably true for half the citizens. Could it be that... All Thalim citizens are still residents of the Triangle, which can be considered the Eleventh House. Whereas the rest of us—those who never bothered to make our residence here—the AI might have registered as drow in name only. To them, we're nobodies, and beyond that, few people find my particular class endearing. Being a thieving rogue is only fun in a game—in real life, it carries a stigma that's fraught with significant drawbacks. And though Persona can hide my game class, it won't add to my reputation.

I look at one guard, then at the other, committing their faces to memory, then chuckle and withdraw from the city gates. The two of them watch me with derisive scowls.

Bastards! My anger and hatred aren't easy to contain, but contain them I will. I will be patient, and when the right time comes, I will make all these douchebags eat their words. And the right time will come. I may not have many virtues, but patience is surely one.

Having walked about a hundred yards from the gates, I take a look around, check the map, and make for the old iron mine. The only thing I wanted in the city was to rent a room and thus secure an additional retreat route, but, alas, that's not going to happen. The main reason I'm here is to train herbalism, so I might as well get to it. Tourism will have to wait.

The mine is situated about a mile out of the city, with an inn standing nearby to service the miners. The map revealed the location the moment the caravan crossed the border of a cavern named Muntaah. Comprising several zones, the cavern's total area must be no less than ten-twelve square squares. I couldn't begin to guess whether such a thing would be possible in the real world, but that doesn't matter now.

The zone is called Thalim's Environs. At level 150, I shouldn't run into anything tougher than a few patrol squads. The plan remains the same: I'll allocate my talents and stats, get some sleep, and then decide on a course of action. I could finally complete the stolen journal quest, or maybe find the local criminal element and suss out the situation from them. I can't imagine there being no rogues anywhere in the city. And I have no hopes of learning anything from anyone else. The guards turn up their noses at me, and civilians are hardly likely to greet me with open arms. Disreputable members of drow society, on the other hand, shouldn't give a damn whether I'm a kinless nomad or an elvish prince in disguise on a secret mission to Thalim.

Chapter 17

The iron mine—a huge hole with serpentine staircases winding downslope—is smaller than the Vaedarr copper mine by an order of fifty, no less. There, the smallest pit is at least one-and-a-quarter miles in diameter, but here it's maybe three to four hundred yards. Shanama is the largest mining operation in all of Arkon—in this, humans have surpassed even the dwarves.

I think back to the seventy-five days spent toiling in Shanama, feeling almost nostalgic. The sentence is not small by the game's standards, even if "toiling" isn't really the right word for it. With my Mining skill stuck squarely at one, I may as well have been trying to milk a male goat. Though I dutifully picked at the rock for five hours a day as regimented, Vaedarr is unlikely to have profited from my efforts.

I walk over to the edge and peek into the hole. Finding nothing of interest, I head to a cluster of structures in the western section of the mine. The number of workers isn't high, maybe fifty people per shift. The ore is carted up and loaded into lorries, which are then pushed into a static portal hovering in the air. Which makes sense—you'd have to be a total moron to burn precious oxygen by smelting ore underground. But I'm not here for the ore. This particular mine can accommodate up to two hundred workers at a time. How many mines are there in total in Anthrum? How many fields and plantations? With a recent influx of half a million fresh recruits, I think I have an idea who's going to be working all these in short order. And nobody is going to bother asking the poor saps if they prefer picking mushrooms or swinging a pickaxe. The locals surpass the new arrivals in number, and especially in force. I just hope to avoid this lot when the shit starts hitting the fan, which, if my gut is right, shouldn't take long at all.

I walk past two elongated two-story barracks, make a right, and round a brick tower of unknown purpose. At last, there's the inn—a rectangular three-story building enclosed by a three-foot-high fence. Inside the courtyard stand a stone stables, a square-shaped well, and two stone sheds. Wood is quite the rare commodity underground.

The inn is called Eastern Path, its dented sign bearing a wagon pulled by a couple of rothé. The same kind of wagon stands in the courtyard as a young sullen drow unloads some sacks from it and lugs them into the shed. The kid's name is Alon. At level 160, clad in worn leather armor with a short blade at the waist, I'd take him for a common worker if not for the way he moves—a touch too smoothly and efficiently. On the whole, inns and mills in Arkon abound with lots of interesting characters—you can't swing a cat without hitting a crook of one stripe or another. So let's see which stripe this one is...

"Hey there, Alon!" I greet the kid. "Are there any vacancies at the inn?"

As I say this, I bend a finger on my right hand and press the remaining four to my forehead. Continuing the motion, I bring my hand down, push onto my eyelids, slide my index finger under my nose, then look the supposed laborer in the eye.

Sure, I could have simply displayed the relevant title over my head, but why risk flashing it needlessly? If the drow isn't who I suspect he is, a commotion would surely follow. Thieves and bandits don't wear any distinguishing colors or articles of clothing, but the language of gestures is spoken by all that are "in the know." If I'm wrong, he's just going to ignore the sign, but if I'm right...

My gut proves me right.

The initial frown on the kid's face at the sight of a fool inquiring about vacancies gives way to surprise as his brows arch upward. To his credit, his bemusement is quickly hidden once more behind the same mask of annoyance. Lowering his sack, Alon taps his right wrist with two left fingers, motions towards the inn, and explains.

"Slick Limus will find room for anyone, as long as their pockets ring with silver. Have we met?"

I shake my head. "No, but I expect that we'll meet again. I'm here for a week, and I'm going to need good advice from a well-informed man."

Calling him a "man" means nothing in particular, of course. Any drow prince, dwarf thane or elvish lord calls his subjects "people," reserving the term "humans" specifically for the representatives of the human race. Such are the challenges for a universal translator. Therefore, in here, we're all people to some extent. And then there's the additional subtext to the word "man" among thieves.

"If you've got silver to spare, I've got advice to share," Alon flashes a scowl, picking his sack back up.

"Good to know," I nod, then signal for him to wait, and make for the inn entrance.

It's not that I'm amused by these spy games, but whereas using them before was beneficial, today they are absolutely essential. I cannot trust any of the locals, so the only people I can talk to are guys like him. To be sure, he'll turn me in at the first opportunity if there's anything to be gained from it, meaning if I break the law. Only I don't plan on breaking any laws, at least not yet. In the long-term, who can say...

The door gives a nasty creek, granting me entrance to the dining hall. I take a look around.

Twenty tables of gray stone stand to the side of an L-shaped bar across the entrance, and next to it a large stone fireplace equipped with a magic smoke detector. Three small carcasses are roasting on spits, the smell intoxicating to an empty stomach. There are maybe thirty patrons in the hall, all of them male and wearing worker clothes, but the place is as quiet as a funeral. At this time of day, in any tavern in Vaedarr you'd be hard-pressed to hear yourself think, but these guys are dining and drinking and conversing in tones barely louder than a whisper. It fits the drow profile, though—these are not a raucous people. There's little to be gained by shouting in caverns. The acoustics are superb, and likely to attract all sorts of foulness.

Satisfied with what I see, I head over to the bar that's manned by the innkeeper himself—a tall middle-aged drow with closely-set eyes and an ugly scar running across his left cheek. Another one of ours, I would think. Wiping a tin can unhurriedly with elbows resting on the counter, he looks up at me with pointed indifference.

The innkeeper is named Ilymil, and he turns out to be a decent dude. Three gold gets me keys to a room, a roast cave rabbit, a loaf of bread and two bottles of the local moonshine, eighty-proof. The perfect medicine to my mood. Wasting no time, I ascend to the third floor, enter my private room, open the window, access the potential retreat routes, then take a quick shower and hit the sack. Making plans and picking a build for myself is better done on a clear head. So, as a wise woman once said, "Let me think on it and get back to you tomorrow."

Chapter 18

I wake up from a sharp sound. My hand jerks to my blade and whips it out of its sheath, but then I realize where I am. Damn! My military training persists, even after all these years. I recall my army days in the Caucasus, nerves stretched to the limit, every man on high alert, day and night... Those memories never fully fade—they seep into your bones and become a part of you.

Back then, my paranoia proved useful on numerous occasions. Let's see if it does the same now.

Rising from the bed, I look around the room to isolate the disturbance. One of the three photographs previously hanging on the wall now lies on the floor. Face down. I pick it up and hang it back, then stand there for a few moments, studying Daria's smiling face. How the hell is anyone going to explain this bit? A picture falling off the wall in a room completely isolated from the outside world. Precisely the photo of the two of us. And landing face down. Is it a sign? Or am I slowly going mad?

I should really stop believing in all this nonsense at my age. With a sigh, I walk to the window and peek out onto the inn's backyard. It is steeped in a kind of ringing silence, the kind that follows a nearby explosion. It would appear that the mine operates in two shifts, probably due to a dearth of workers. A dearth that will soon be filled, no doubt about it. I trace a hand along the cracks in the windowsill, turn and walk back to the desk. I won't close the window as that would cut off a possible path of retreat. Though nobody can enter my private room without my consent, anyone can set an ambush—either in the inn's hallway or outside the window. You can't see into the room from the outside, but any idiot will notice a window suddenly opening, and that'll be their cue to expect their mark shortly. In that case, not even stealth is guaranteed to help.

Wiping the dust off the table, I pass my hand before the desktop monitor and quickly scan the messages that pop up on the screen. The only two remaining features are Chronicles and character calculator. But that's all that I need, anyway. And now to decide which task to tackle first.

I walk over to the other table, turn on the coffee machine, then lean back against the wall with my arms crossed. Should I take inventory of my stuff or allocate talents? Talents should probably take precedence given the added complexity of recent developments. Gone is the arena and my streaming channel. And, most importantly, I have no idea where to source decent equipment. Mike is going to keep his word, of that I have no doubt, but how am I supposed to get to Vaedarr to get the dagger from him? The borders are cordoned off by demon and undead armies, and portals aren't functioning.

There are only ten known exit points to the surface: one on each of the ten Houses' territories. Blocking those would require a helluva lot of resources, but the crazed AI has resources to spare. He can print more of those same demons by the millions at will. What was his purpose in blocking off the borders? I have no idea. All I know is that he did.

What else? The Dark Passages probably have secret exit points as well, "secret" being the operative word. Secret to everyone—at least to plebs like me—but not to the AI. I can always try sneaking through using stealth, but I highly doubt it would work. Why bother blocking anything off if you're going to leave that as a viable alternative?

I'm not going anywhere without Daria, anyway. I've got to find her first, and together we'll decide what to do.

My eyes linger on the photograph for a moment. Then I pick up the freshly brewed cup of coffee and walk back to the computer. Back to work now. Talents and stats before anything else.

I settle into the armchair, open the stats page, disable all equipment bonuses, and scratch my cheek thoughtfully.

Agility: increases the attack rating of your character's weapon, the chance to hit critically with a melee attack, reduces damage from falling, and boosts movement speed. 50 Agility = 1% to movement speed.

Strength: increases armor class. Strength also determines the weight your character can carry.

Constitution: determines the amount of damage your character can sustain before dying. 1 Constitution = 10 hit points.

Vigor: the player's reserve of energy, which is consumed by any physical action (attack, block, parry, acceleration). 1 Vigor = 10 energy.

Spirit: hastens the regeneration of Vigor, hit points and mana.

Intellect: boosts the power of magic attacks, the chance to hit critically with a spell, and your character's mana pool. 1 Intellect = 10 mana.

Your character's base stats:

Agility: 1.

Strength: 1.

Constitution: 1.

Vigor: 1.

Spirit: 1.

Intellect: 1.

You have 1,004 stat points to allocate.

If not for my gear, I wouldn't have looked a hair different from a hare in some noob zone in the first moments after the patch. Ten HP... Hilarious. When creating a character everyone gets twenty stat points to start with, and hardly anyone puts even one point into Constitution. On the other hand, getting over a thousand stat points to play with is pretty cool. And the math checks out.

Starting from level two, I got five points per level, out of which two points were automatically distributed into Agility and Constitution as part of my class bonus. I had no control over the matter. But with the AI resetting all stats, I can reallocate them however I want. I could even throw the entire thousand into Spirit if I so desire. Good thing I'm neither crazy nor an idiot.

So, where do we begin... I take a sip of coffee, put the cup back on the desk, and proceed to study the numbers skeptically. Hold on just a minute! I'm currently sporting 9,560 HP with my gear. I've survived the day, I'll survive another half an hour. Talents should be dealt with before stats. I take another sip and open the talent tree, then fall back into the chair, bemused.

Earned achievements:

Master Assassin

Any damage dealt from stealth is multiplied by twenty percent with an additional ten percent to hit critically.

Master of Dirty Fighting

All damage dealt from behind the opponent is increased by twenty percent.

Master of Poison

The damage, potency and duration of special effects from poisons applied to your daggers are increased by one hundred percent.

The damage, potency and duration of special effects from poisons applied to your target are increased by one hundred percent.

Hot damn! Weren't specializations reset as well? Then how is this possible?

Oh, of course! I am an idiot! The patch did mention that all achievements were preserved. And that means... That means I can select either Combat or Stealth and continue using poisons! But that's... that's cheating!

I roll away from the desk, massage my face with my hands, and take a few deep breaths. Don't be hasty, Oleg! Cool your jets! You'll never forgive yourself if you screw this up... So, what have we got? Three specializations: Combat, Assassination, Stealth. Leading to three distinct builds: cutthroat, assassin, master of stealth.

A Cutthroat fights with swords, boasts the highest damage, the worst stealth, and the fewest amount of control abilities. This is the preferred build of farmers and dungeon raiders. Playing a Cutthroat is simplest of all—just park yourself at the boss' rear end and go to town while the monster's attention is focused solely on the tank. And when grinding, even the parking bit isn't necessary—just keep slicing and dicing as you move from one pack of mobs to another. A boring, dreary existence.

An Assassin is far more interesting. They have better control, lower damage, average stealth and some access to poisons. Open up behind an opponent, explode with maximum damage, apply a poison, then fade back to invis. Slip out again, finish the target off, loot, and on to the next victim. There are complications to the above formula, to be sure, but I rarely struggled to take down opponents in my level range. And I never attacked weak opponents to begin with—I would never have built a following on my streaming channel otherwise. Anyway, that's all in the past.

The last specialization is Stealth. A stealth-focused rogue has the lowest damage and only slightly more control than an Assassin. In terms of stealth, however, he leaves the other two builds far, far behind. You can Fade to Dark twice while in combat, with a cooldown of only ten seconds! That's a big boost to survival and an additional chance to open up on an enemy. A master of stealth is twice harder to detect than my previous build, and his movement speed while invisible is superior. Yet, due to the low damage, the specialization is chosen solely by thieves and burglars.

So, where does that leave me?

I reach for the coffee, take another sip, and turn back to the screen. Where does that leave me... Combat or Stealth? Only one thing is clear: I cannot remain an Assassin given these developments. A new specialization is non-negotiable. So, do I take monstrous damage or excellent survivability with my existing damage? Logic dictates that I opt for Stealth in this hostile new world, but could I be missing something?

I move closer to the desk and zoom out on the screen, wanting to see the talent tree in its entirety. Then I freeze still, befuddled by what I see.

Chapter 19

At first glance, Arkon's talent tree looks like a chaotic interweaving of lines connecting little boxes and circles. The boxes indicate passive and active talents while the circles represent connecting ones. The design makes it impossible to simply click on any talent and learn it. In addition to level restrictions, most talents only become unlocked after you've connected them to your existing ones. There are some, however, that aren't connected to any others—you need only reach a certain level to learn them. Case in point, Portals can be learned by any build at level 100 with an investment of ten talent points. That's preposterously expensive, but a must-have talent just the same.

The talent tree hasn't been changed from the day the game went live... Up until this last patch. It wasn't a huge change, and yet... Rising out of the Invisibility icon—the base talent of all rogues—are two long branches, each ending with two darkened, sharp-edged boxes.

Both icons are accessible, but getting to them means spending ninety talent points. That's ninety out of one hundred ninety available points wasted on connecting talents! Keeping in mind that I'll need to throw ten into Invisibility. What in the world could that box conceal? A "Kill All" button? A nuclear bomb?!

I zoom in on the image, focusing my eyes, and experience another wave of shock.

Cloak of Shadows I

Passive skill.

When you hide in the shadows, a translucent shield engulfs you, consuming a part of your body heat. The intensity of smells exuded by your body and equipment is reduced by 1%. The effect stacks with your Invisibility coefficient.

Attention! You can still be detected by certain non-player characters and creatures with a higher Shadow Vision coefficient.

Shadow Vision I

Passive skill.

Life underground has changed the denizens of Anthrum. As a representative of the noble drow race, you are able to see body heat exuded by non-player characters, players and creatures if their body temperature differs from that of their environment.

Attention! Non-player characters, players and creatures detected with Shadow Vision I remain invisible to everyone else.

You can choose to see all the heat around you at will. The ability is activated by a mental command.

Well, shit! I put my palms over my face and massage my temples with force. What is this, a new dimension to virtual games? Did Sage load up on the genre's classic works and decide to turn us all into real drow, Pinocchio style? It's not that the ability is illogical in and of itself, but does it mean that every subterranean toad now comes equipped with its own Shadow Vision? That would make basic invisibility unbolstered by Cloak of Shadows about as useful as wings on a pig.

Speaking of, why is it "Shadow Vision" when it's heat that you see with it? Oh, whatever. The important part is that it requires ninety freaking talent points! Does that mean that all sub-100 level rogues are sitting ducks by default?

Let's back up. Detection doesn't break the target's invis, which means bonuses to attack from stealth remain. That's a small mercy, but then you can still be attacked! Where's the bloody balance?! Well, at least I have the advantage of using poisons while being specced in something completely different. I sigh, take another sip from the cup—the coffee is still hot—and look back at the screen.

It would appear that those with Shadow Vision I cannot detect those with Cloak of Shadows I. Still, ninety freaking talent points! Plus ten into Stealth and five each into these two. This is highway robbery! And I know highway robbery!

I scan both chains, then grunt. The connecting talents would add a total of five percent to movement speed while invisible, two percent to running speed and field of vision. Craptastic stuff, but I have no choice. I need this talent inasmuch as I need oxygen. Stealth is my only chance at survival. If the patch notes are to be believed, you only lose levels and stats when dying. Skills and talents remain. And if they end up being useless, I'll just reset them. Luckily, the premium add-on I purchased the day before the patch is still with me. So there's always plan B.

I hesitate for a few seconds, then give a resigned wave of the hand, select Stealth as my specialization, and dump one hundred ten talent points into the branch. There! Too late for regrets!

Putting points into Cloak of Shadows sent shivers down my spine, but the effect lasted only a few seconds.

Invisibility X

Instant cast.

Minimum level: 150.

Cooldown: 1 second.

You fade into the shadows, gaining the ability to move and stalk your targets while remaining invisible.

Lasts until canceled.

While under the effect of Invisibility X, your movement speed is equal to standard. The intensity of smells exuded by your body and equipment is reduced by 90%. Creatures and non-player characters capable of seeing through shadows can detect you only if their level is equal to or higher than yours. Creatures and non-player characters incapable of seeing through shadows are guaranteed to detect you if they are 40 or more levels higher than you.

Attention! The following restrictions apply when allocating points for each specialization:

Combat—5 points maximum.

Assassination—7 points maximum.

Stealth—10 points maximum.

Cloak of Shadows V

Passive skill.

When you hide in the shadows, a translucent shield engulfs you, consuming a part of your body heat. The intensity of smells exuded by your body and equipment is reduced by 5%. The effect stacks with your Invisibility coefficient.

Attention! You can still be detected by certain non-player characters and creatures with a higher Shadow Vision coefficient.

Shadow Vision V

Passive skill.

Life underground has changed the denizens of Anthrum. As a representative of the noble drow race, you are able to see body heat exuded by non-player characters, players and creatures if their body temperature differs from that of their environment.

Chapter 20

Attention! Non-player characters, players and creatures detected with Shadow Vision V remain invisible to everyone else.

You can choose to see all the heat around you at will. The ability is activated by a mental command.

I look away from the monitor and around the room. Everything appears to be the same, no noticeable changes. Interesting...

Wait. Why would there be changes if I'm the only one in the room? The ability won't work on me now, will it?

I give the mental command to activate the new menu button and give a delighted whistle. All at once, everything in sight changes color, and the room turns into a Jackson Pollock painting. The contours of objects become hazy. Yellow blotches pop off the computer's beige screen, a pinkish cloud wisps out of a bright-red cup on the desk, and even the darkness outside the window is replaced by a dull glow. What a trip!

I shut off the ability and shake my head. This new ability is a curious blend of a thermovisor and the delirious ravings of an asylum patient. Is it truly how the classic drow saw their world? It would appear so... And I used to tell Daria what hogwash it all was. That if you see heat, you see it always and everywhere. Anyhow, no point worrying about that now—I've got bigger fish to fry.

I look back to the screen and zoom in again. Ladies and gentleman, welcome aboard our newest aircraft. On the upper deck you will find a restaurant, a casino and an Olympic-sized pool. On the middle deck, three bars, a pool hall and a bowling alley. And on the lower deck, a state-of-the-art gym and a meditation zone. Now please buckle your seat belts as we attempt to take off with all this crap on board...

Could I make a proper build for a level 199 rogue with just eighty talent points? It'll be a challenge, that's for sure. At least I'm starting off with good stealth, now if I could also learn to kill... Well, let's see what can be done, shall we?

I take a sip of coffee, activate my equipment, scan the talent branches, and smile. Things aren't as bad as they appeared at first glance, though I can forget about Portals, Riding and Chain Connection—the latter in particular saved my butt on more occasions than I can count. My modes of transport are going to be limited to caravans given that I'm lacking a mount and probably won't be able to buy one in the foreseeable future. Losing Chain does hurt, but it can't be helped. I just hope to scrape up enough points for some decent combos and a finishing move.

The rogue talent tree is designed to allow any attacking skill to be raised to tier ten by level 200. Fifteen talent points are required for a tier ten combo: five points through level 100, five connecting, and five more through level 200. A finishing move costs twenty points. Taking into account that I'm going to need to spend a minimum of twenty-five points on Fade to Dark, Kick, Roll, Diversion and Sap, that leaves me just fifty-five points to play with. Awesome!

I get up from the desk, clasp my hands behind my back, and start pacing around the room. I know that tree by heart anyway, and it's easier to think on the go. So, what is the best we can do with what we have? Any build is founded on specialization and individual style of play. In only the rarest instances it is built around certain ultra-powerful items, but I don't have any of those, so let's try and think logically.

The combat strategy of any Stealth rogue hinges on being able to Fade to Dark twice during a fight. The scheme works as follows: attack from invisibility, amass combo points, execute a finishing move, Fade to Dark, attack again. In other words, open up on an enemy with maximum damage, fall back to safety by becoming invisible, then repeat for another round. The tactic isn't foolproof against players and certain NPCs, but works like clockwork on virtually all mobs.

The whole concept of combo points was developed at the start of the century by the devs of another landmark game. It makes sense, then, that Arkon's devs pretty much copied the system whole. Only one significant change was made: in Arkon, a Stealth rogue comes out of combat one second after Fading to Dark (unless nursing a debuff). The rogue's target, whether a player or a mob, comes out of combat after four seconds, and must be attacked again lest they begin regenerating HP. Herein lies the main difference between Stealth and the other two specializations.

Most talents across specializations are named the same way, but differ in their essence. Up until now, a Stealth rogue could not apply a bleed or poison effect to their target... But now I can! That means my target won't come out of combat and begin regenerating health for ten whole seconds! Some people might mistake that for a trifle, but in truth, it's a staggering boon! While the poison DoT ticks away on the target, the abilities controlling my combo attacks will reset, and I'll be able to use them again! The big downside is that my primary attack skills will deal half the damage in Stealth versus Assassination, but that's balance for you. Besides, I have an interesting idea to help with that... Let's just hope I'll have enough points to implement it.

I return to the screen, turn the monitor towards me, focus my eyes on the small violet box, and smile.

Groundwork I

30 energy points.

Instant cast.

Minimum level: 10.

Required: rogue, stealth.

Cooldown: 30 seconds.

You execute a special move that turns your opponent in a way that makes them most vulnerable, and your next attack has a ten percent chance of dealing critical damage.

The devs gave this talent to Stealth rogues only in an effort to compensate for their meager damage output. So, ten talent points would ensure that once every thirty seconds I am guaranteed to land a crit, and I can time that crit as I like. Each crit carries a multiplier of three to base damage, which also applies to ticking poisons. In theory, that should be sufficient to take down any mob or NPC in my level range. With the help of poison, even that bastard captain should be well within my capacity in a one-on-one fight. Kinless, eh? We'll see who gets the last laugh...

I chuckle and rub my hands together. I have forty-five points left to work with to amass four combos and one finishing move. I'll only max out the finishing move—the rest will have to suffice with tier five. It's not the damage that I need from them, but the combo points.

I sit back down, take another sip of coffee, return the screen to its previous position, and immerse into calculations.

Damage output is calculated according to an elementary formula. Take the base weapon damage, add the passive damage buff like my twenty percent to attacks from behind, factor in the percentage from the active skill used, and finally, apply the bonus from the primary stat at one percent for every five stat points.

The talent calculator instantly displays all the figures, allowing me to complete all my calculations in little more than three minutes.

Diversion

250 energy points.

Instant cast.

Minimum level: 90.

Cooldown: 30 seconds.

Effective range: 20 yards.

You indicate a point upon which a phantom totem is placed. The totem begins to make noises that distract all nearby monsters for two seconds.

Can be used while invisible.

Kick V

250 energy points.

Instant cast.

Minimum level: 90.

Required: melee range.

Cooldown: 20 seconds.

Interrupts the target's casting and prevents them from casting any spells for the next 5 seconds.

Sap V

100 energy points.

Instant cast.

Minimum level: 80.

Required: melee range.

Required: weapon equipped in the right hand.

Required: invisibility.

Paralyzes an out-of-combat target for 30 seconds. Works only on humanoids, beasts, demons. The paralysis is canceled if the target sustains damage. 1 target at the current skill level.

Fade to Dark II

No energy required.

Instant cast.

Minimum level: 150.

Required: rogue, stealth.

Cooldown: 3 minutes.

You fade into the shadows, disappearing from view and removing all movement-impairing effects. Can be used twice while in combat, at any time intervals. All damage sustained and negative effects do not cancel the state of invisibility for the first three seconds following the skill's activation. You come out of combat 1 second after disappearing as long as you carry no negative effects.

Roll

100 energy points.

Duration: 1.5 seconds.

Minimum level: 30.

Distance: 3 yards.

You roll to a specified point, ending up on your feet. Any damage sustained while rolling is reduced by 20%.

Stab V

250 energy points.

Instant cast.

Minimum level: 90.

Required: rogue, stealth.

Required: melee range.

Required: daggers.

Cooldown: 5 seconds.

You sink your dagger into your opponent, dealing 150% weapon damage. The attack ignores 50% armor and adds 1 combo point.

Slash V

250 energy points.

Instant cast.

Minimum level: 90.

Required: rogue, stealth.

Required: melee range.

Required: daggers.

Cooldown: 5 seconds.

You attack an immobilized target, dealing 200% weapon damage. Your next attack deals double damage (does not stack with finishing moves). Adds 2 combo points.

Cheap Shot V

500 energy points.

Instant cast.

Minimum level: 90.

Required: rogue, stealth.

Required: melee range.

Required: daggers.

Cooldown: 10 seconds.

Paralyzes the target for 2.5 seconds. Your next attack consumes half the required energy. Adds 2 combo points.

Kidney Shot V

500 energy points.

Instant cast.

Minimum level: 90.

Required: rogue, stealth.

Required: melee range.

Required: daggers.

Cooldown: 10 seconds.

Stuns the target for 2.5 seconds and gives your next attack an increased 5% to hit critically. Adds 2 combo points.

Rupture X

800 energy points / 1-5 combo points.

Instant cast.

Minimum level: 190.

Required: rogue, stealth.

Required: melee range.

Required: daggers.

Cooldown: instant.

A finishing move that infuses your weapon with a dark energy to completely ignore your target's physical resistances. The damage dealt is determined by the amount of combo points amassed.

1 combo point—150% weapon damage.

2 combo points—250% weapon damage.

3 combo points—350% weapon damage.

4 combo points—450% weapon damage.

5 combo point—550% weapon damage.

Groundwork X

300 energy points.

Instant cast.

Minimum level: 190.

Required: rogue, stealth.

Cooldown: 30 seconds.

You execute a special move that turns your opponent in a way that makes them most vulnerable, and your next attack deals critical damage.

And that does it! I scan the screen one last time, then open the character menu and distribute all the points as planned. Now let's hope I didn't miss anything, though with my saved Master of Poison achievements, even this should be more than enough. It's too bad my Master Assassin title is meaningless as I have no intention of dishing out damage from invisibility. I simply don't have the talents for it. My battle plan is going to be simple: open up with Kidney Shot, hit the stunned target with a Slash, followed by Stab, Groundwork, and finally Rupture. Then Fade to Dark and open up again with Cheap Shot, followed by the same rotation sans Groundwork that's going to be on cooldown.

What's special about poison is that it inflicts maximum damage. I apply a poison DoT initially to the enemy with a Slash, then reapply it with every subsequent attack. The debuff's ten-second timer will activate on the target, but after Rupture crits it's going to reset and reactivate with three times more damage. And that one will continue to tick until it runs its course, irrespective of any additional attacks, whether normal or critical.

Of course, poison can easily be dispelled, and even a total noob can be expected to carry an antidote on their person, which costs peanuts. Faced against a player, I shouldn't expect more than roughly thirty percent damage to come through, but PvP is the furthest thing from my mind. I fully expect the majority of drow players to be herded into mines and onto plantations in short order, and engaging in such dubious pleasures is precisely the thing I aim to avoid.

In the end, I have five points remaining with which to select either a fifth-tier Shadowstep or Increased Critical Damage. Mobility or damage? In my situation, mobility is paramount, but raising crit would seriously boost my damage output. Oh, whatever... I wave a hand in resignation and throw the leftover points into Shadowstep.

Shadowstep V

250 energy points / 1-5 combo points.

Instant cast.

Effective range: 30 yards.

Minimum level: 90.

Cooldown: 30 seconds.

You step through shadows and emerge behind your target, dealing 150% weapon damage. Any available combo points are fully consumed, multiplying your damage as follows:

1 combo point—160% weapon damage.

2 combo points—170% weapon damage.

3 combo points—180% weapon damage.

4 combo points—190% weapon damage.

5 combo point—200% weapon damage.

Now that's everything! I finish my coffee, pull the dagger out of its sheath, and heft it.

Mercenary's Kris

Dagger; one-handed.

Durability: 430/500.

Uncommon.

Minimum level: 150.

Damage: 200-240.

+75 to Agility,

+75 to Vigor,

+1% to critical hit chance with a physical attack.

Weight: 1.3 lbs.

Chapter 21

I have two of these, and they're identical. The damage from the offhand dagger stacks, but is only half that of the main hand. My gear is an uncommon quality set of eight pieces for level 150, four rings, a charm, and an earring. Together with the daggers, the gear adds the following stat bonuses:

+995 to Agility,

+955 to Constitution,

+474 to Vigor,

+75 to Strength.

Plus three percent to crit from the daggers and charm, two percent to damage from the racial bonus—this is the reason I'm sitting here now, actually—plus fifty to all natural resistances as the set bonus for wearing all eight pieces.

This set was chosen by me specifically for leveling. Each piece of equipment, all three rings and the charm also have bonuses to resistances. Darkness and Water are maxed out, as with all drow. My weak points are Light, Air and Mental resistances. Thankfully, elemental mages aren't common among the locals, and Light mages are entirely absent, so I should be fine on those fronts. That leaves Mental magic as my most glaring weakness. The local priestesses are most proficient in that school, after Dark Magic, and one ring isn't going to offer sufficient protection. But it is what it is. Once I get to Louu, I'll drop by the auction house to try and get my hands on a few more. Until then, I'll have to try to avoid getting on some priestesses' bad side.

With Mike's dagger, my damage from poison would be double what it is now. Alas, that dagger is far from reach now, so the poison will hit for five hundred damage a tick if the target's Nature resistance is maxed. Without resistance, that's two thousand damage per tick. Most players max out virtually all resistances by level 150, but the locals aren't players, and their situation with resistances isn't as good. When Rupture crits, the poison will also begin dealing critical damage, meaning ten ticks at six thousand damage a tick at zero Nature resistance... How much HP did those assholes at the gates have? A little over one hundred thousand each? I look forward to our next encounter, gentlemen. With a satisfied grunt, I switch to viewing the damage stats.

Stab V—1,373.3-1,647.99 physical damage,

1,642.6-1,971.1 physical damage when attacking from behind [Master of Dirty Fighting].

Slash V—1,831.1-2,197.3 physical damage,

2,190.1-2,628.2 physical damage when attacking from behind [Master of Dirty Fighting].

Shadow step V—1,373.3-1,647.99 physical damage,

1,642.6-1,971.1 physical damage when attacking from behind [Master of Dirty Fighting].

Rupture X—5,035.5-6,042.6 physical damage,

6,022.9-7,227.5 physical damage when attacking from behind [Master of Dirty Fighting].

Wait, why so low? The calculator showed higher... I look back to the screen and give a sigh of relief. I haven't distributed the stats yet!

I open the stat window and scan the numbers... then shake my head. No, not today—my brain is already deep-fried from all the math. Had I remained an Assassin, there wouldn't be any issues as all the numbers were ran and finalized long ago—I'd only need to balance out Spirit and Vigor lest I start running out of energy like a total noob. I don't have any Spirit bonuses from my gear, but I cannot avoid having to raise regeneration at least a bit. Energy is restored at a clip of five percent per second by default, but, unfortunately, that's not enough. By slipping into invis I'll be leaving combat and activating additional Spirit-based regeneration. Which means additional calculations are required—after a short break.

I sigh, take out one of the bottles purchased from the innkeeper, and study it contemplatively. Might this help? After a minute's hesitation, I decide against drinking it, after all. Any error in the calculations could be fraught with catastrophic consequences, so I would do well to avoid any booze. In that case, let's do inventory instead. It's been a long while since I took stock of my private chest's contents, and then there are the strange drops from the dead paladin. Though I think I'll leave his stuff for desert—my gut is telling me it's going to be a fun discovery. With those thoughts, I set the bottle aside, get up and walk over to the chest.

The whole concept of a private vault is pretty cool. You can stuff it with all sorts of interesting junk, as long as you're not plagued with my militant perfectionism.

I never was a fan of hoarding. All the things I found that had any value I instantly put up for auction, and trashed everything else. Unfortunately, the trading platforms of humans and drow aren't linked, so I can forget about the items left in the Vaedarr auction house. Not that much remained in there, but I certainly wouldn't refuse any extra coin in my situation.

Anyway, no use crying over spilled milk. I open the chest, glance through its contents, and smile. Things aren't as bad as they may seem, after all, with thirty greater potions of energy and healing, three greater Elixirs of Possibilities, several dozen types of food, and another dozen different reagents for brewing poison. All the stuff that remained after the crew of professional farmers Mike had hired power-leveled me to level 199.

Additionally, the chest contains a portable alchemical bench and a large cut sapphire—my most prized trophy in all my four years in the game. I looted the stone two months ago off the body of an NPC priest near old Khano's windmill, about two miles west of Vaedarr. How the corpse ended up there or why it wasn't looted already, I will never know—but then I never really tried to get to the bottom of it. I was going to trade the gem for an emerald that was a base ingredient to craft a ring I wanted, but that was around the time Mike found me, and I never quite got around to it. And that's probably for the best, as I should be able get a decent return for the gemstone.

The closest auction house is in Zul-Gehit, though I've no idea if it's even operational. Nor do I know how prices will react to this post-patch world. In the worst case, any NPC merchant should be willing to buy the gem for about thirty gold. Transferring the sapphire into my bag, I shut the lid.

What sucks is that I only have one vial of decent poison left, and only two bottles of Shroud. And if I only need to buy one additional reagent to brew more Shroud, the situation with poison is much worse. This is precisely why I need brown moss, which I will hopefully procure—with surplus—as early as today.   With all that out of the way, it's time for desert—Gods know I've been more than patient given how long it's been since I lifted this stuff from that dumbass paladin. Then again, much has happened since then that was arguably even more deserving of my attention. Like the death of my actual, physical body.

Chasing away the somber thought, I sit back at the desk, take out the book stolen from the paladin, focus my eyes on it... And exhale in astonishment.

Grimoire of Power

Epic, expendable.

Class: necromancer, death knight.

Allows you to learn one or two unique epic skills from the Dark Magic and Necromancy talent trees.

Disappears after use.

Required: level 200, humanoid, rank 3 of Necromancy or Knight-Lieutenant of the Dead Army.

Created by Great Master of Dark Magic and Necromancy and the last Kuhn King, Arog li Dahg.

Chapter 22

Holy crap! I put the book back on the desk gingerly, then close my eyes and open them again. Nope, it's still there. I don't understand... This book is worth much more than its weight in gold. It's worth an apartment in downtown Moscow and a sports car, at the very least! So why was that paly NPC doing with it?

An ominous skull wearing a strange crown looks back at me from the tattered, discolored cover. The crown has three sharp vertical spikes and two more curving out to each side, horn-like.

I study the cover some more. Deep in the corners glimmer venom-green runes, linked together along the edges by a barely visible ligature.

Still feeling dazed, I open the book, leaf through the first dozen or so pages, and sigh with disappointment. The book might as well be written in Ancient Greek. The images are clear enough, but the text, alas, is pure gibberish.

Tomes like this are incredibly rare, whether dropped by mobs or received as a reward for completing particularly difficult quests. Almost any unique skill is just about the coolest freaking thing imaginable, but an epic unique skill is infinitely cooler. So how do you appraise an item that grants not one but two?!

I can think of only two such books in the entire history of the game. One was looted off Xahrien's corpse by the Azure Dragons; the other was a world drop off a random mob that went to a Swede who sold it on a closed auction that started with a bid of one hundred thousand US dollars in gold.

And now I have one by what I can only assume is a stroke of truly divine luck. This book... this book will be my ticket to the surface. When things settle down, I'll get out to Vaedarr and sell it to the highest bidder, which will likely be the very same Azure Dragons.

I draw a deep sigh and press the book to my chest with a blissful smile. Yes! This book is worth as much as a scalable epic! Maybe I could even buy nobility with it—then nobody will dare to look at me and Daria sideways. How many years have I been playing these games? And here it is, at last! Jackpot!

I sit there another five minutes, nestling the grimoire like the treasure that it is. Finally, I get up from the chair and put it away into the chest. I can't be carrying such things on my person—I shouldn't even mention it in front of anyone, not even Daria. Man, how I'd love a drink to celebrate!

I shoot a languishing gaze at the bottle hoisted on the desk, sigh, take the empty cup and revisit the coffee machine. A little more patience. Once the quest is completed, there'll be plenty of opportunity to get properly hammered! I mean, to properly celebrate.

I wink to Daria's visage smiling down on me from the wall, shake my head vigorously, and try to think logically. Not that I'm complaining, but where did a paladin dubbed the Punishing Hand of Myrt get a book such as this? Was the lightning bolt that struck him special in some way? Could he have swapped allegiances and decided to become a death knight?

The truth is probably much simpler. The Collegium of the Untainted, of which he was a member, are part of the Order of Impending Dawn. And those folks have a very particular attitude towards anyone associated with the dark arts. "Kill on sight," essentially. The likely scenario is that Tukkard was part of a crew that snuffed out some necromancer, then collected the loot as evidence—for analysis or perhaps some other purpose. The System logically assumed the items to be foreign objects and assigned them the lowest priority, and then the combination of the lightning and yours truly deprived the Untainted of their rightful bounty. If I'm right, that means the other items may end up being just as valuable! I just need a refill of coffee before getting back to it. I'm going to be checking everything in strict order: the stone, the case, the tablet, and the ring.  This is the stuff gamer's dreams are made of. Even if the rest of the stuff is junk, the anticipation itself is oh so sweet. Especially when you know that the first prize is already safe in your possession.

When the machine beeps, I refill my cup and return to the desk. I put the cup in the corner, next to the bottle, produce the black cobblestone from inventory, and focus my eyes.

Fragment of Gull's Statue

Bound item.

Well, that ain't much. The item looks almost like a large piece of coal, shaped like an elongated dog's head. Nothing else about it is in any way extraordinary. And it's unclear what anyone would want with a fragment of some statue.

The Chronicles have no mention of any "Gull," though I check the names of all one hundred twenty-eight sculptures listed there. The material is most likely obsidian, seeing as nobody would make a statue out of coal. The fragment must be special somehow, but that is pure conjecture at this point. Sure, I can always just ask the Untainted, but they're not super likely to indulge my curiosity. Anyway, I'll think of something eventually, only it won't be here and now.

I put the stone away, take a sip of coffee, fish out the case and whirl it around in my hand.

Nothing special on the face of it—just a small cubic container made from bone discolored with age and a plain silver clasp. Necromancers use these to store soulstones.

The lid opens without difficulty, and I produce from it a round white stone.

Orghen's Eye

Bound item.

To use:

Place on a level X Altar of Darkness.

And that's it. No quests, no additional info or explanations. Is level ten high or low for an altar? Who is this Orghen character? And what will happen when I place his eye on the altar?

I sigh, put the stone away, and dive into the Chronicles. It takes less than ten minutes to find the right information, but the news isn't good. In the game, Altars of Darkness are known as altars of gods regarded as "dark" for whatever reason. And the highest-level altar is located nearby—at Lolth's temple in Louu. Except it's "only" a level eight. In which case I can't begin to imagine where to look for its level ten cousin!

It gets even more interesting from there. According to the Chronicles, Orghen is one of three Guardians of the Gray Frontier, and said guardians' power can rival that of the gods themselves. Orghen, Uroh and Laherton stand watch in the Great Black Citadel of Kin Marad, guarding the exit from the Gray Frontier into the other planes of existence. And that's it—no more information is available.

Has to be rough standing watch with only one eye...

I snicker, take another sip of coffee, and give the stone another scrutinizing look. Little about this makes sense. Thinking logically, a level ten altar would have to be situated either inside or near this Great Black Citadel. So, all I have to do is drop by the Gray Frontier, find the Citadel, and ask one of the locals to take me to the altar. And then this Orghen fella will turn up and feed me chocolate candy as a reward. Yeah, right...

I do wonder whom the Untainted could have dropped in Vaedarr to reap all this... But I don't suppose I'm going to find out anytime soon.

Putting the stone back into the case, I place it next to the statue fragment, and take out the tablet next.

Key to Crete's Jail

Bound item.

Another mystery. The object looks like anything but a key. Then again, who knows what kind of cells there are in their monastic jail. The more interesting question is the identity of this "Crete" creature. The book's owner, perhaps?

The tablet's surface, discolored with age, bears three strange symbols. The left is similar to the infinity symbol, but the other two evoke no particular associations. The tablet itself is made from a very heavy material, its dimensions roughly four inches long and two inches wide, and only about one-eighth of an inch thick. The backside is completely bare. A mystery indeed.

I twirl the tablet in my hands and wipe non-existing dust with my palm. Suddenly, the runes blaze with an acrid orange glow.

You've accessed the quest: Liberated Death.

Quest type: hidden, chain.

Use the Crafted Key to enter the Cursed Crypt of Nihd Gaal and liberate Crete, the Sundered God of Death.

Reward: experience, unknown.

Attention! If the quest is completed, your reputation with all the races that populate Karn (except the transformed), as well as with most social groups, will drop to hatred.

You've accessed the quest: Liberated Death I.

Quest type: hidden, chain.

Find Urgam an Ga'ar, leader of a coven of the Disavowed in Vaedarr, and learn the location of Nihd Gaal ruins.

Reward: experience, unknown.

Chapter 23

If this is a genie, I want to put it back in the damned bottle.

I sit there for a while, slack-jawed and afraid to move, reading and rereading the system message. A hidden quest to liberate a god... BUT HOW?!

I reach out, pick up the bottle, snap open the lid, and take several big swigs. Screw the stats, they can wait until I'm sober. For now, my only priority is staying sane!

The alcohol coursed through my digestive tract, soothing as always. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I return the bottle to the desk, then take a deep breath. Hidden quests are an unbelievably rare occurrence in the game. They are also virtually impossible to complete, but if you do manage to complete one, the reward is similarly out of this world, putting the nobility I planned to purchase with the grimoire to shame.

As I recover, I reread the lines of the quest yet again. Suddenly, a feeling of dread comes over me. It seems so simple at a glance. Find the door and use the key to open it. Of course, reality will be much, much different. But even if I succeed, I'm going to set myself against the whole world. Who is this Crete, anyway, and why is he sundered? Who sundered him and threw him in his jail? As far as I know, Arkon's Goddess of Death is Celphata, unless something has changed. Or is he some other kind of death? Celphata is revered virtually everywhere, but liberating this dude will cause everybody to hate me. Does he devour babies by the thousands or something? Anything is possible, I suppose. At least now it's a bit more clear where all this stuff came from. The creature these items were looted from is somehow connected to the coven leader of Arkon's most macabre cult. The Disavowed worship Vill, the God of Torment and Torturous Death, harnessing power by tormenting their victims.

Wait, so Vill is also a god of death? Ugh! There are more gods in this game than stray dogs. And I suppose this one is a buddy of Vill's or something...

With a sigh, I reach for the bottle and take another few swigs.

This quest stinks to high heavens, but I'm not going to refuse it just yet. First, I'm going to try and at least learn more about it, and then decide. After all, if you liberate a god from imprisonment, he's bound to find ways to show his gratitude. And the gratitude of a god can go a long way in this world.

So, what's the upshot? The god is locked up in some jail somewhere in the Nihd Gaal ruins, the location of which is known by a Disavowed named Urgam. There is no mention of a god named Crete in the Chronicles, and there's no point searching for Nihd Gaal—otherwise I wouldn't have the quest to seek out and question the coven leader. The mainland is enormous, it would take years to find all the ruins on it, and the locals are loathe to share information. But I don't have to worry about that for now, anyway—not when I still don't have a clue how to get to the mainland in the first place. Well, I'm not in any hurry, at least. In fact, I've got all the time in the world.

I put the stone and the tablet away into the chest, then return to the desk. There's one more item to check out: the ring.

A classic gold wedding band. This luxurious accessory will underscore the wearer's femininity and aristocratic style. Throughout the ages, this ornament symbolized a true and lasting love...

I shake my head to chase away unwanted memories. As soon as you start drinking alone, all the skeletons come out. In my case, that ring came flying out the window the moment I found out it wouldn't be necessary. Maybe for those who did find a true and lasting love, it could be that symbol...

With a bitter chuckle, I take out the stolen ornament, and exhale with shock.

A signet ring. And a very unusual one, with a wide frame of light metal and a large spider inlay, the insect stretching its legs out in all directions. By design, the spider should literally "sit" on the finger, covering it fully with its phalanx. The craftsmanship is incredibly delicate—you can even see the hair on the spider's legs. Small forebody, slightly distended abdomen, chelicerae curving downward... This is no simple ring, even if you can't distinguish it from a common gadget when looking at it in the inventory.

Almost quivering with anticipation, I focus my eyes on the signet ring, and give a puzzled grunt. And for good reason—the ring has absolutely no stats. None at all. And the item's name is simply "ring."

Weird, I don't feel drunk. Sure, there's a pleasant buzzing in my head, but that can't explain such hallucinations. But... but this is impossible! Any piece of jewelry must have some identifying features. Even blanks come with descriptions of what can be crafted from them, including the future item's level. Another head-scratcher... Maybe the Chronicles have something on it?

I pull up to the desk, switch tabs, and get to reading.

Meanwhile, dawn begins to break. Barrack doors slam open, rothé bellow their morning song as scraps of phrases come in from the street and the magic drifter reverberates dully from the direction of the mine. The buzz in my head is slightly distracting. I find myself having to reread chunks of text a few times, and fighting off a torrent of somber thoughts besides.

If I pause and truly consider my situation, it's tough to find joy in it. These caves are my home now. Nobody asked me if I wanted to live as a drow here—or die as a human there. I never asked to die in the first place! Yet, this is my life now, and it's forever. The only way to destroy one's race is to delete the whole character.

I pause my reading, fall back in the chair, and massage my face with my hands. What's going to happen to my apartment? My stuff? My fish?! I can only hope that whoever comes to bury me is going to find a new home for them.

I allow myself a few more seconds of wallowing before cutting the pity party short and returning to the text. All this navel-gazing is pointless, if only because I can never truly fathom my own death. And therein lies in the absurdity of the situation. Death is a familiar creature to any gamer, having arisen by a bindstone countless times in the past. But how do you truly believe in death when you're sitting here, drunk as a skunk, staring at a computer screen? As for being a drow, so freaking what? What's so different about that? Ears, skin, eyes and hair—that's it. My cock is exactly where it needs to be, that's all that really matters. Besides, Daria is drow as well, and she's the only other creature I care about in this world. And before I grouse about rotten luck, what about the treasure trove of stuff I lucked into? Nothing in my past life even begins to compare. The only true downside so far is being treated like a second-rate citizen by the locals. But poor reputation can be remedied given enough time and dedication.

Finding nothing useful in the Chronicles, I shrug, roll back in the armchair, throw my feet up on the desk, and gaze at the ring in my hand thoughtfully. What the hell are you? Arkon is free of bugs. At least it used to be. I suppose a bug could have been introduced with the patch. But if it's not that, then what is it? Some kind of key? Something connected to the tablet? Or a token to present to the guards at Nihd Gaal? My very bones scream that something about this ring just ain't right.

I empty the inventory slot, slip the ring onto my finger, and twirl my hand, studying the ornament from every angle. Nothing happens, and just as I'm about to give up, the signet ring suddenly turns a deep black, setting off a nightmarish animation. The spider's legs shudder and part, then sink into my finger with a soft squishing as the system chat explodes.

Darkness' Embrace hits you for 3.98% of your HP.

You suffer an additional 398 damage from True Darkness!

A sharp pain shoots through my finger and up my arm. What in the bloody hell?!

Darkness' Embrace hits you for 3.98% of your HP.

You suffer an additional 398 damage from True Darkness.

The spider's forebody and abdomen stretch, then retract into the rim as the signet ring morphs into a glove shrouded in black smoke.

Darkness' Embrace hits you for 3.98% of your HP.

You suffer an additional 398 damage from True Darkness.

Your Toughness skill has increased to 1%.

The inventory slot that held the ring is inactive. Damn it! I try to force the ring off my finger, but it's no use. The metal might as well be part of my flesh.

Darkness' Embrace hits you for 3.98% of your HP.

You suffer an additional 398 damage from True Darkness.

The pain intensifies. My hand feels like it's being pulled by red-hot tongs, the grip strengthening with each passing second. The heat becomes unbearable, making breathing difficult. A crimson-red flame clouds my vision.

Darkness' Embrace hits you for 3.98% of your HP.

You suffer an additional 398 damage from True Darkness.

Your Toughness skill has increased to 2%.

With a monstrous act of will, I quash the panic, break an HP vial on my belt, and focus my eyes on the ring.

True Darkness' Embrace [CURSED]

Accessory; ring.

Bound item.

Indestructible. Cannot be unequipped.

Artifact, scalable.

No minimum level.

Grants -3.98% of total HP every second.

Grants an additional -3.98% of total HP every second in combat.

-398 to damage (True Darkness)...

……………………………………………………..

……………………………………………………...

Darkness' Embrace hits you for 3.98% of your HP.

You suffer 398 damage!

Greater Potion of Healing restores 1,000 of your HP.

Bloody artifact! How?! Why?! I can't remove it!

Exacerbated by monstrous pain, the panic washes over me whole for a moment. The fog doesn't disappear, and though the potion is restoring one thousand HP per tick over ten seconds, the ring is draining HP at almost the same speed. My health bar is increasing ever so barely...

Darkness' Embrace hits you for 3.98% of your HP.

You suffer an additional 398 damage from True Darkness.

Greater Potion of Healing restores 1,000 of your HP.

Your Toughness skill has increased to 3%.

Four seconds left until the potion runs out. I'm going to die, and then I'm going to keep dying—unless I figure out how to survive this!

Three...

Darkness' Embrace hits you for 3.98% of your HP.

You suffer an additional 398 damage from True Darkness.

Greater Potion of Healing restores 1,000 of your HP.

What?! What the hell am I supposed to do?!

Two...

Darkness' Embrace hits you for 3.98% of your HP.

You suffer an additional 398 damage from True Darkness.

Greater Potion of Healing restores 1,000 of your HP.

I don't want this!!!

One...

Darkness' Embrace hits you for 3.98% of your HP.

You suffer an additional 398 damage from True Darkness.

Greater Potion of Healing restores 1,000 of your HP.

Fine! Have it your way, you bastards! I scramble to open the stat window and pour all my remaining points into Spirit.

Darkness' Embrace hits you for 3.98% of your HP.

You suffer an additional 398 damage from True Darkness.

My consciousness fades to black.

Chapter 24

When I open my eyes, I find myself lying on the floor of my private room. The bed, the desk, the computer, Daria smiling down on me from the wall... It worked! My HP is back to full, though I feel as if my body has been fed through a meat grinder. Gritting my teeth to keep from screaming, I get up to my feet, lower myself carefully onto the chair, then gulp down the still-warm coffee, and drop my head onto my hands. I don't want to think about what I just did. What good would it do? One thousand Spirit on a level 199 rogue... Minus another four percent regen in combat and almost four hundred damage per second. The curse won't even let me remain invisible for longer than a tick. I'm stuck with hopelessly broken gimp of a character. What am I going to do now? Raise cabbage or take up fishing? Redistributing stats is pointless since I cannot remove the ring, anyway. Nor can a character be recreated. I couldn't chop my own hand off even if I wanted to.

Anyway, what's up with that signet ring? I wasn't able to get a good look before, what with the insane pain and bloody fog, but that's gone now. The damned thing is still devouring my HP, but the health bar doesn't even twitch anymore thanks to that massive dump of points into Spirit. Now my regeneration is a whopping ten percent from that stat alone.

I look up and focus my eyes on the ugly ring. What I see plunges me even further into despair.

True Darkness' Embrace [CURSED]

Accessory; ring.

Bound item.

Indestructible. Cannot be unequipped.

Artifact, scalable.

No minimum level.

Grants -3.98% of total HP every second.

Grants an additional -3.98% of total HP every second in combat.

-398 to damage (True Darkness)

-19.9% to physical damage

-19.9% to magic damage

-19.9% to damage-over-time

-19.9% to armor class

-9% to maximum resistances

Obliteration.

Crafted by Arkam, Herald of Darkness.

Bloody hell! The hit to resistances doesn't matter as I don't have any pluses to maximum resistances, anyway.[24] I can stomach the hit to armor class, too. But to damage?! That's a crazy twenty percent reduction to physical damage and poisons, as poison falls into the damage-over-time category. What the hell were the devs smoking when they came up with this shit? If only I could meet any of you assholes now, I'd make sure to give you proper "feedback." Great job picking up that precious artifact, Oleg. Hope you don't choke on it as your Toughness skills keeps leveling into infinity! Three percent and counting...

"Bastards!" I spit through clenched teeth, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath to try and calm down. This keeps getting more and more unbelievable. I know of only two artifacts in the game, and neither of them can be used as equipment. I guess I got lucky to find one that can! Super freaking lucky. As my grandpa used to say, "Don't stick your nose where a dog won't stick its ass." If only I followed his advice, I wouldn't be stuck with this shit ring on my finger.

Anyway, I can bitch and moan till the cows come home, but what am I going to do? How do I survive without invisibility?

Wait! I didn't lose invisibility! I can still leave combat one second after Fading to Dark, which will then activate Spirit-based regeneration. And I'll have three seconds in invis before the damage yanks me out of it. The bloody ring will only damage me for the first second, and from there I'm going to start regenerating HP!

To say that the realization brings relief is to say nothing at all. I still have a chance! A shit chance, sure, but still! I'm going to climb out of this hole, just watch me! And then I'm going to find Arkam, the creator of this gods-forsaken ring, and make him choke on it!

But no point fussing over that bastard now. There was something else to the ring... I focus my eyes again, then reach for the screen and quickly find the relevant information.

Obliteration... Yep, this is it.

I scratch my cheek thoughtfully, falling back in the armchair, and stare at the ceiling absently, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

Half a year ago, a very interesting transaction took place in a game-adjacent space. Ksenjhuan, the leader of the Azure Dragons clan, paid twenty million US dollars for information on the location of Volaak's Cave. The clan's raiding party took down the orc from the third attempt, recovering a rather remarkable charm—a cracked figurine of a woman. The scalable "Petrified Mermaid" was subsequently appraised at twenty-seven million. The reason I bring it up is that Obliteration was the main catalyst behind the astronomical appraisal. When queried, the devs refused to share any information, suggesting that the Dragons experiment with the item themselves to figure it out. And so they did. The upshot is that this ring allows me to finish off any opponent at or below my level once their HP falls below ten percent. One level higher and the chance drops by thirty percent. Two levels—another thirty, but from the previous coefficient. In other words, a level 201 mob would translate to a forty-nine percent chance of instant death. And it doesn't matter who my opponent is: a mob, an NPC, a player or a raid boss. The skill doesn't make exceptions. Neither does it change as the wearer grows in level—something that the Dragons were very keen to confirm. It's too bad about the chance dropping off so precipitously, to the tune of only three percent at a difference of ten levels, and a microscopic one-tenth of a percent at a difference of twenty levels. Still, a player equipped with this kind of device will never want for employment. If not for all the shit that sandwiched this godsend, I might just die from happiness here and now.

If only... Even now, I can't imagine anyone willing to equip this ring if they had all the information beforehand. Only necromancers and death knights can regen HP in combat. It's a feature of the class—some of the spells work off of the caster's own life force. But even those spells have limits, and as good as Obliteration is, it's not worth all the negatives. Then again, there are plenty of masochists in the game, and one of them is sitting in this very room.

Anyway, no use lamenting now. With a sigh, I close the character menu and scan my updated stats.

Kris (Venom), level 199

Rogue [Stealth]

Race—drow

Master Assassin

Master of Poison

Master of Dirty Fighting

Agility: 996.

12.98% chance to hit critically with physical attacks: 5% base, 4.98% Agility bonus, 3% equipment bonus.

199.2% boost to physical damage.

99.6% damage reduction from falling.

Strength: 76.

0.76% boost to armor.

1,335 lbs carrying capacity: 335 Strength bonus, 1,000 from special rogue bag.

Constitution: 956.

9,560 hit points.

Vigor: 475.

4,750 energy points.

Spirit: 1,005.

15.05% mana and energy regeneration in combat: 5% base + 10.05% Spirit bonus.

15.05% mana and energy regeneration out of combat: 5% base + 10.05% Spirit bonus.

10.05% HP regeneration out of combat: 0% base + 10.05% Spirit bonus.

Intellect: 1.

5.005% chance to hit critically with spells: 5% base + .6% Intellect bonus.

0.02% to spell power.

10 mana points.

Armor: [1,543] Cursed [base 1,927]

(40.87% physical damage absorption).

Abilities and Skills [Action Bar]

Invisibility X

Diversion

Kick V

Sap V

Fade to Dark II

Roll V

Stab V

Slash V

Cheap Shot V

Kidney Shot V

Groundwork X

Rupture X

Passive Skills and Achievements:

Cloak of Shadows V

Shadow Vision V

+20% to damage dealt from behind [Master of Dirty Fighting]

+20% to damage dealt from invisibility [Master Assassin]

+10% to chance to hit critically from invisibility [Master Assassin]

+100% to potency and duration of applied poisons [Master of Poison]

+11% to field of vision while invisible

+28% to movement speed while invisible

+7% to running speed

+2% to damage with daggers

Toughness: 3%

Magic Resistances:

Water magic: 75%

Air magic: 50%

Earth magic: 65%

Fire magic: 65%

Mental magic: 10%

Dark magic: 75%

Nature magic: 65%

Light magic: 10%

Professions and Relevant Skills:

Herbalism: 203 [Hears Herbs]

Alchemy: 212 [En Route to Mastery]

Healer I [novice]

Elixirs I [novice]

Extracts I [novice]

Potions I [novice]

Poisons III [expert]

Traps II [apprentice]

Bombs I [novice]

Perception II [experimenter]

Burglary 152 [apprentice]

Reputation with other races:

Humans—neutral

Elves—unfriendly

Dark elves—unfriendly

Orcs—neutral

Dwarves—hostile

Orcs—neutral

Dwarves—hostile

Weapon damage:

240.30-288.36  Cursed [base 300-360]

Stab V:1,100.0-1,320.05 physical damage,

1,315.7-1,578.9 physical damage when attacking from behind [Master of Dirty Fighting].

Slash V:1,466.7-1,760.0 physical damage,

1,754.3-2,105.2 physical damage when attacking from behind [Master of Dirty Fighting].

Shadowstep V:1,100.0-1,320.05 physical damage,

1,315.7-1,578.9 physical damage when attacking from behind [Master of Dirty Fighting].

Rupture X:4,033.5-4,840.1 physical damage,

4,824.3-5,789.2 physical damage when attacking from behind [Master of Dirty Fighting].

You can't argue with math. The base damage took a dump, and all the other figures followed. Poison is going to tick for twenty percent less, too. Some of this stuff is reparable. At level 200 I can put one talent point into Ambidextrous, eliminating the damage penalty to my offhand dagger. That alone should boost my damage output by a third. And poisons remain an effective tool even now, provided I can acquire brown moss without too much difficulty. I assume that the recipe is sold by the same craftsman. If I manage to get a hold of the recipe, I'm golden. With my alchemy skills, I should be able to brew a level 200 epic poison, to say nothing of rare ones. So, here's to hoping.

I open the quest and check the description.

The Lost Journal

Quest type: rare.

Find Alahun the Alchemist [Anthrum, Thalim, Northern Environs of the Cursed Lake Ul-Illindyt] and return his journal to him.

Reward: experience, information about the location of a rare herb: brown moss. (Poison [Daggers] 4: Blind 2; Unknown; Unknown)

Information about the location of a rare reagent isn't cheap, as long as it doesn't grow in some dungeon. With my debuffs, I'm unlikely to clear even a level 100 dungeon. My own level situation is much simpler. I'm only a sliver of XP away from 200, so I'm virtually guaranteed to ding when handing in the quest.

All right, it's time. I've dallied here long enough. Once the quest is completed, I'll think about my next steps. Play it by ear, as they say.

I close the quest log, get up from the desk... and freeze still. What's this now?

The rhomboid icon of the quest log is lit up with the number 2! Am I going mad or are game quests appearing on their own now, without my having to accept them? Curious...

I reopen the quest log, and indeed, it contains a new quest that has appeared out of nowhere.

Karruhel's Cursed Soul

Quest type: epic, chain.

Question Tukkard, the Commander of the Order of Impending Dawn, about the ring, True Darkness' Embrace.

Reward: experience, unknown.

OK, seriously? An epic quest?! And all I have to do is go and ask the guy? I don't even want to think about where this quest came from, but it appears to be the only way out of the hole my curiosity put me in. Maybe the curse on the ring could be lifted as a result?

All right, whatever, I'm not going to keep sitting here for hours, wondering about these quests. The lake is over two miles on foot—I'll have plenty of time to think on the way.

I shut down the computer, walk over to the window, pop invis, and carefully hop out into the inn's backyard. A standard precaution. I don't need to hand in my key until checkout, and there's no benefit in disclosing my location at any given point.

Third floor isn't high up even for a warrior wearing plate. After a soft landing, I fix the clinked dagger on my waist, jump the enclosure, and start in the direction of the mine, without dropping invis.

Chapter 25

Nothing has changed in the cavern overnight. A few people are conversing at the barracks entrance, and a string of wagons is lined up on the approach to the city. Workers are rolling their vehicles out onto the serpentine unhurriedly, the noise fully drowned out by the monotonous din of a working drifter. A hole is a hole is a hole is a hole. Any backwater farm is going to have more people working it than the amount of people working this Thalim mine.

Passing by the workers' settlement, I turn to cross onto a bypass road when I notice a small troop of soldiers. Seven warriors and a young priestess with the haughty expression of a crown princess, all wrapped up in an ornamental mantle. They stand there over a bloodied carcass of some beast, ranging from levels 180 to 200, the warriors bearing the black-and-yellow emblem of House Akkri. The priestess' mantle is a tad crumpled, her hand holding a short staff with a spherical tip. The group is about a hundred feet away, past the far barrack, at the edge of the mushroom plantation that stretches from the village and toward the city.

At any other time, I would have simply passed by this crew without thinking twice, but today is not that day. After losing a hundred talent points for essentially nothing, can you blame me for wanting to test out a new toy? It would be pretty silly not to. Now, sure, nobody likes being sneaked up on, but it shouldn't result in violence. If they do detect me, I'll just play stupid or concoct some story about a quest to join the local Boy Scouts.

I make my way over to the soldiers. The drifter is so freaking loud that I could be stomping in plate boots, and they still won't hear me. But will they see me? That is the question. Thinking logically, every drow comes with Shadow Vision. But I know nothing about the way it works, and the only way to find out is through experience.

Because of the noise, I only begin to make out the words spoken by the drow from about thirty feet away, but their meaning escapes me initially due to the sheer visceral disgust at the sight and the stench of the animal carcass decomposing on the ground. The stink of rats is compounded by that of rotting meat and some kind of revolting acidic "flavor." The slain animal, called "Gray Koug," resembles a short-haired bear, except with a rat's head. At level 180, the Koug had only one hundred eighty thousand HP in life, so it's not clear at all why it became prey for such a large hunting party. The fallen beast lies there, face down in the ground, its side gaping with four gruesome wounds. The head and a portion of the shoulder are rotted through, now a foul bluish goo—this is probably where the priestess' spell struck the beast.

It makes for a truly nasty sight.

I'm far from squeamish, and over the years I've seen plenty of corpses of varying degrees of freshness. But that was all back there, in the real world. As opposed to Arkon, which has always been a game to me, never evoking sensations like this, fake blood and graphic displays of violence notwithstanding. No matter how realistic it got, it was always perceived like a personalized movie... But not anymore.

Six of the soldiers stand in a semicircle by the edge of the field, and the other one slightly ahead, conversing with the priestess with a guilty look on his face. Trying to breathe through my mouth only, I stop about twelve feet behind her as the meaning of their words finally begin to sink in.

"...with a courier who reported that his people saw an ereth in the fourth field, so we thought you'd want to know. No one could have guessed it was a common koug..." The soldier sighs guiltily, then looks askance at the slain animal. "Mistress Felata's orders are always to notify if an ereth, uh..." he mumbles some more, falters and looks to the ground.

Not an uncommon occurrence. A patrol erroneously summons heavy artillery to put down a field rabbit. I hold back a smile and shift to the left, putting myself fully in the soldiers' field of vision. But it's already obvious that my Cloak is working—none of them so much as suspect my presence.

"I have little patience for the frights of a village elder, decem," the priestess scolds the guard. "As punishment for wasting our time, tomorrow you and your squad will serve in the sixth sect..."

The young woman doesn't finish, turning sharply as her gaze glances off me. Her hand with the staff shoots forward, hurling a dark net that swishes through the air and breaks against the wall of the nearest building.

Well done, girlfriend, but I would be one incompetent rogue if I allowed a mage NPC to catch me with such a primitive trick.

The soldiers whip out their swords as the captain jumps forward, shielding the sorceress from the potential danger, but I am nowhere near where he's looking at this point. A forward Roll and I'm far enough away from the sorceress, then a sidestep to get behind the soldiers, and I'm backing away slowly towards the mine.

Meanwhile, the priestess lights up the entire square around her, turning this way and that, then orders everyone to stand down. She glances my way once more, but doesn't see anything suspicious anymore. And I am now the richer for having learned something. Namely, that priestesses possess Shadow Vision, and this one probably has hers at level five, just like me. Going by how quickly she commanded a stand down, she must have written me off as a figment of her imagination. The conclusion is simple: the soldiers are cannon fodder. Even if they have Shadow Vision, they won't detect me for shit. Mages, on the other hand—and especially priestesses—should always be approached from behind, and never within fifteen feet from the front.

With a nod to my thoughts, I turn onto the main road, aiming to skirt around the mine. It's time to be done with this quest.

Chapter 26

Northern Environs of the Cursed Lake Ul-Illindyt. Ke'et Cavern. Zone level: 170-190.

In terms of size, this cavern is smaller than the one housing Thalim. The ceiling is lower, the ground isn't as even, and the walls glitter with specks of mica amid the chaotically patterned colonies of glowing moss.

According to the newly revealed map, the zone is shaped like a bottom-heavy vessel, roughly two miles long and three-quarters wide at the base.

A small settlement of five stone buildings where the alchemist lives stands in a deep niche in the rock, in the right section of where the bottom would be, roughly three hundred yards from the zone entrance.

It took me a few hours to get here. Seeing as I've yet to learn to walk through rock, a distance of two-and-a-quarter miles on the map turned into five miles of actual roundabout walking.

The cavern is relatively quiet. The noise of the drifter working the mine can't be heard at all. Due to my moving into another zone, perhaps? I haven't noticed such things before.

The settlement nestled here is nameless. Five single-story buildings behind low enclosures, a heap of rock debris, and a rough statue of some unknown dude. More than anything the settlement resembles the one on Tatooine, where the Jedi picked up Anakin Skywalker in Episode IV.

Slipping out of invis, I round a sharp road stone, then start toward the houses along a narrow footpath marked by a gray dotted line. It's not that drow want for color, but out of safety considerations the local roads are delineated either as broad stripes or nondescript dotted lines such as this one. All the settlements in Anthrum are safeguarded with traps against mobs and potentially scarier creatures, and landing in one buys you an express ticket to your bindstone. Detecting these traps is easy enough for me in a zone in this level range, but mobs tend to pay little attention to such markings, and if a war were to break out with the neighbors, all the lines would be erased in short order.

The settlement is mostly empty. I see five men in work clothes loading rock fragments into wagons and carting them away, another fellow in strange headgear of black leather wiping the statue, and one more mixing some obscure substance into a cauldron.

As I draw to within one hundred yards, a stench of burned rubber becomes apparent, increasing with each step and soon becoming unbearable. The stink is coming from the cauldron, but I've got little choice in the matter as the translucent exclamation mark is clearly displayed over the head of the worker operating it. Given the recent changes to the game, it would be foolish to neglect any XP opportunities. At least until I can find a decent place to grind.

I find it kind of funny that the artists designing these fantasy races never bother differentiating the individuals' social status in any apparent way. You can always tell an Erantian peasant from, say, a count, by their manners, even if you dress the former up in authentic noble garb. But that trick won't work with the drow. Here, you can't swing a cat without hitting some asshole with a snooty mug, so the only way to tell who's who is by their attire and weaponry. Of course, there are always the legends above the NPCs' heads, but that requires focusing your eyes.

The quest-giver Argyl looks to be just as haughty of an asshole as the decem from the caravan. In other words, my gut instinct to sock him right in the mouth rivals in strength to the nausea from the aromas permeating this place, as the reek of rubber is augmented by about a dozen other, equally revolting odors, the closer I get.

"Good day, sir!" I greet him, stopping about ten feet away from the cauldron while trying to breathe with only my mouth. "I was just passing by and wondered if you could use some help."

This is your standard intro phrase when engaging with a quest-giving NPC. If you don't mention assistance from the start, you're liable to be stuck there for half an hour, listening to his entire origin story. This way you get straight to the point, without wasting time. Gods know I've lost enough time already.

As I approached, Argyl's expression was that of appraising nonchalance, without interrupting the business of mixing the filth in the cauldron. But his countenance softens a bit at the word "sir." He holds still his ladle for a moment and gives a subtle nod.

"Good day, kinless! It just so happens that I could use your help."

He bends down, picks up a sharp-edged stone with his free hand, and displays it.

"See this? Bring me ten Mist Crystals, just like this one, and you'll be rewarded with some food. I'll even share with you the recipe for steamed meat."

You've accessed the quest: Mist Crystals for Argyl.

Quest type: normal.

Bring Argyl the laborer ten large Mist Crystals.

Reward: experience, a portion of Gray Koug Ragout. Cooking recipe: Gray Koug Ragout. (+50 Constitution for 2 hours) [Cooking Skill—100]; increased reputation with the Lesser House Akkri.

Attention! The time for completing this quest is limited. If you don't complete the conditions within 5 hours, you will have failed the quest.

Nothing in terms of financial compensation, eh? I read the quest description, grunt to myself, and answer aloud.

"I'll be glad to help you if you can point me to where I can find these crystals."

Argyl wavers momentarily when he hears my question, then drops the stone and points east.

"There's plenty of them over at Uroh's Passage that leads to the Cursed Lake. The mist receded two dyns ago, so it's safe now. The crystals can be found right there on the ground, and the gray kougs that populate the area won't be any trouble for someone like you."

What's that about a lake? And the mist? I've already met one of those rats—or what remained of it, anyway—but the rest of these mysteries are better off being clarified right away. I trust this fella only about as far as I can throw him. This isn't a noob location where safety is guaranteed and you needn't worry about ambushes or similar trickery. And I don't like the way he tensed up when giving me the quest.  Still, any quest-giving NPC must answer any clarifying questions according to the game rules, self-aware or not. For as long as the governing AI hasn't pulled the question marks and exclamation points above their heads, I have to assume those rules still apply. I accept the quest, then inquire.

"Why is the lake cursed? And what is the nature of this mist?"

The drow hesitates before he answers. "According to priestesses of the Darkfaced One, a heathen temple once stood deep in the bowels of the rock. The gods have departed, but the mist remained. It is deadly for everyone, and the crystals are its spawn. Once a month the mist recedes for exactly two dyns, partially clearing the passageway. So if you value your life, steer clear of the Pall. That's all I know, kinless. Now go, I must focus on the mixture."

With a nod, Argyl signals an end to the conversation, grabs the ladle with both hands, and resumes his work.

Realizing that there's nothing else to be learned, I turn and make for the house with a signpost depicting a flask. Any further questions are useless, anyway. When an NPC finishes a conversation, they've got nothing else to say—barring a bump in your reputation, at least. But he did share some useful info, anyway.

The mist and these supposed "Departed"... I've thoroughly learned drow history, and there was nothing there about any Departed Gods. But the NPC had no cause to lie, so these must be the new gods the patch notes spoke of. The language used does suggest arriving more than departing, but I suppose that in order to arrive somewhere, you must depart somewhere first. Not that it makes any difference to me. Messing with some newly animated god without a Logout button is something only a complete cretin would attempt, and I don't consider myself such. I wouldn't even want to meet Bel if given the chance. He may be regarded as the patron of all rogues, but in truth he's the god of thieves and deceit, whereas I've got a long list of confirmed kills to boot. And though all this stuff is—or at least was—make-belief, I can't be confident that I didn't somehow violate his system of values. In short, I'd sooner avoid drawing attention of any departed, arriving or loitering gods. I have troubles enough with the bloody ring on my finger.

The house I need is shaped like a dome and bears a comic resemblance to an igloo. The door is unlocked when I press on it. The interior is an odd mix of a trading post and an alchemical lab. I also find myself thinking that I might just fail to resist the temptation of murdering somebody sometime soon. Alive or not, when every other creature you meet stares at you with a kind of squeamish scorn, as if you're some kind of pest—and that's with neutral reputation—a man's pride can only take so much before the floodgates of his patience break for good.

The spacious interior is mostly occupied with stands and two large alchemical benches. On the left side stand four racks with vials and reagents of every color; on the right, a showcase of wares; and over in the far corner, a chalk board covered with notes and formulas.

Chapter 27

Master Alahun—a narrow-shouldered elderly man of level 195 in an old cloak with greased sleeves—stands at one of the racks and turns at my arrival. A shadow of annoyance flashes across his face. This is how one might react to discovering a bug in one's soup. Something is seriously wrong—a shopkeeper just can't look that way at a potential customer. I don't understand it, and that lack of understanding is both unnerving and infuriating.

Aside from Alahun, there are two others in the room. Suspicious types, named Feret and Gehinal. Sitting on rough stone stools by one of the benches and conversing softly, they don't even turn their heads despite noticing me come in. Both are five levels below the alchemist, equipped in worn leather armor with paired blades at the waist and an Akkri emblem on the chest. They could be his apprentices or a patrol whiling away time. It makes no difference to me.

"Did you want something, kinless?" the alchemist breaks the silence. "If you're buying, go ahead and buy. Otherwise, take a hike."

Should I have expected anything else from this asshole? Of course not. I walk over to the counter and throw down his journal with a nonchalant nod.

"I think this belongs to you." I look up at the alchemist with defiance, fully mimicking his tone. "Now, if you have anything for sale, first show me what you've got, and then I'll decide whether or not it's worth purchasing."

At the sound of my voice both patrolmen (that's what I'll call them, for now) stop talking and turn their heads in my direction. I don't like the way they're looking at me—sizing me up, the way you appraise an opponent before an attack. I'm not concerned, though. They can look as nasty as they want, but they need a reason to attack. So I respond with a cheeky scowl, putting a hand on my dagger's hilt, and ask.

"Anyone got a problem with that?!"

That did the trick. The contempt is gone from their faces. A tense silence hangs in the air for a few long moments, but Alahun rushes to diffuse the situation. The alchemist waves down the soldiers, walks over to the counter, picks up the journal, opens it, and gives a thoughtful grunt.

"I thought that my lab notes were lost for good," he says after a few moments, leafing through the pages. "Where did you find this journal?"

"In Vaedarr. Took it off a human," I shrug, taking my hand off the dagger's hilt.

"Is the human still alive? he arches his brow.

"Negative."

Alahun gives a satisfied nod. "That's good. All the more so that these notes cannot be copied."

He puts the journal away, then looks back at me.

"You know herbs well, don't you? Give me your map, I'll indicate where the moss I wrote about in the journal grows."

You've completed the quest: The Lost Journal.

You have gained a level! Current level: 200.

You have 1 talent point to allocate.

Class bonus: +1 to Agility, +1 to Constitution.

You have 3 stat points to allocate.

Well, luck hasn't fully abandoned me! The small cave where brown moss grows is located in this very same zone, its entrance being at the "mouth of the bottle"—the very same Uroh's Passage in which I'm supposed to pick up mist crystals. With the mist receded, the entrance to the cavern is going to remain open for three more days. Rare reagents are rare precisely because gathering them is harder than common ones. But, in this case, the stars have aligned!

"You asked what wares I have for sale? Take a look."

Alahun takes out a leather scroll and unrolls it on the counter. The alchemist's voice is calm now, the disdain gone from his eyes, replaced by mild inquisitiveness.

I nod, scan the list of wares... and swear to myself. The alchemist sells a rare poison recipe from brown moss, and for a mere seven gold, but I can't buy it until I raise my reputation with him to respected. Returning the journal netted a healthy fifteen hundred reputation points, but I'm going to need exactly the same amount. Trouble is, it may take another year to get there.

A thought pops into my head. With the patch being so revolutionary, maybe I could simply negotiate with the merchant? I quickly pick out six reagents on my shopping list, lay a gold coin onto the counter, pause while the alchemist gathers everything, then point to the line with the recipe.

"Listen, master, I need this formula. I realize that you won't share it with just anyone, so I'm ready to pay a higher price for it."

"How much are you offering, exactly?" the drow's eyes sparkle. At last, he looks like the salesman that he is.

I put away the purchased reagents, then take out the sapphire I had prudently taken along, and place it on the counter. "This gem is worth one hundred gold, and I am prepared to trade it for the recipe."

Alahun studies the sapphire for a while, then sighs and looks back at me.

"The gemstone may fetch as much as a thousand gold in Vaedarr," he says without a hint of irony in his voice. "Alas, we are not in Vaedarr. Here, such gems are cheaper. A fence in Thalim won't pay more than twenty coins for it. However, I have a better offer for you."

"I'm listening."

"I'll give you the recipe in return for forty portions of brown moss," the alchemist nods at the list of wares on the counter before putting it away. "Luthen's Cave is quite abundant with moss."

"That's a deal. Thank you, master!" I snatch the sapphire off the counter, nod to the alchemist, and quickly exit the space.

I need to hurry. This could be one of those rare instances where you can have your cake and eat it, too.

So far, so good. Better than expected, at least. First impressions matter—just as they do everywhere else—but then everything depends on you. I still haven't a clue what they mean by "kinless," but history is rife with examples of strangers being mistrusted and mistreated. And we're all strangers here. In the Middle Ages, an outsider could be killed on no grounds at all, but here they simply look at you as though you're a wood louse. Not a pleasant experience, sure, but not the end of the world, either. Besides, while having a high reputation is great, raising it with one faction typically comes at the expense of another. So I better make the right choices. I'll speak with Daria first, and we can make those decisions together.

Once out of the house, I throw the newly acquired talent point into Ambidextrous and the three stat points into Constitution, bringing my HP to ten thousand. Then, after checking the map, I exit the settlement and start eastward, toward the rock marked with a dotted line.

Roughly fifty yards at the mouth, Uroh's Passage widens significantly deeper in. The uneven walls and ceiling are covered with a strange deposit, making the rock look homogeneous and almost like burnt plastic. It's also dark here. Dark even for me, with my keen sensitivity to light. In Anthrum, light is produced primarily by vegetation, which appears to be thoroughly lacking in this section of the cavern.

The atmosphere is dreary, no doubt. The dude with the ladle mentioned kougs living here... I can't imagine a dragon wandering in here voluntarily, let alone a koug.

Chapter 28

The cave I need is located in the left section of the tunnel, roughly twenty yards off the floor, a narrow but otherwise comfortable footpath runs up to the entrance at a gentle slope. Comfortable by my standards, at least. Back on Earth, it wouldn't be scalable without proper rock-climbing gear and experience—or an Olympic medal in gymnastics.

A wall of mist curls and coils fifty yards ahead, blocking the way further. A ghastly, hypnotic sight. Anyone who has ever burned plastic as a kid should remember the coal-black threads rising from the bonfire, through the smoke. This wall is similar. Dirty gray smoke with black impregnations—in constant motion.

I activate Shadow Vision for curiosity's sake and give a curious grunt. Now the tunnel looks like a beige corridor blocked off by a billowing black haze. Well, that doesn't help. If the color beige is somewhere in the range of white and red, where does the color black come in? Finding no answers, I wave dismissively, pick up the crystals needed, and quickly make my way up the footpath.

An unpleasant surprise awaits me above: the cave entrance is blocked off by five large lilac spheres. Roughly one-and-a-half feet in diameter, four of the spheres stand out in front, in a row, with the fifth slightly behind them. The contours are hazy on account of my only seeing them thanks to the skill obtained a few hours ago.

I focus my eyes, then swear with exasperation.

Phaelican Egg.

Craptastic! Covered thoroughly with sharp spikes, the eggs look like bald hedgehogs, the legends above their "heads" glaring red. Each egg a healthy level 180 with hidden HP. Most annoyingly, there's no getting around them. Not unless I get really good at high-jumping.

Did that jackass send me to my death? He had to have known about the laying in the cave! Then again, should I be surprised? These are drow, a race of traitors and reprobates.

With a sigh, I look up and examine the cave carefully.

At a glance, it looks slightly bigger than a hockey rink. An even floor with an eerie palisade of stalagmites, like teeth bared in an ominous scowl at the low ceiling. Rock fragments strewn everywhere, with streaks of limestone and jagged holes gaping in the walls. Actually, the ground and the ceiling bear the same holes, their provenance unclear. The biggest of them is directly across from the entrance, this one shrouded with shimmering blue film. A dungeon entrance, though I can't tell much else from here, some two hundred feet away. The cave is littered with eggs, laid in small clusters ranging from three to ten. There's also moss, and plenty of it, bordering the limestone patches. Well, at least the old man didn't lie about that. The question still remains, though: how do I get inside?

If I try smashing the eggs, game logic dictates they'll either explode or hatch. All have HP bars, and the color is a hostile red, meaning the smallest action on my part should set off the script. It may even trigger by my drawing near or attempting to jump over the eggs. A chain reaction is unlikely given the distance between the clusters, but drawing aggro of even one might also draw the creature who laid them. And though I haven't a clue as to who this Phaelican is, I highly doubt it's your garden-variety chicken.

And then there are the dubious-looking holes in the ground and walls.

I peek into Chronicles, just in case, but find nothing that relates to the subject. Better play it safe, then. Slipping into invis, I shift behind the rock, then use Diversion to toss a distracting totem into an opening between the two central eggs. Should they explode, I'll be safe from the splinters, and should mobs turn up, I'll play it by ear. In my experience, "chicks" that hatch under similar circumstances don't live long: they emerge, wreak some damage around them, and croak. There are exceptions, of course.

But my fears prove unfounded. A second after the totem lands, a clapping noise sets off a shower of bones striking rock, viscous goo splashes onto the ground, and a heavy stench permeates the air.

I wait for ten seconds, then peek out from behind the corner. Satisfied that the coast is clear, I leave my cover, grimacing while still moving carefully. What remains from the five eggs is a pool of vapid slush with lumps of bloody tissue floating in it. Right of the entrance, about a dozen chipped hollows are now visible in the rock. So, the spikes are the eggs' main weapons. Interesting.

I pick up a small bone fragment, examine it, then toss it back in the puddle. A fighter in plate would probably survive one such egg without difficulty whereas I wouldn't last five spikes. This Phaelican laid its eggs, invisible to the naked eye, all over this cave. And though they can't all explode simultaneously, the eggs can still thin the ranks of uninvited guests quite significantly. One generation of the species defending another. Makes sense from nature's standpoint. And if that's so—that the eggs are designed to protect themselves—it's unlikely their mum will show up. Still, I shouldn't let my guard down.

I wait a little longer, then step over the puddle carefully, take a scraper out of my bag, and make for the nearest hole at the edge of which grows what I came here for. Brown moss.

It takes me half an hour to round the cave in a circular pattern, avoiding the layings, and collect all the reagents growing here. Moss isn't starleaf—it can simply be scraped from the rock. It's another matter whether this brown pulp can even be called "moss." In the real world, moss typically grows in swamplands, but games need not conform to such conventionalities. At any rate, I manage to collect sixty-seven grams of the reagent, amounting to sixty-seven portions by the local standards.

Eres' Lair turns out to be a standard level 200 instance designed for a party of five. I avoid stepping inside for obvious reasons. "With a shield or on it" is an idiotic principle that the devs instituted when it comes to dungeon crawling. Essentially, nobody can leave a dungeon above level 30 for as long as the final boss is alive. Full stop. And I couldn't solo clear a level 200 dungeon even in a full set of scalable gear, let alone in my current getup.

I do my best to steer clear of the holes in the walls as well—excess curiosity can easily prove fatal in my situation. I'm not here on a scouting mission, so I'll survive without the non-essential knowledge.

Finished with the gathering, I cast one last look around the cave and already start making my way toward the exit when a barely audible sound catches my ear. A soft grinding of metal against rock, coming from below. It can only mean one thing: someone is climbing up the footpath to the cave. Instantly fading into invis, I make it to the entrance in two quick leaps, then shift right and literally hug the cold, uneven wall. Then I wait. I have no friends in Thalim, so I shouldn't expect anything good from the visit. Let's just hope it's not the egg-layer itself returning home...

Chapter 29

I don't have to wait long. Only five seconds pass when two familiar characters walk into the cave. Feret and Gehinal, the "patrolmen" pair from the alchemist's house.

The two drow skirt the pool at the entrance carefully, stopping right across from me, less than ten feet from a cluster of eight eggs. Evidently, they see the laying just fine. Why are they here? Not to gather moss, that's for sure. With their weapons drawn, the purpose of their visit is crystal clear.

"We're late. The bastard gathered the moss and took off," Feret breaks the silence, his tone angry and annoyed, confirming my suspicions. "Alahun said that the outsider won't see the eggs, but then how did he manage to clear the entrance?"

"Nope, the bastard is still here," the other replies confidently. "He has to get back to the old man, and we would have seen him returning." Gehinal shifts from foot to foot, cranes his head, and shouts. "Come out, kinless! We don't want your life! Just hand over your money and the gathered moss, then scram!"

Now that is patently insane! Robbing players with neutral reputation is unheard of in this virtual world. Are they acting on their own initiative? No matter. If these two are looking for easy prey, they're in for a rude awakening.

Without waiting for an answer to his proposition, Gehinal draws an ostentatious sigh, tosses a Flare under his feet and turns to his buddy.

"We light up the cave, section by section, then—"

He stops short mid-sentence. Yanked from invisibility by hostile magic, I stand there behind them, not bothering to hide. Apparently sensing something, the drow turns sharply and meets my eye.

"Hi there!" I flash an amiable smile, then leap forward with my heel, smashing it into his chest.

Sure, I could have simply escaped while they weren't looking. Even now I could simply leave, Flare or not. But these NPCs simply became the straw that broke the camel's back. The last drop of bizarre, obnoxious, insufferable NPC antics that made the cup of my patience run over with righteous wrath!

Caught unawares, Gehinal flies back from the impact, his arms spread wide as he tries to keep his balance barely a foot from the laying. Feret reacts instantly, raising his sword overhead as he turns, but freezes midway, immobilized by a Kidney Shot.

I toss a Diversion at the eggs, Shadowstep behind Feret and yank his wrist towards me, then hide behind him like a human shield.

Bursts of bone spikes fire and plunge into Gehinal's chest. Feret's body shudders in my hands, my shoulder burns with a sharp pain as the ring on my finger starts flashing a timer.

Your Toughness skill has increased to 4%.

Gehinal's body convulses. The drow drops to his knees, crimson blood splattering all around, and falls face first to the ground. Down more than nine tenths of his HP, Feret elbows me in the stomach, then turns and delivers a swift chopping blow that strikes me in the forearm. I sidestep and counter with a Stab, and the blade pierces the armor with unexpected ease. The enemy's weapon slips out of his hands and falls to the ground with a clang. A second later, he collapses at my feet, motionless.

Your Toughness skill has increased to 5%.

The pain tears at my flesh with red-hot forceps. I feel like a Voodoo doll skewered with a hundred pins all at once. An overwhelming smell of rust assails my nostrils, and I barely hold back from barfing. But then regeneration kicks in and quickly disperses the crimson fog. The pain begins to recede as I sheathe my weapons, then stand there for thirty more seconds and steady my breath.

Well, I'm still alive, and that counts for something. Though it was a close call, so I shouldn't be too ecstatic, even if it's the spike hitting my shoulder that caused most of the damage. The introduction of pain is a real disruption to the balance of things. But now I've also confirmed that Obliteration works as intended—Stab would never have taken off that much HP, even if critting. But that's not the most important thing, either. I focus my eyes on the cursed ring and scan the slightly updated numbers.

True Darkness' Embrace [CURSED]

Accessory; ring.

Bound item.

Indestructible. Cannot be unequipped.

Artifact, scalable.

No minimum level.

Grants -4.00% of total HP every second.

Grants an additional -4.00% of total HP every second in combat.

-400 to damage (True Darkness)...

-20% to physical damage

-20% to magic damage

-20% to damage-over-time

-20% to armor class

-10% to maximum resistances

Obliteration.

Crafted by Arkam, the Herald of Darkness.

There it is. According to the log, the ring devours only four percent HP in combat. I thought that the percentage would get stacked, but turns out that the System separates the debuffs, which is certainly good news. Perhaps the percentage devoured out of combat is still affected by Spirit—that much would make sense. And the four hundred additional True Darkness damage... I have maximum Dark magic resistance, but it doesn't seem to impact this number, which suggests that True Darkness is different from the standard Dark school of magic. I've never heard of it, but that doesn't mean it doesn't exist. Oh well. Win some, lose some.

Eight hundred damage per second... At ten thousand total HP, that is hell of a lot! Five-six seconds and I'm a goner, rendered helpless by the pain shock. Then again, it could all be worse...

Chapter 30

The blood on the ground has mixed with the goo oozing from the smashed eggs. I've never been to a slaughterhouse before, but I imagine this is what it must smell like.

Stepping lightly around the scene to avoid leaving a trace, I quickly loot all the corpses. Nineteen silver coins, one scroll of Lesser Madness—a low-level curse that reduces Intellect by five percent for half an hour, a Greater Elixir of Strength, four HP potions, leather patterned gloves and a level 170 uncommon one-handed sword with the emblem of House Akkri on the pommel. Not very rich at all.

I don't even bother taking the gloves and the sword. There's no easy way of selling them, and carrying them on my person is too dangerous. Why keep evidence of murder? Killing important NPCs results in an instant loss of reputation and a corresponding achievement, no proof necessary. But these losers were anything but important, and my culpability in their demise would require proof. Had I killed them in my typical fashion, I would need to dispose of the corpses, but these can keep lying here as they are. I doubt anyone is going to notice a knife wound on Feret given the bloody mess that is the front of his torso. Forensic autopsies haven't yet been invented in this world, so I'm not worried.

Moving away from the bodies, I take a mirror out of my bag and give myself a once-over. The right side of my coat is ripped and stained with blood, the leather on the shoulder is sliced in several places, the pants and the boots are covered in goo. Mm-hmm.

I sew up the cut on the shoulder with a strap of leather from a Small Repair Kit. Drow may not have forensic experts, but they don't want for logic, either, and the last thing I want is to become a quarry for an entire House.

The leather closes up magically on the coat sleeve. I grunt with satisfaction upon closer inspection, then make towards the exit.

Do I feel like a killer? Yes, I do. But it doesn't bother me none. I'm no Raskolnikov and these aren't old women. They were out to kill, but got killed instead. Even if these drow are alive now, that hardly matters. Everything has changed, but some things are as true as they ever were: in a merciless realm such as this, it's kill or be killed. I resolved this back in the caravan. It's possible I might need to kill innocents... I don't have anyone in this world aside from Daria, and I will kill anyone whose death might serve my purposes. At the very least, I want to believe that. Will my hand be steady when the time comes? I guess we'll see.

The door to the lab is open. I walk in unannounced, as before, and greet the alchemist who's busy arranging wares on one of the shelves.

"Greetings, master! I've brought you what I promised."

He might have been the one to send those two assassin wannabes after me, but it doesn't matter. I need the recipe. In theory, I could bump off Alahun and then search the place, but a murder like that would be nearly impossible to conceal. I would be prime suspect as the only outsider in Thalim. Moreover, the dude mixing that stinking swill saw me, as well as the drow brigade lugging rocks from heap to heap. If I kill him, I'd need to kill them all.

The master freezes still at the sound of my voice, then slowly turns around.

"You're alive?" he says with relief in his voice. "They managed to warn you in time?"

"Who are 'they?'" I ask, feigning surprise to play along. "And what is it they needed to warn me about?"

"Phaelican... The Rock Burrower," Alahun clarifies, looking me up and down suspiciously. "After you left, I remembered that tis the season she lays eggs. The worm itself is nocturnal so it poses no danger, but the eggs... They're invisible to the eye and explode on touch, shooting bone needles all around. When I realized my blunder, I asked Feret and Gehinal to catch up and warn you. It appears that you missed them and had an encounter with the eggs."

The alchemist spreads his arms and draws a tragic sigh.

"Indeed, master," I nod, looking him in the eye. "I nearly died at the entrance to the cave, but it all worked out."

"It's a pity how memory goes with age," Alahun sighs yet again. "To compensate for my culpability, I'm willing to give you the recipe for only thirty-five portions of the reagent. But tell me, how did you survive? And how were you able to gather the moss? After all, it is known that the Phaelican lays no less than fifty eggs."

Bad memory, eh... The way he recovered by offering a discount, it's almost like he was prepared for this turn of events. It's possible that when those two decided to go after me, it was his idea that they wait a bit just in case I got lucky and gathered some moss, which they would easily loot off my corpse. Then again, he probably doesn't lack for moss all that much, whereas a sapphire is quite a valuable gem. Either way, if he's willing to give up the recipe, I'm willing to leave the matter be.

"I make frequent offerings to Sata," I say to the alchemist who's eagerly waiting for an answer, then walk up to the counter, produce the required amount of the reagent, and add. "The Mistress of Luck helped me to survive the traps at the entrance. Then I used a scroll of Secret Vision received some months back from a mage in Vaedarr. Twenty minutes was enough. I saw all the traps and managed to work around them to gather the moss. I didn't see Feret or Gehinal. Perhaps it's because I took another route home, off the main road. I wanted to explore the area a bit. Anyway, it doesn't seem like they were in much of a hurry."

"Happy is he whom Sata favors with her capricious gaze," Alahun nods, ignoring the last remark.

He collects the moss off the counter, then takes out a scroll and hands it to me.

"This is yours, as we agreed."

Your reputation has increased. Alahun the alchemy master from House Akkri relates to you with respect.

Respect, eh? Could that be a key to open some doors? Perhaps. Though you can still respect an enemy...

I take the scroll from the alchemist, study the recipe for a minute, then stock up on some more of the required reagents.

"Take care of yourself," the drow says as farewell, peering me in the eyes.

"Thank you. You take care of yourself, too, master." I reply, enunciate each word, smile at the alchemist, and leave, sensing his heavy appraising gaze on my back.

Back on the street, I hand in the crystals gathered in the passage, and head back to the inn. It'll be evening soon, and I still need to do some poison brewing. Such matters ought not be put off for long.

At first glance, alchemy seems like a difficult profession to master. When learning the fundamentals, you run into scholarly words like "gradations" and "coagulations," which refer to producing distilled water and preparing a lubricant base, respectively. And then you realize that you don't actually need to know any of this stuff, since recipes for potions, elixirs, infusions and poisons can be bought off any alchemist for peanuts. Therefore, all you really need when brewing any given substance are the right reagents in the right amount, the required skill level, plus knowing the proportions of the ingredients, as well as the duration and nature of the brew. Speaking of which... I bring up the just-learned recipe and look over it again.

Rock Burrower Blood.

Venom (daggers). Rare.

Item level: 190.

Effect: blinds the target for two seconds (no more than once every 20 seconds) and deals 1,500 damage per second over 5 seconds.

Duration: 2 hours.

Minimum level: 190.

4 portions.

Brewing recipe:

Brown moss: 4 portions

Yew extract: 4 portions

Reagent with a Poison property: 2 portions

Base: hard animal fat, category 3: 10 portions

Place into a crucible and heat for 33 minutes

Required: alchemical bench, medium crucible

Required: 190 Alchemy; Poisons III

I already have some boar fat from before, the yew extract I just purchased from the alchemist, and for the additional reagent, some winterberry gathered outside of Vaedarr a week ago will do.

I won't regret coming down to this hole—the poison really is quite good. The effects are doubled thanks to my achievement, making the four-second-long blind and three thousand damage per second a hell of a boon in a fight. A pity I only have enough reagents for eight jars. With each jar good for four coatings, it won't even last a month. Still, it's good enough to get started. Were it not for the discount, I'd only have enough for six jars. That comes out to four extra portions of poison per dead idiot. Now if only I could find more idiots...

Chapter 31

I make my way to the inn invisible, happy to trade a bit of time for a lot of safety. With all the recent changes to the world and the locals' attitude towards my person, I don't feel like taking on unnecessary risks.

Sneaking into my room through the window, I grab a quick snack, take the alchemical bench out of the chest, and sort the reagents in my inventory.

On the subject of inventory, Arkon went live with a rather innovative sorting and categorization system. Reagents are classified by the same gradation system as items, and, depending on rarity, possess a particular number of qualities, each with a particular degree of potency. Brown moss possesses four properties, though I'm only familiar with two: Poison (Daggers) 4 and Blind 2, which are quite enough for brewing poison. Of course, it would be nice to discover the other two, but the local alchemy gurus will no doubt demand money for it, and I don't have any gold to spare for the moment.

The Perception skill determines the ability to discern properties. My skill level is at two, so I can only discern two properties, both of which are already known. There's a small chance to discover an additional property by consuming a reagent, but—and this comes as a surprise to no one—few players are willing to gobble up chunks of dead flesh, slug slime, and the like. The trade-off just isn't worth it—particularly given the heaps of tables recorded in the Chronicles listing properties of thousands of reagents found in Arkon. Unfortunately, none of those tables include brown moss. Even if someone has come across it before, they decided not to share the information with anyone. Just as I won't. What is my incentive for sharing? That's right, diddly-squat.

After getting a fire going, I place upon it the crucible with all the required ingredients, mix the concoction with a special ladle, activate the timer, and head to the coffee machine. The brew will be done without any more involvement from me—I just need to be there in time to complete the process.

The magical science of alchemy is subject to law and order. The brewing of any potion requires a minimum of two different ingredients sharing one property—this is the only way for the reagents to transfer said property to the end product. The same applies to the brewing of poisons. Aside from reagents, each brew requires a base. For instance, potions are brewed on a water base, elixirs need specific infusions, and poisons require hard animal fat for subsequent coating. Potions can also be poisons, by the way. In fact, it's thanks to potions that I earned my mastery achievement. It's not that hard to empty a dozen vials of poison into a common pot used to feed the port laborers of Vaedarr, sending two hundred NPCs to their deaths in one fell swoop. The hard part is getting the quest from the overseer of a rival port to begin with. Absent such quests, this manner of mass murder, though fun as hell, yields no credit.

I smile at the memories from my criminal past, pick up the freshly brewed coffee, and get back to the desk. The port laborers respawned in a week, my customer was pleased and continued supplying me with quests up until the time he and his crew moved operations up north.

I take a sip from the cup, gazing contemplatively at the boiling crucible. The system is quite fascinating, really. The property of Poison (Daggers) 4 on the brown moss translates to tier four of potency, Blind 2 to tier two, accordingly, and the yew extract purchased from the alchemist also has the Blind property at a value of two. Factoring in the winterberry, the end product is going to have Poison (Daggers) 6 and Blind 4. If it were the inverse, the poison would blind for longer at the expense of dealing less damage. I'm undecided as to which is better. Probably what I've got, all things considered. Damage output is my top priority at the moment given that my gear is in dire need of upgrading, and preferably for items with bonuses to constitution. The ring on my finger drains HP in percentages in addition to dealing pure True Darkness damage. Raising my HP will mitigate the curse somewhat, granting me a few extra precious seconds before the pain shock claims my consciousness.

Strangely, it seems that the NPCs don't feel pain, at least not in the same way. Feret launched an attack at only ten percent HP, so either they don't feel pain or their Toughness value is maxed out. I still remember his face twisted with rage. My money is on Toughness... We get resurrection, albeit with a hefty penalty to levels, and they get an unreal pain threshold. Most games are set up in a way that leveling any given skill becomes increasingly harder as it grows. My Toughness is up to five now, and I'm certain that maxing it out would require experiencing sheer hell. Still, you can't really compare our lot to theirs. After death, all NPCs wind up in the great sequence of rebirths before returning to this world. So who's the luckier of the two? I can't say either way.

It takes me just under four hours to brew seven jars of poison, drink five cups of coffee, and put together a few dozen sets of equipment for different purposes. The noise from the drifter can't be heard anymore, but the outskirts of Thalim are still buzzing. I hear the innkeeper chiding his "lazy, good-for-nothing, ham-fisted" workers, rothé lowing drowsily in their stalls, and the patrols' footsteps around the inn, iron clanking as they go.

Night is about to fully assert its reign when a shadow darts outside the window, followed by the blue light of a force field, the sound of a soft landing, and a barely audible cussing. Moments later, the door to my room shudders from a monstrous blow. Another one follows shortly, and then another...

Damn it. I grimace at the sudden racket, casting a vexed gaze at the rattling hinges. Here comes the local strike team, and I'm their primary target. I have no doubt that these are the guards—burglars would never act so openly. I quash my initial instinct to bolt and resume sipping my coffee and contemplating the crucible on the flames. Try as they might, they're not getting inside. So let them make all the noise they want before giving up and leaving empty-handed. This isn't the first time for me, and it sure won't be the last.

Meanwhile, a strange hissing sound joins with the banging on the door, and the force field on the window starts flickering from bolts hurled from below. I never tire of being surprised at how stupid guards can be, regardless of realm. Show them a door and they'll keep banging on it until their knuckles bleed—or until they get an order to stop. Keep going, fellas. I'm totally scared.

There's no point fussing now. They've got me surrounded, with at least five people outside the window and five more in the hallway. I'll sooner wait for them to settle down and disperse, leaving behind only a few guards. Then, it'll be easy to slip out undetected.

Truth be told, this development comes as a surprise. I never expected them to act so quickly and decisively—otherwise, I would have left the inn long ago. Typically, when NPCs decide that you are the killer, you get a notification about a reputation drop, giving you a head start to fly the coop. But my reputation hasn't dropped yet, which means they're not fully convinced that those pricks died by my hand. And yet, they're here to arrest me! I could live without this kind of added intelligence.

The banging stops. It's quiet for a moment, and then a cool, scornful voice speaks, confirming my suspicions.

"I know you can hear me, kinless! You are being charged with murder of two members of the noble House Akkri. If you don't let us in right this instant, your death will be long and excruciating. I, Kedem of House Akkri, decem of the First Half-Century of the Thalim Guard, vow this to you!"

I sniff, glancing at the door with annoyance.

There's no need racking my brain over the matter—not when there's only one viable solution. Irrespective of my guilt, they're going to torture me anyway, and then they're going to strap a collar on me and dump me in some cellar before sending me to the nearest penal mine. And I fear that my term is going to last much longer than three days. I'll sooner accept death with the loss of levels to that lot. Only I won't accept it voluntarily. Oh no, they're going to have to catch me first. Not just yet, though.

The silence behind the door lasts about thirty seconds. Then the boots stomp back down the hallway, another door shudders from loud banging, and the innkeeper's ingratiating voice follows.

"Master decem! I swear that neither I nor my workers saw him leave!"

"The key!" the captain barks in response.

"Here..." the innkeeper mumbles. "But the door cannot be opened! Not for another two days, when the rental term is up. These outsiders can somehow place—"

"Shut up!" the strike team leader says, accompanying the request with the thump of an armored fist on flesh. The innkeeper is quiet as a mouse now, if still conscious.

Cruel land, this is. In Vaedarr, were a guard captain to mistreat an innkeeper in such a manner, the merchants' guild would put him on blast so hard, the poor bastard himself would likely be looking at time in Shanama. But not here. No, this ain't no democracy. The Council's Guard is quite far, and they're not very likely to want to bother with the gripes of some backwater innkeeper.

Things are seriously heating up in Anthrum, and getting too hot for comfort. In these circumstances, I should always have a backup plan. A plan that involves another winterberry-based poison, this one for personal use. Whatever happens, I don't intend to let these bastards take me alive. Better to lose levels than end up in a collar.

They keep fussing behind the door for another twenty minutes before things finally quiet down, both in the hallway and outside the window. I spend another forty minutes doing alchemy before putting the tools back into the chest, setting the alarm for three in the morning, and hitting the proverbial hay. Tomorrow is a new day, and time is on my side.

Chapter 32

Upon waking up, I lie there for a while, gazing up at the ceiling while running various scenarios in my head. Everything has been quiet out in the hallway and outside the window.

Rising from the bed, I arrange the right vials into slots on my belt, and transfers all the non-essentials from my bag into the chest. Food and water to last a few days, a jar of poison, two gold coins, and a bit of alchemy. Nothing that would sting if I lost it. Should I find myself in need, I can always sell the jewel in Zul-Gehit and pick up some gear at the auction house.

With these thoughts, I take out a Greater Elixir of Possibilities and down the bittersweet mixture in one go. A hundred to all stats... Hell, I'd consider eating shit for an extra thousand HP. Then again, I prefer to have the Thalim guards eat shit instead while I indulge in other flavors.

With the buffs done, I slide into the chair at the desk, take out a fresh jar of poison and reach for my dagger. Just then sounds the familiar peep, followed by lines of text in tiny red font crawling before my eyes.

Attention all players in Anthrum! The relationship between the Elder Houses of Alehan and Klahd have turned hostile! Anthrum stands on the brink of a great war!

An interesting development, I think as I open the flat jar with the greasy brown substance. It didn't take the drow long since gaining self-awareness to wage a fratricidal war. Godspeed, comrades! Nothing like this has happened in the four years since the game went live. Border skirmishes and sallies to the surface have always been common, but never all-out war. Not that it matters to me either way—I've got my own war brewing.

I use a special brush to quickly coat the daggers with the new poison, then put the jar away, walk over to the window and carefully inspect the backyard.

The small square under cover of night resembles a strip of post-apocalyptic landscape, the ground covered in fissures. Three flat-roofed two-story structures huddle together, windows gaping darkly. Nearby stands a three-wheel wagon filled with torn empty sacks. A few dented buckets in the corner and a rusted trough right of the entrance to the stables. The whole scene is encircled by a seven-foot-high solid fence. At a glance, everything looks the same as before. However, one of the distinctive features of the ranger and rogue classes is the ability to detect traps. All traps, without exception, as long as they're not above your level. Plus, each tier of the Perception skill raises the detection ability by ten percent, and since my Perception is currently tier two, I can see everything set out by characters up to level 240. Incidentally, the ability only applies to inanimate traps, and not to living organisms like the eggs from back in the cave.

A section of the backyard shimmers with patches of light of varying colors, like a dance floor, marking traps. Two rows of six right outside the window at one yard intervals. A silvery web of some unknown spell glimmers over the enclosure, like barb wire, running all along the perimeter. If that's what I think it is, then these guys aren't messing around. Arkyndahl's Web is an NPC only spell from the Dark school of magic that drow priestesses in particular are quite fond of. The web deals very significant damage upon impact and paralyzes the target for two minutes. My maxed out resistance would reduce the effect to only thirty seconds, but even that would be enough. The spell likely covers the whole perimeter, including the gates, making the stables roof the sole escape route—there are no structures quite as tall on the other side of the inn. Getting up there should be possible by climbing the left corner where the roof is partially broken and doesn't overhang the square.

Now, that is all well and good, but there are two problems. The first problem lies with the light pink silhouettes I'm seeing with my new vision. No names, no levels, no HP. I can't even tell their class, though I can target both. At least several more must be hiding nearby—presumably mages, going by the traps' colors matching the elements. Drow have Dark magic as their main specialization, and can select no more than one elemental school as auxiliary. At least that's been the case before.

The worst thing is that slipping out undetected is not realistic. One of the fighters waiting in ambush stands right by the stables, and the other one some ten yards away, both of them still as death. I don't want to take risks, but neither do I want to die. Time is no longer an ally. I need to decide quickly, before some of the mages turn up—or worse yet, the priestess that wrapped the inn in her Web.

Very well. Remember, I didn't want this... You asked for it.

I move away from the window and jump in place a bit to warm up—an old habit from a bygone world. Then I tighten the straps on my jerkin—any noise could prove fatal for me. The silence outside is absolute. You don't even hear rothé breathing—either the animals aren't in the stables or those bastards cast a sound-isolating dome on the building. Probably the latter. Oh well, even better. Fighting a living opponent is so much more fun than slaughtering scripted NPCs.

I climb out on the windowsill and draw a slow breath, focusing on the battle ahead. For a moment, a sensation of how freaking wild this is overtakes me. A bottomless abyss, ringing silence, two hostile pink patches of light and the glow of traps set out below. The moment passes, replaced by the familiar jitters from adrenaline bursting into the bloodstream. I must have a mental illness, because I love playing these games. It's become so much more hardcore after the patch, but that only adds to the thrill. I turn around, nod to my grandfather's picture hanging on the wall, wink to my smiling girlfriend, then carefully slide out of the window and down.

Chapter 33

With about five feet left to the ground, I push off from the wall with the soles of my feet and glide through the air, over the traps set directly below. Landing softly on the rough stone, I ease into a long Roll, then gun for the nearest pink silhouette. At the last moment, the invisible fighter senses that something is wrong and rushes towards me, but freezes the very next second, Sapped by the hilt of my dagger. I Shadowstep behind the other silhouette and open up with a Cheap Shot. Slash! Stab! Groundwork! Then I finish off with a five-point Rupture and slip back into invis.

My blade slices through the high collar of the drow attired in a dark mantle. He staggers, barely keeping his balance, then throws up his staff overhead. The air around him lights up with crimson sparks as scorching needles pierce my flesh. Struggling for breath with blood pumping in my ears, I shift left and toss a Diversion at the stables wall on pure instinct.

Your Toughness skill has increased to 6%.

I have three seconds before the damage breaks my invisibility. But how could I have known that these are mages? They were invisible! What the hell is going on?!

My health bar shifts from yellow to green as Spirit kicks in and the pain begins to recede.

The mage, down more than half his HP already, spins around and throws out his staff, attacking with a Cone of Darkness. Idiot, you should have dispelled the poison. But too late now.

The enemy spell smashes into the stables wall, destroying the phantom token. The trough gets hit as well—a part of it instantly turns to dust while the rest explodes and comes raining down on the cracked stone.

"What's going on over there?" a voice sounds from behind the corner. "Decyn?! Kars!?"

Decyn has got another eighteen seconds of stun left, and Kars is a dead man! I proclaim to myself, quickly shifting behind my opponent. Realizing that he just attacked a diversion, the mage throws up his weapon again, then freezes still, stunned by a Kidney Shot. You should have ran while you had the chance, dipship. Slash! Stab! Rupture!

The blood gushes out of a dagger-ruptured artery as the mage stumbles, then goes limp.

Sorry, bro, I grunt to myself, kicking the corpse aside. Wasting no time, I dart toward the stables wall.

You have slain Kars Gahen, a mage of the Lesser House Akkri! All non-player characters from the Lesser House Akkri relate to you with hatred! Your head is now a valuable trophy for all players and non-player characters who wish to improve their standing with the Lesser House Akkri!

I hear the racket of steel-reinforced boots stomping on stone. I'm almost on the stables roof by the time three figures run out into the backyard.

"There he is!" shouts the same voice, and the next moment I feel as if a horse kicks me in the ribs.

Mage Ecilau Aine marks you with the Mark of a Killer!

A sharp pain tears into my leg as the world goes red. I break an HP vial on my belt, no longer bothering to hide, and keep running.

Reaching the edge of the roof, I leap over the shimmering silver net...

Barely keeping my balance upon landing, I immediately fade into invis, clenching my teeth from the pain, and start hobbling toward the nearby mine.

∆∆∆

The walls are covered by the same black deposit. The same scattered rock, clusters of crystals, and ground with serpentine fissures. Everything is just as it was yesterday, except for the wall of mist, which is closer now. And the black specks in the billowing grayness are more prominent.

It's useless... I'm not going to escape my pursuers. The last patch tipped the scales of balance way too much, boosting the locals' intellect and thereby pushing them beyond the scripts that erstwhile determined their behavior. At the exit to the zone, right beyond the mine, the guards blocked out the tunnel with two level 225 "lanterns." Even a Master of Stealth of my level could not have passed by undetected. And there's no reason to believe that the three remaining exits aren't similarly blocked.

Light of Shaali—or "lantern" in the gaming parlance—is a two-hour stationary spell that yanks out of invis any lower-level creature within a twenty-five-yard radius. In addition to mana, the lantern requires about a dozen other rare reagents. Due to the exorbitant cost of the spell, the decision to deploy it is never made lightly. No, they were expecting me here. The hunt is led by a level 205 priestess, the noble and taciturn Sister Mytara, a geissa of Akkri. As a mini boss with fifteen million HP and considerable experience in leading similar operations, the four squads of five under her command have shrewdly driven me into this zone, then spread out in a chain and kept driving me toward Uroh's Passage. I tried shaking off the tail, but it was useless: besides the fact that each squad was bolstered by at least one fighter capable of seeing through my Cloak of Shadows, somehow they were following right in my footsteps, as though I were leaving them in fresh snow.

And I can't attribute that to the Mark of the Killer that I picked up fleeing the inn. That spell is hardly pleasant, but the effect will only manifest after one day—unless I smoke the fool who marked me and loot a specific item off his corpse. No, this is something else, whether some kind of spell or debuff. An arrow pierced my hip back on the stables roof, and I bled onto the wooden boards. Could they be using the blood to track me? I don't know, but whatever the case, I only have one option—and that is to die in the dungeon. It is the only way I get to keep my equipment. For as long as the final boss is alive, dying in an instance means resurrecting at the bindstone with your weapons and armor. I just hope that rule hasn't changed with the patch.

All these thoughts race through my head as I run into the tunnel, then follow the familiar footpath up and into the cave. The time is four forty-five, and my pursuers will be here in a minute, so I have a bit of time.

Once at the entrance, I pause for a moment and take a quick look around. The corpses are gone, but the uneven patches of blood-red sludge and fresh chinks in the rock testify that what happened here wasn't a dream.

Seventy more steps, then dive into the dungeon and die to the very first pack, I think, then suddenly realize that I just can't submit to this fate. Or rather, I don't want to. To be sure, I'm not looking forward to dying, but that isn't a choice for me. I can, however, choose how I will go down: like a lamb to the slaughter or fighting to the bitter end. In the latter case, I can at least try to take some of these bastards down with me. Who cares about this shitty equipment, anyway...

I clench my fists until they hurt, then close my eyes and take several deep breaths. As my grandpa used to say: show weakness only once, and before you know it, you're a punching bag. You can't buy self-respect—you either have it or you don't. All these skills and talents... In a world where raw might makes right, nothing is more important than intellect and will. As for this Lesser House, they hate me anyway, so let them hate me a little bit more.

Armed with this new conviction, I take another, more careful look around the cave. So you're following right in my footsteps, are you? Well, then, let's play...

Putting my foot down firmly to make a full footprint, I walk straight toward the dungeon entrance, past two large layings located about ten feet from one another. The risk is minimal—the eggs only explode when you get real close to them. I try not to look at the membranous portal. It's faint only to the normal eye, but to me it's like a bright blue projector shining right in my face. I hope the same goes for my pursuers.

Walking up right to the entrance, I turn around, measure the distance, and execute a long standing somersault. Backwards and to the right. At the nearest stalagmite I push off the floor with my hands and fly back another ten feet, beyond the cluster of four limestone outgrowths. An Olympic gymnast in their prime couldn't replicate the feat if they tried, but when you have a thousand Agility, you can complete a marathon with only these jumps and not break a sweat.

Now I'm ready to meet them. The tracks end right at the dungeon entrance, the handprint on the ground is blocked by a stalagmite, and I have a convenient hole an inch wide through which to watch the show. I know a bit about thermovisors, and I'm confident they cannot detect someone hidden behind a physical object. The only way to see me is through the hole I'm watching from, but my pursuers are drow. The portal film blinds them as much as it does me, limiting their watchfulness.

And now I wait for their move. Best case scenario, they will just leave, but, alas, I have no control over what they do. House Akkri death toll is already at three, and is likely going to increase. Of course, I am going to be among the casualties, but them's the breaks

I run my hand thoughtfully over the smooth surface of the limestone icicle. What kind of person am I that I always find myself on the run? Here, in Vaedarr, and in all the games I've played... Always on the run. Somehow, this is the only time I feel truly whole. You can run all you want, Oleg, but not from yourself. I've always been too smart to risk my life in the real world, and though the game is now as real as that world ever was, apparently my brain is slow to catch up.

The hunters don't make me wait long. No more than a few minutes pass before I hear the grinding of armor and an authoritative female voice ordering the fighters to ascend. The priestess enters the cave first. She examines the walls and the ground carefully, walks forward about ten yards and waits for the others to catch up. She's thin, with a hawkish face, an uneven scar on the right cheekbone, bright blue eyes, and hair brushed under a helm. The predacious nature of Geissa Mytara's beauty is as repelling as that of most of the local rulers. The ice queens of Anthrum...

Coldblooded and arrogant bitches, all of them.

Chapter 34

Drow priestesses were initially conceived as the antithesis of human paladins, compensating for the latter's plate armor with significantly higher damage. And now they're alive... What fun!

Only three squads out of the four enter the cave. Dzar, a level 200 warrior in heavy armor and a heater shield, stands to the right side of his commander, two more priestesses cover her flank, and the others form groups of five and block the exit.

Not one of them makes a sound as they take their positions. Weapons drawn, expressions tense and tinged with... Is that fear? What's gotten them so spooked? Surely it can't be my humble person. What then? The eggs? But the pursuers don't seem to pay them any mind. The dungeon, maybe? The lair of some "eres," whatever it is. With the patch being so recent, perhaps the locals haven't yet figured out that mobs can't wander out of instances?

"Mistress! I have relayed your order to Mihn," the mage who entered the cave last reports dryly. "He took his five to Thalim."

Is that right? So there's nobody waiting outside. Now if only this bunch would take a hike...

"Good," the priestess gives a faint nod, waits for the mage to take his place on her left, then says without turning her head. "What do you think, Dzar?"

"The kinless scum scurried away too fast to realize he's become a monster's breakfast," the warrior responds in a low, pleasant voice. "It's the kind of death he deserves. I don't think we should demand of the Lord of the Lair to give up his prey."

"This kinless is no amateur," Mytara replies after a pause, head still unturned. "We've underestimated him once already, and I don't intend to make the same mistake twice. The fact that his astral track ends at the lair doesn't mean anything. We will not leave this cave until we've looked under every rock." The priestess turns at last and issues a dry command. "Phynella, Orenga, your squads will block the exit. Dzar, Ohel, Sianta, Kata, you four follow me. Keep quiet and steer clear of the walls."

There it goes, my glimmer of hope. Oh well, plan B it is.

I take out from inventory a piece of rock prepared beforehand, gripping it tightly. The eggs won't explode from being hit with a rock—I've already tested as much the first go-around—but that's not what I need it for. It's a pity the throw will yank me out of invis, but as the saying goes, no guts, no glory!

"Go!" the geissa barks the command, and the four drow move out after their commander. The rest remain at the entrance.

When they draw to within ten feet of the layings, the priestess throws up her hand, signaling for her squad to stop, then continues alone—slowly, following my tracks. Right in between the two layings on either side. Heck, even better. Twenty more feet and she's going to see me for sure, but I still need to wait a bit longer...

Here comes the moment of truth—when I confirm for good whether they're truly alive or have remained mobs. It's risky, sure, but there's no other way.

When the geissa passes the layings and we're separated by mere twenty yards and a couple of collapsed limestone pillars, I take a short swing and throw the rock in the opposite corner of the cave. Mobs would never fall for such a trick; living beings, on the other hand...

The rock is still flying through the air when I fade back into invis, peek out from behind the stalagmite, and toss a Diversion towards one of the layings, the one nearer to the four fighters.

The rock strikes the wall some forty feet from the cave entrance, a half-second before the Diversion pops up. And the drow... the drow are alive!

Out of the ten fighters guarding the exit, five turn toward the sound, and only one priestess from the squad following the geissa.

"Watch out!" the warrior bellows, throwing up his shield and shifting left to cover one of the priestesses. She, in turn, immediately puts up a forcefield dome over them both. The other priestess, however, reacts a fraction of a second too late, failing to cover herself and the mage standing next to her—and both pay the ultimate price.

A rock won't break the eggshells, but for spikes that are as deadly as arrows, it's all too easy. The echoes of their cries still reverberate off the walls when another, champing sound drowns out everything else. The two layings exploded nearly simultaneously, as though someone dropped hundreds of water-filled balloons onto hard asphalt from a great height. Glistening slime bursts in every direction to the drumming of bone spikes firing as if from a large-caliber machine gun. The mage and the distracted priestess both get riddled with spikes; the second dome pops, but the warrior's shield and plate soak up the leftover damage. Dzar loses no more than one fifth of his HP while the covered priestess remains untouched. The ten at the entrance and Mytara likewise escape harm. The distance to the entrance is too great, and the geissa didn't fall for the ruse, putting up a shield in time to absorb all the damage. A pity, but I'm still satisfied with the result.

For a moment after the explosion is over everything remains perfectly still, as if some invisible operator stops playback. The respite lasts a fraction of a second before the action rushes forth like an avalanche.

"Light up the exit! Kata, in the center!" the head priestess barks her orders over the groans and the cussing. Then, in one breakneck motion she reaches the dungeon entrance, fully blocking off that escape route.

Belated voices sound from the entrance. One wounded warrior swears through clenched teeth. The cave is illuminated by lime-green flashes of healing spells. The surviving priestess quickly heals Dzar and tosses a Spark in front of herself.
Two more Sparks appear at the entrance, and Mytara puts up a Lantern before the dungeon portal.

I move as quickly as I dare, miraculously escaping detection as I hop over the two layings and take cover behind the stalagmite at the left wall. There's no escaping this, but I got what I wanted! Next time these haughty scumbags will think twice before messing with a player. I'm up 5:0 already, and Diversion will be going off cooldown soon. If I survive until then, I'm going to try and run up the score!

"There he is!" Mytara points right at me. "Take him alive! He must pay for everything!"

The floor of the cave shudders. The stalagmite jutting out to my right crashes to the ground. Pebbles rain down from the ceiling. A terrible racket ensues as one of the walls shatters, chunks of bedrock flying in all directions, as a giant brown stump rolls out into the cave.

And pounces on the nearest squad of fighters.

"Phaelican!" several voices cry out at once.

Chapter 35

A  veil of fine limestone dust shrouds a third of the cave. The drow disperse in different directions as Mytara shouts something, accentuating the word "Yblisce."

Level 220 and one hundred fifty million HP! The elongated muzzle is covered with terrible bone spikes. A veritable auger boring machine, in the flesh... And with fantastic timing!

The alchemist mentioned that the Phaelican only comes out at night, and nighttime in Arkon officially ends at five o'clock. The worm must have sensed the destruction of the eggs and resolved to punish the interlopers. That's just a theory, of course. Either way, judging by the drow's reactions, the monster's appearance came as a surprise.

With a strike of the head, the worm tosses one of the warriors aside, then proceeds to spray the area with venomous-green ichor. The terrible fluid hisses as it hits rock and crashes against the priestesses' magical shields. A repugnant chemical stench fills the air.

"I got him!" Dzar yells as he Charges at the Phaelican's head.

That could throw a wrench in my plans! If the warrior can occupy the worm, the tow-headed bitch might remember the existence of a certain rogue who happens to still be nearby. I should use this chaos to get the hell out! All I need is three-four seconds, I think as I gun right toward the burgeoning battle.

The reek is unimaginable. Hazy silhouettes flicker in the billowing dust, the only clear elements being the health bars and names above their heads. The exit is still blocked by a pair of mages, the Spark won't expire for a while, and there's no way to get to them without losing stealth. Having scattered traps on the approach to the dungeon, Mytara rushes to the aid of her troops as they take their positions around the monster. But I don't care about them—all I want is to incapacitate the tank!

Intercepting the worm with Provoke, the warrior starts backing away to the far wall, deftly using his shield to block attacks. The monster's attention is now fully on Dzar, each of its blows taking off a quarter of his HP. But the priestesses don't slack, restoring the warrior's HP bar to full in an instant. All I need is to not miss my moment. Nobody expects such audacity from me, so I'm going to get at least one chance. Two invisibilities, poisoned daggers, vials on my belt. Check, check, check. Ready, set...

Well, maggot? Where's your super ability?!

The worm seems to hear my plea. With a horrendous shriek, the Phaelican yanks its fifteen-foot body out of the rock and lashes at one of the priestesses with is tail. Then, the worm pukes a waterfall of slime on the tank and strikes with its head, reducing his HP to a half.

With one of the priestesses out of rotation and Mytara on the run... it's time!

I Shadowstep behind Dzar and open with a Kidney Shot. Using your shield to block ain't easy while stunned. Then a two-point Rupture to apply the poison. Go on, maggot, finish him!

The warrior's chest is uncovered, and the monster's next attack crits. Dzar literally folds in half, bringing the score to six:zero for the worm and me!

My feet burn from the monster's venom and the cursed ring keeps devouring HP, but I don't care! I did it! And I'm far from the top of the Phaelican's aggro list[25]—other targets will definitely take higher priority.

As if confirming my thoughts, the boss' enormous body slithers right past me with a nasty, disorienting shriek, and I pay for my dithering with a Spear of Darkness to the shoulder. The priestess knocked back by the worm cries out while pointing at me, and I feel the pain of a Paralyzing Shot shoot through my hip.

Your Toughness skill has increased to 7%.

I use the ring to dispel the paralysis effect, then Fade to Dark, break a health vial on my belt, and Roll toward the wall. The dust makes it impossible to see more than seven-eight feet ahead, the cries behind me blend with the blood-curdling shrieking of the rampaging boss. The bloody fog disperses thanks to Spirit kicking in as I toss a Diversion behind me and press into the cold rock of the wall. Twenty yards to the entrance, past two mages, and I'm free. The others aren't paying any attention to me—not with the worm running riot on the lot of them, giving me the respite and seconds needed to make my escape.

Wait... wait... Now! The stalagmite shattering from the strike of the monstrous tail is like the sound of a starting pistol firing. I push off the wall and quickly make for the exit, skirting puddles and grimacing from the stench. In the billowing dust I can only make out the contours of the monster and the reddening HP bars over the enemies' heads. Just a little more...

A Flare lights up the area to my left, yanking me out of invis. Realizing that the timer is down to seconds now, I pop Sprint.

A Kidney Shot freezes one of the mages midway into turning toward me. I Roll, then Kick the other one with the heel of my boot, interrupting his cast. Take a break, fellas, and good luck with the Phaelican!

I leap out of the cave and fade back into the shadows at once, then begin a hasty descent down the footpath.

You are detected...

A mighty blow to the shoulder makes me stumble; a second later, another arrow flickers before my eyes, leaving a blazing trail.

"On the ground, scumbag!" several voices shout at once.

I turn and Roll away from the next salvo.

The archers took positions at the exit from Uroh's Passage. That's the end of my luck... But it was stupid of me to underestimate them.

A Lantern hangs at the mouth of the tunnel, and two full squads of five are climbing up the path to aid the main party. My road to freedom is blocked by two level 200 fighters: two archers, a mage, a warrior, and a priestess. They're not moving, knowing full well that I have nowhere to run. My invis is on a cooldown, and it wouldn't help here, anyway. Well, then...

"On the ground!" the priestess commands again, gesturing for the archers to hold their fire.

"Eat shit," I grin back at her, then gun towards the wall of mist.

A sharp pain shoots up my chest—having been activated by the first wound, the ring's effect pushes my health into the yellow sector. I won't be able to recover my corpse anyway, so better no one else gets it. As long as I don't croak en route!

A pair of arrows tear into my flesh, knocking the wind out of me and changing the wall of mist before my eyes from gray to blood-red. The body spasms with unbearable pain. With a monstrous force of will I force my feet to keep moving, overcoming the last several yards, and dive into the curling mist, moving almost entirely by inertia. At last, a merciful darkness takes me.

Chapter 36

The Curse of the Departed Gods siphons 15% + 200 (your level) of your HP.

Attention! Dying in the Misty Barrier of the Departed Gods will incur irreversible changes to your character's settings.

…

The Curse of the Departed Gods siphons 15% + 200 (level) of your HP.

Attention! Dying in the Misty Barrier of the Departed Gods will incur irreversible changes in your character's settings.

…

I scream out from the pain racking my whole body, break a healing potion on my belt, and hold my breath to keep from screaming again.

Bit by bit, the searing pain recedes. The blood keeps pounding in my temples, but that's tolerable.

After struggling to pry open my eyes, I take a bemused look around at the gray clouds of dust and the ragged patches flickering through them, like dark amoebas. There's smoke, but nothing that smells like fire. In fact, the smell is more like what you would find in a long-abandoned home.

My HP bar keeps twitching from eighty-three percent to one hundred, then back and again. Wait, my HP bar? I survived?! Hot damn!!! I glance at the system message spamming my log, then swear again.

One thousand seven hundred damage per second! How am I still alive? What's with the crazy regen? Spirit should only be restoring ten percent!

I sit down and take a look at my stats, but find no answer there. 10.05% regeneration from Spirit, so where are the other seven percent coming from? I shift my focus to the ring... and freeze in astonishment.

True Darkness' Embrace [CURSED]

Accessory; ring.

Bound item.

Indestructible. Cannot be unequipped.

Artifact, scalable.

No minimum level.

Grants 8% of total HP every second.

+400 to damage (True Darkness)...

+20% to physical damage

+20% to magic damage

+20% to damage-over-time

+20% to armor class

+10% to maximum resistances

Obliteration.

Crafted by Arkam, the Herald of Darkness.

So that's what it is... The ring inversed value! The buffs from food and alchemy are all gone. I have ten thousand HP with a +105 regen. That means I lay here for less than a minute, assuming I came to when my life fully recovered. But why is it so quiet? Is the mist soundproof?

I look again at the system message, then close my eyes wearily. I haven't a clue as to how the ring is connected to the mist—and even less of a clue as to the changes to my character's settings. Only one thing is clear: I'm going to have to ponder this somewhere else. Anywhere else but here.

It's hard to think when your body convulses with pain every bloody second.

I reopen the character menu, give a tormented grunt, and slowly get up. My Toughness went up to eleven percent while I was out! If only it was always that easy... Anyway, thanks for the extra Toughness and all, but I need to split. If it's true that I lay here less than a minute, there's still a whole bunch of assholes whence I came. And they'll likely be occupied with the giant worm for another half-hour. Therefore, I need not think hard about which direction to go from here: the one opposite Thalim. I'll also get to see what lies behind—or maybe within—this mysterious mist.

The visibility is no more than five-six feet, and the map is one big dark blotch, but I can still tell the right direction. I walk fifteen steps to the right, hitting a wall of cool moist rock, and start making my way east.

This mist is an interesting substance, I think while moving through the veil of gray streaked with black. A level 200 healer should be able to get through it without difficulty, but it probably affects the locals differently. With so many priestesses around, someone would have discovered the ruse by now.

But maybe I'm celebrating too soon? Who knows what awaits me ahead? Then again, who cares! Only he who dares to risk everything can achieve anything. My granddad taught me that. I'm going to make it through this tunnel, wherever it takes. I've got no other choice.

The minutes crawl, one after another, but the passage still doesn't end. The pain keeps pounding in my temples, maddening. The black blots swimming in the mist hypnotize, increasingly taking shape of scowling demons, hissing and whispering at me from all sides. Male and female, the voices interweave, blending into a monotonous, unintelligible singsong. At some point water begins squelching underfoot, and a few minutes later I'm knee-deep in. Suddenly, the wall of rock disappears from my touch, and a dry male voice rattles in my ears.

Announce yourself!

The voice sounds distant, but the speaker might be only a few feet away. It's impossible to tell how sound travels in this mist.

"Kris Venom, rogue," I reply, then pause and wait for continuation. Going any further is fraught—this is probably the aforementioned barrier. Fighting an invisible mob in the mist would be foolish, and also likely unnecessary. He's probably going to ask questions now. My instinct proves right.

Which of the gods do you revere more than others, kinless? asks my invisible interlocutor.

Logic dictates that I say "Lolth," but it's better not to lie in these situations. Especially in my situation. Certain creatures in the game can recognize lies with ease, and with pain turned on and without a Logout button...

"Bel," I say with conviction, gazing at the blots flickering in the mist. "I revere the God of Deceit, and have made offerings to him above all others."

Do you think that the Darkfaced One is worthy of ruling Anthrum? The asker's voice is tinged with... hope? Hatred? Doom?

"I don't know," I shake my head, assuming that the interlocutor sees me perfectly well. "Honestly, I don't. Who am I to pass judgments over gods?"

Very well, comes the answer from the mist. Last question, kinless. What do you value more: intellect or will? Give your answer!

"Will!" I reply without hesitation.

Prove it!

The lines of the system message turn from yellow to red and begin to pulsate brightly, nearly blinding me.

The Curse of the Departed Gods siphons 25% +200 (level) of your HP.

Attention! Dying in the Misty Barrier of the Departed Gods will incur irreversible changes in your character's settings.

The sensation is that of a vice crushing my head and shooting high-voltage currents down my spine. My HP bar starts diminishing rapidly.

"You bloody bastard!"

I whip out my daggers and dash forward. Whoever this is, I don't intend on dying like a chump!

The Curse of the Departed Gods siphons 25% +200 (level) of your HP.

Attention! Dying in the Misty Barrier of the Departed Gods will incur irreversible changes in your character's settings.

The mist turns to viscous jelly, making each movement a struggle. But I don't care! All I need is to get within range of Shadowstep.

The Curse of the Departed Gods siphons 25% +200 (level) of your HP.

Attention! Dying in the Misty Barrier of the Departed Gods will incur irreversible changes in your character's settings.

Your Toughness skill has increased to 12%.

The pain becomes increasingly unbearable. As my life dips below half, my vision gets clouded by crimson tongues. Each movement feels like tearing through barb wire. You're not getting away, asshole! I'm still coming for you...

Your health is restored!

Lake Ul-Illindyt, Temple of the Seven. Zone level ???

I think that I was shouting something and cussing... Breathing becomes easier, though my vision is still clouded by red blots. Is it over? Was it a test? Legs like jelly, I barely keep my balance as I take a full breath and hold it, waiting for the pain to recede. Then I put the daggers away, wipe the sweat off my forehead, and take a slow look around.

Chapter 37

The enormous cavern runs at least three hundred yards in diameter. The ceiling looks like a southern sky, topped by myriad silver lights. The ground is nearly entirely underwater—except for an island in the center. That drow did mention the mist concealing some kind of sanctuary. Well, he wasn't wrong.  I've never seen a temple quite like it—nor one that inspired such awe and dread. Massive columns interweaving like vines, ragged window holes, twisted statues of strange creatures... The uneven aperture of the entrance rests on a small elevation, a winding staircase running up to it. There's not even a hint of symmetry, and somehow I don't think it's by design. I just can't imagine a human mind conceiving such a thing.

You have come... a voice rustles in my head. I focus my eyes and feel my jaw literally drop.

A terrible creature stands to the right of the entrance, hard to pick out against the obsidian-black walls of the temple. As big as a mature bull, with sinewy muscles covered by matte scales, huge membranous wings ridden with ragged holes, the head of a canine and the tail of a dragon. The creature looks almost like the mythical manticore, but not quite.

A Guardian of the Temple of the Seven. Level 600 with ten billion HP! Never before have I seen a monster of this caliber. Good thing the bar above his head is yellow. For now...

I turn around just in case. Figures. The wall of mist behind me is now an actual wall, though still gray.

Come closer... the voice echoes in my head.

If stuck on a submarine, where do you go?

A narrow path runs up to the temple, roughly two hundred feet long and no more than six-seven feet across. Submerged in water, it's well-illuminated by the lights flickering off the ceiling. Nothing is visible on either side of the path, the edges bordering a bluish-black abyss—I don't even want to think about the kind of devilry that lurks there. The zone has no level, but going off the fact that it's got a level 600 raid boss, 300 is the bare minimum. Which might as well be a zillion as far as I'm concerned. The abyss looks terrifying... and incredibly alluring at the same time. It draws and beckons, enthralling me with such force that I feel a rush of primitive fear—to the point of trembling knees and cold sweat running down my spine. Damn hallucinations...

I shake my head to chase away the delusion, then step on the path and start toward the temple, trying to look only directly ahead. There's a reason I'm here. This god-like NPC wants something from me, so I shouldn't be in any danger.

The water splashes softly underfoot, the lights sparkle overhead, and up ahead looms the black bulk of the strange temple. Gone is the physical pain, gone are all my anxieties and fears, wholly displaced by a long-forgotten feeling—the anticipation of Wonder...

One would think, what else is there to be amazed by after all that has happened?

The patch that turned the whole world upside down happened only a few days ago. But such is the essence of being human: when checking the carcass of a slain mob or reaching into the pocket of some NPC, every player hopes to chance upon their miracle. Like the Golden Hind for Sir Francis Drake. Only the infamous pirate did get the ship of his dreams, while my golden galleon is still lost at sea. The necromancer's journal doesn't apply on account of the ring that came with it, which, incidentally, switched back to its usual rotten mode. Of course, I would never have passed through the mist without it, so that's at least one service it's done for me.

The monster is silent, its gaze serene, almost resigned to fate. It's not until I stop at the foot of the stairs and look up questioningly does the Guardian step forward, bare its fangs, and speak.

"I've waited for you for five thousand years... I remember the times when the first Ilythiiri descended into Anthrum from Karn, winning the favor of the Six in the process. Even when the Cunning One arrived and the gods became seven, I continued my faithful service."

His fangs and palate are black. His speech flows easily. The words echo up to the ceiling as I stand there and try my darnedest to follow, seemingly in vain. Lolth is the Goddess of Cunning, yes, but she never "arrived"—she's been here all along!

"For two thousand years the Seven reigned in Anthrum. Their reign lasted... until the Betrayal..."

The Guardian sighs, then continues talking, looking over my head.

"That marked the end. The Betrayal settled in the souls of the Ilythiiri. But the Curse of the Departed Rulers sealed this place from traitors, leaving only me... a forgotten Guardian of a forgotten temple."

The monster raises his head slightly, his eyes flashing with crimson flame.

"Two nights ago, the Astral exploded, and now Gloom hangs over Anthrum," the Guardian's voice now rings with steel. "The statue is nearly full, and a Foul Darkness will soon envelop the land. Your path has been long, Kris Venom. My cycle ended two decades ago, and I cannot help you anymore. Feel free to dispose of my essence as you see fit."

The Guardian peers into my eyes and speaks triumphantly.

"Enter the temple, Dark One! Enter and discover your Destiny!"

With those words, the monster crumbles to dust. Right where it just stood, a small blob of darkness falls to the slabs. In the ensuing silence I hear a melodious chiming as a single stone hops down the staircase and comes to rest at my feet.

I stand there for about a minute, mouth agape, unable to utter a word. It all happened so quickly, so unexpectedly. He gave me no time at all to react or ask any questions. All that stuff about gods, the "Seven," some great "Betrayal"... And then he called me a "Dark One." In what universe is that the case? Did some of these creatures go mad when the game realm became real? And what's with me now being the focus of some grand plan? This is NOT the kind of miracle I was hoping for! More like, let me sweep some floors in the sacred temple, wash some dishes, fish some haddock to be served to the beast for breakfast, score an epic as my reward, and be on my merry way. What I don't want is to meddle in the affairs of the gods! Not while any suffered pain is real and I have no Logout button! Sadly, it doesn't look like I have a choice. There's no going back now—the barrier behind me is not likely to disappear until I walk into the temple. I've played the game long enough to know better.

With a heavy sigh, I pick up the stone and focus my eyes on it.

Abberhat's Cursed Soul

Bound item.

The stone is a delicately cut diamond. A large one, the size of a small chicken egg. And so utterly black that it looks like there's a hole in my palm. A strange kind of soulstone—if that's what it is.

I recall the Guardian's last words and draw a resigned sigh. I'm supposed to do something with this stone. But what? I check the quest log, just in case, but find nothing new. Strange. Now why couldn't it be an actual black diamond?! I can't even imagine how much that could be worth. A baronial castle? Two of them? Then again, if I were to get my hands on one, I would never sell it. You just don't randomly come into possession of items like that. The soulstone of a level 600 monster is priceless. Like a painting stolen from the Louvre or a suitcase of cocaine. The value is astronomical, but the practical benefit is nil. Not unless I can summon him or something...

My capacity for shock is exhausted. Maybe once I'm out of here and some place safe, I will take some time to think and research, consult the Chronicles, and so on... But not now.

I put the stone away and take a seat on the stairs, head hanging low. I don't want to go into that temple. My intuition is literally screaming at me that whatever waits for me inside is going to make all my adventures thus far seem like a pleasure walk in comparison. Yet, I have to go. And I will go... After I take a minute to sit here and feel sorry for myself. Only a minute—the temple ain't going anywhere.

In fact, besides this weird temple behind me, I'm also facing two other problems, neither of them of the minor variety. And that's not including being hunted by an entire Lesser House whose every member would give their eye teeth to chop off my head and deliver it to Felata on a silver platter. But it's not them I'm worried about—I've escaped far worse. What's got me concerned is the Mark of a Killer that's hanging on me. Exactly one day after application, it will turn into a debuff that ticks once per minute, one that I won't be able to hide, not even with Persona. Kind of like the PK tag for NPCs. Meaning that any asshole is going to be able to attack me, kill me, and maybe even capture me—if they get lucky—and hand me off to the very faction whose member I dispatched to the Land of Eternal Hunt. None of those scenarios excites me. Though it deals no damage, the mark does a splendid job of breaking stealth, and it's going to take a whole month to disappear... Or my death.

One option is to hole up somewhere for a month until the mark fades, but I don't like that option at all. I would sooner head to Thalim tomorrow night, bump off the mage that put the mark on me, and destroy his charged medallion. Those are devices nearly all NPCs possess. When an NPC bites the dust and a friendly NPC realizes that the killer is about to escape scot-free, the medallion gets charged somehow, and its master can use it to cast this ugly mark on the perp. Long story short, mage Ecilau Aine needs to get got, and then I'm outta here. I've got what I came for, the moss-based poison, and now it's time to go lest I overstay my welcome, especially considering how unwelcoming this city has been.

The second problem relates to the words of that puffed up turkey about my "astral track" breaking. What does that even mean? I've never heard of such a thing as an astral track, but it appears that that's exactly what led them right to me. Which begs a few pressing questions. What the hell is it? Who can see it? And how do I hide it? Every ability in the game must have a counter-ability. This brand new game world came tumbling upon our heads unexpectedly, and now we're all sitting ducks until we learn the rules. Information in the Chronicles is limited and there's no access to any forums, so the only way to get answers is good old-fashioned personal experience. Perhaps Daria has learned something, or maybe I could corner one of the local priestesses and interrogate her. I'll consider that option when I get some free time.

I take a few sips of water from the flask, screw shut the lid, and gaze thoughtfully at the smooth surface of the lake. It's time to go and find out what the deal is about this temple. The Guardian's words made little sense, but he seemed to mention some kind of statue.

Chapter 38

The most famous statue in Anthrum is a thirty-foot sculpture of a bat in the main temple complex of Lolth in Louu, with the animal symbolizing the primary incarnation of the Goddess of Guile and Cunning. This is the main distinction between our Lolth and her namesake from the Underdark. Though she can also take spider form, and up on Karn many still refer to her as the Spider Queen, it is not her primary form. According to Daria, at some point a few especially accomplished priestesses receive shadow form identical to the goddess' incarnation. How many girls do you know that would voluntarily take on the form of a gruesome insect? A bat, on the other hand, is much more agreeable.

Personally, I don't see a bat as being an upgrade over a spider in any measurable way, but I didn't bother arguing the point with Daria—getting into such arguments is fraught. Anyway, if that is, in fact, the statue mentioned by the Guardian, then Daria would know better than me. So I will ask her when I see her. Enough delaying the inevitable! I put the flask away into my bag, get up, and begin to ascend toward the temple entrance looming darkly ahead.

This cavern is a strange one indeed. It's quiet, almost like a cemetery. And then there's this eerie lake with still water. According to the devs, virtually every body of water must have fish living in it, but the surface of this one is without any movement, above or below. No even a splash. An exception to the rule, perhaps. And I'm not so sure the devs are in charge of this world anymore.

I pause at the threshold and look at the ground carefully, but find nothing there. The dust from the monster's body is gone, as if absorbed into the worn, cracked stone.

With a shrug, I step inside, and find myself in a narrow corridor with strangely sagging walls. I continue down the slightly sloping floor into a large square hall, stopping at the doorstep to take a good look at the place.

The space is roughly fifty by fifty yards, with a sculptural composition in the center. And nothing else. Nothing at all. And this is supposed to be a temple? Shoot, even Bel's temple in Vaedarr is ten times more impressive than this! Or am I missing something? That Guardian was guarding this for five thousand years? Why?!

I examine the sculptures from a distance, but the mystery doesn't become any clearer.

There are seven humanoid sculptures: three female and four male. They stand at roughly the same intervals from one another, encircling a round structure that sort of looks like an altar. Or maybe more a pool than an altar, some fifteen feet in diameter, into which fell some heavy object, and just when the water went splashing every which way, the whole scene froze and turned to black rock. Of the seven, three of the men and two of the women stand with hands raised, palms out, as if to cover themselves from the splashes. The other male is on his knees, covering his face, and only the woman next to him stands in a normal pose, arms spread slightly.

Before I have the chance to process the scene, everything changes in some imperceptible way. Something unimaginably alien surrounds me, pressing on me from all directions. My blood starts pumping as my nostrils are assailed with the musty stench of a crypt. Breathing becomes a struggle as cold sweat trickles down my spine and my knees buckle. I manage to keep standing only by leaning against the wall. After steadying my breath, I gaze back at the sculptures surrounding the pool, and feel my hair stand on end. Five of the seven figures—the ones with their hands stretched out in front—now stand with their faces turned toward me. We proceed to stare at each other for ten seconds before the delusion fades, and the composition resets to its original scene.

I set my jaw to keep from screaming, feeling the tears stream down my cheeks as I slide down the wall to the floor, and lay my head on the cold stone.

My consciousness returns after five minutes. Normal breathing has resumed as well, but I keep sitting there a while, gazing at the creepy sculptures. It's clear as day that I have to get closer, but that is the absolute last thing I want to do now. This place reeks of death ten times worse than the pathway that brought me here. Every fiber of my being screams at me to run, but I know it's useless. The way back is blocked, and there's no leaving this zone without continuing this quest, the next phase of which must be somewhere here. Again, clear as day, but that doesn't make it easier.

At last, I will myself to get up and make my way toward the composition.

The statues are a sinister sight indeed. Their faces look washed-out, almost molten. The one on his knees has his face fully covered, but the woman standing next to him... I know her—I've seen her image before. Straight nose, high cheekbones, slightly slanted eyes—there's no forgetting her face. The visage of the supreme drow goddess expresses undisguised triumph, and I'm beginning to suspect I know what betrayal the Guardian spoke of. Something definitely happened here, though the details are not yet clear. Lolth must have done something that caused the altar to spray the others with some kind of filth. But what can melt the faces of gods themselves? Why is Lolth unharmed? And why aren't their hands or wrists damaged, but only their faces? I can spend the whole day guessing, but that's not practical. Somewhere around here there must be a quest.

Not feeling any more pressure on my brain, I skirt around the altar, studying the statues carefully. Nothing in particular pops out at me. My gaze lingers on Lolth's smirk, but I can't explain why. The figures look human: three in plate, three in cloth, and the kneeling one is in chainmail. Absent any name plates, the identity of these six is unclear. Presumably these are the aforementioned Departed Gods, but there are hundreds of such statues around every temple! So what am I supposed to find here that's special?

I'm about to start knocking on walls for the presence of secret caches when the floor trembles underfoot, bleeding symbols flare up on the walls, and the five slowly turn their molten faces toward me. My feet almost fuse with the ground as the cold smell of decay washes over me. The blood-red symbols flare brighter as the statues reach for me with only their right hands. The next moment, variegated clots of magic flame strike my chest, tearing my body apart. This is what it must feel like to be dragged through the nine circles of hell all at once... But then the pain ends, just as suddenly as it began. The scream gets stuck in my throat, and then...

ERROR 757:%No*3

An obnoxious buzzing signals an error as lines of red-lettered system messages crawl before my eyes.

Attention! You have learned passive skills:

All damage dealt with swords and daggers is increased by 20% (Blessing of Tannas, the God of Shrewdness and Unscrupulousness).

All magic damage dealt is increased by 20% (Blessing of Kuma, the Goddess of Ambition and Arrogance).

All damage-over-time is increased by 20% with every tick. A break of three seconds or longer resets the accumulated value (Blessing of Zeur, the God of Serpents and Poisons).

20% bonus to two highest stats (Blessing of Ydris, the God of Dark Passages and Patron of Subterranean Beasts).

1% of all damage sustained is returned to you as HP, Mana and Energy (Blessing of Sherra, the Goddess of Tainted Blood and Patroness of Vampires).

You've accessed the quest: Covenant with the Departed.

Quest type: artifact, unique.

Complete the Covenant with the Five Departed Gods of Anthrum.

Reward: experience, variable.

Attention! If the quest chain breaks, the blessings of the Departed Gods will turn to curses, and the values will be reversed!

You've accessed the quest: Covenant with the Departed I: Arkam's Manuscript and the Vial of True Darkness.

Quest type: artifact.

Infiltrate the secret vault in the main temple complex of Lolth in Louu and recover from there the Manuscript of Arkam, the Forgotten God, and the Vial of True Darkness.

Attention! The time for completing this quest is limited. If you don't complete the conditions within thirty days, you will have failed the quest.

Time remaining: 29 days, 23 hours, 59 minutes...

A squeaking sound growing in volume breaks my confounded contemplating of the lines of text.

Chapter 39

Attention all players (1) in this zone! Lake Ul-Illindyt and the Temple of the Seven are going to be transformed! Any players still in this zone at the time of its transformation will lose their characters.

Time remaining: 04:59... 04:58... 04:57...

Lose my character? As in die? Like, for real?

With a dry cracking sound, one of the statues grows covered with a web of winding fissures, then collapses in a cloud of dust. Another one follows. The ground starts moving under my feet. Quickly folding all the messages, I dash for the exit from this cursed place. There'll be time to reread the text, assuming I make it out alive.

Once outside, I pause for a moment, dazed by what I see. The whole cavern shakes. Huge chunks of bedrock fall from the ceiling and crash deafeningly on the ground. None of this racket could be heard from inside the temple, which was apparently fully isolated from the outside world.

Wasting no time, I step on the main footpath and rush full-speed toward the opened passage. The barrier is gone, and the mist doesn't bother me anymore. Hell, it's like an old friend at this point. After running into the opening and confirming the change of zones, I keep going another fifty yards, then take a seat on the ground by the wall of rock, and try to digest what happened.

The hostile magic keeps devouring my life every second, just as before, but the cursed ring has reversed value again, and I don't feel any pain thanks to my inflated Spirit. This passage is now the safest place for me. Not much time has passed, and it's better I hide out in here for now.

Taking a few sips from the flask, I lean back against the wall and reread the system messages, then sit there in a stupor for another five minutes. It would appear that I have one month left to live. I don't know what I've done to anger the gods or incur their hatred, only that everything sucks. At my level and with my abilities, there's no way I'm getting anywhere near the temple complex in Louu given its defenses and level 350 guards, let alone some secret vault on the temple grounds. Its main building alone is only slightly smaller than all of Thalim. Where would I even look for this bloody vault? Secret is secret precisely because only the chosen few know about it.

Settle down! Think! I rub my temples and massage my face, trying to focus. First, the system spat out some error, which was followed by all those blessings and the quest, which, incidentally, I couldn't refuse. I scan the lines of text one more time, and suddenly feel like laughing. An artifact rank quest! Up until now, I only read about artifacts in the news, but I've got two already! The ring and the quest. Aren't I a lucky SOB... Until recently I didn't even know there was such a thing as a quest that cannot be refused, and now there's one where the reward isn't set beforehand but variable. Variable between what and what, exactly?

That said, the advance payment I received is truly regal. With these bonuses I could become world champion in the arena—a pity it's only for one month. Anyway, this isn't what I should be focusing on. There's a common thread to this story that I'm missing. Why me and not somebody else? I reread the quest description to try and find that common denominator. Let's start from the top. I nicked five items from a paladin, one of which helped me to traverse the mist... The ring!!!

I focus on the ring and grunt. Its maker was Arkam, the same Arkam who penned the manuscript from the latest quest. Turns out it's another god. I recall wanting to sock him in the mouth for the "gift" of his ring. The desire to do that only grew since then, though making good on it won't be easy. At any rate, there's the common denominator. Arkam is directly connected to all the shit I've been shoveling since the beginning. Does that mean the ring was my key to the temple? If so, why would the Guardian have questioned me like that? Besides, any player with fifteen hundred points in Spirit could have passed through the mist just as easily.

A thought strikes me. These "Departed Gods" are completely unknown in the game lore. What if they and that whole temple, along with the quest, only appeared in the game after the patch? But then how does the ring figure into it? After all, I lifted it before the patch hit. And that doesn't explain the connection between Arkam and the Departed—or Lolth's role in the story.

The Guardian's words were clear that she was the last to arrive. Yet another mystery is the identity of the kneeling male figure. Was he a god as well? I was blessed by only five of the seven gods, excluding Lolth and that fella.

Incidentally, I've got to admit—the drow gods were a curious bunch. Ambition, monsters, vampires, serpents, unscrupulousness... Taken together, you get a pretty accurate depiction of the classic Underdark. One big mishmash of reprobates of every stripe—it's hard to feel good about being blessed by such a crew. In fact, given the choice, I would gladly have told them to take their blessings and their quest and stuff it where the sun don't shine. Of all the blessings, the one that I'll miss most is the poison amplifier. With the calculator being readily available in your head, it's easy enough to compute that my new poison would add forty-six thousand damage on the tenth tick of Rupture against an opponent without Nature resistance, bringing the total amount to just under two hundred thirty-three thousand! That means I'll be able to take down any same-level NPC with just the one opening! And then there is the extra twenty percent damage, siphoning HP and Energy from enemies, and so on... Like one last cigarette before getting the guillotine.

Snap out of it, wuss! You've got a whole month to figure this thing out. I nod to myself, fish for a flask and take a few swigs, then smile. Isn't this what you've always dreamed of, Oleg? An epic adventure with an epic reward? Better than epic, even. An artifact-tier reward!

With a sigh, I lean my head back against the wall and close my eyes wearily. I can make light of the situation all I want, but it won't change anything. I need to be heading out to Louu on the double, and hope to learn something about the vault on location. There are no impossible quests—only a lack of willpower and smarts. Anyway, the plan for tonight is to smoke the mage and split. Until then, I'm not going to worry about it.

This Ecilau Aine will most likely be in Thalim for the night, but blindly heading into the city would be stupid. I should find out where to look for that asshole first. My retreat will be toward Zul-Gehit. There are no caravans traveling from Thalim to Louu, but a little over a mile from here lies a stop of one such route to the capital, running from the lands of the Elder House Meddoran. So that's where I'll go. It means wasting one-and-a-half days, but there's nothing that can be done about that. If all goes well, I'll be in Louu on the fifth day, with enough time to get my bearings and decide on the next steps. I only wish I could ask someone about the vault directly. Presumably, the goddess is mistress of all things found in the temple complex, and no NPC in their right mind would act against their deity. That leaves Daria as my only hope.

The clock shows seven thirty, so I have time to spare. And I'm going to need a good chunk of it to rest. I produce from my bag a cloak specially designated for these situations, equip it, slip into invis, and lie down on the cool rock. I should be safe here anyway, but a little extra precaution never hurts.

Chapter 40

Movie stars really have it good. In films, only important scenes are shown, though whole months may pass between them. Who would want to watch a detective spend weeks digging through evidence in search of a clue, or an assassin soaking in the rain for hours in wait of his mark? The viewers would be bored to tears, so the action fast-forwards to the exact moment the right clue is found or the subject finally appears in the killer's field of vision.

It doesn't rain underground, but the rest still applies, as I'm forced to wait over three-and-a-half hours for my target. Except I have no intention of killing him.

At ten o'clock, a rothé-drawn wagon pulls into the inn's backyard. A familiar laborer quickly unloads some bags into the shed, unharnesses the animals and takes them into the stables, one by one. There aren't any patrols so we could theoretically talk outside, but I'm not one to take unnecessary risks, so I hop off the roof instead and follow him into the stables.

A whole cloud of sparkling midges swarms under the ceiling, illuminating the stables just as well as the light on the outside. The interior amounts to a wide passage down the center with about a dozen stalls across one another on either side. The air smells of mushrooms and milk.

Rothé in Anthrum are similar to terrestrial oxen, only their diet consists mainly of mushrooms. Thanks to the devs, the buildings they're held in are referred to as stables. Then again, subterranean lizards resemble horses even less, but they're likewise housed in the same stables.

I wait for the kid to put the last ox in his stall and head for the exit before slipping out of invis in front of him, then instantly put up my hand in a calming gesture.

"Don't get excited, I just want to talk."

Alon recoils at the sight of me, his face turning deathly pale, and his hand shoots up in a warding-off sign. Yet, upon quickly realizing that he's not in danger, the kid swiftly recovers.

"Master Kris?! You're alive?" he whispers hoarsely. "The soldiers said you perished in the mist."

"Soldiers say all sorts of things," I give a faint smile, then produce a gold coin and hand it to Alon. "Take this. I need a map of Thalim and information on the mages' quarters."

"I... Yes, master," hesitating for only a moment, the kid realizes that he's got no choice, takes the coin, produces a leather scroll from the folds of his tunic, and hands it to me.

"Here's the map. As for the mages..." Alon shrugs and gestures in the direction of Thalim. "There's a magic quarter in the western part of town—all the mages are housed there. Only Master Nierg nearly always sleeps in the barracks, and Master Ecilau in the chambers adjacent to Mistress Felata's. He and the mistress have a thing..." the kid gives a sly smile and spreads his arms. "Master, won't you tell me specifically which mage you're after? There's more than two dozen of them in there."

"No," I cut him off. "I don't need any of the mages. I'm interested in the place where they store reagents. It has to be nearby, right?"

The kid nods. "Aye, it is. At the edge of the quarter, next to one of the barracks. But it's guarded around-the-clock, three guards per shift, and in case of trouble the whole century will descend on you in a matter of minutes. And if they see you there... I must say, master, you really should be leaving after yesterday's events. The garrison lost seven soldiers in one day. Mistress Felata returned to the city an hour ago, and must have already been reported to. Our kind is hardly popular around here to begin with, and now..."

Mm-hmm, so the worm claimed more casualties. Good, next time those pricks will know better than to aggro players.

"Thank you, brother, I'll consider your advice. And I need not tell you that this conversation never happened..."

"Gods forbid, master!" the kid bulges his eyes. "I took your coin, didn't I? Not only did we not speak, I don't even know who you are!"

"In that case, take care!" I nod, clap Alon on the shoulder, and exit the stables.

The fact that he took my money means nothing at all, but he also knows how many folks I put down, so he'll think ten times before turning me in. Besides, I didn't reveal my true plans to him, so there's no need to worry. Still, I linger on the stables' roof a few minutes to watch Alon, but the kid doesn't arouse any suspicion. Without making a fuss, he drags a wagon into the corner of the yard, carries some belts into the shed, then heads unhurriedly toward the inn.

I got what I came here for: the mage I need is the lover of this city's mistress. That is both good and bad. It's good because, going by the map, Felata's chambers are located quite far from the barracks. And it's bad because, being in the city, she may demand the mage's presence in her bed. In which case I'm going to have to go with plan B. Which I haven't devised yet. The mark will only activate late at night, and all I need is to scrape the mage with my dagger.

After Alon disappears from sight, I climb through the window into my private roof, drink a cup of coffee, and replenish my inventory. I'm out of traps, but then nobody is expecting any more shenanigans from me. In their minds, I'm a dead man, and I'm in no hurry to dissuade them of that opinion. In the meantime, it's time to commence with the second phase of plan A.

Chapter 41

Thalim is roughly twice the size of what it appears to be on the outside, with half of the city hidden, stretching into the mountain. Which makes sense—why build something when you can carve it out of rock instead? Or rather, design and draw it, which is even easier. On the whole, Louu and Zul-Gehit are virtually identical to Vaedarr, but this is the first small town I've seen in the drow realm, and I find myself genuinely fascinated by it.

The center of Thalim is an enormous rectangle, four hundred yards long and three hundred across, dissected into four equal sections with columns and arches. But that's where the symmetry ends. Around these four sections, chaos reigns. Residential and industrial levels twist and wind, break and reconnect in an architectural tangle that defies the very notion of order. And if you could actually count seven levels on the outer part of the city facing the road, you couldn't begin to guess the number of levels on the other side. Dozens of stone staircases run up and down and in every direction, past statues of winged monsters, signposts denoting stores and workshops, varicolored magic lanterns, and a vast sea of people. The squares alone hold at least three hundred. The map shows two silver mines located in the depths of the city; presumably, this is where most of the local population toils.

Thalim also has three stationary portals. Only whoever drew this map seems to have forgotten to specify where those portals lead. At any rate, my heretofore view of Thalim as provincial backwoods has certainly changed.

I get into the city unmolested—when a string of wagons at the entrance gets the attention of the priestess on border duty, I simply sneak by her. Common jarheads don't concern me one bit given my disguise, especially since there's nobody at the gates higher than level 180.

I wait in the corner of the square for a few hours, hiding behind a twelve-foot statue of a winged simian, until the majority of people start heading home. Then, after double-checking the map, I make for the chambers of Quenta Felata, located in a secluded part of town not far from the main gates.

Ascending to the fourth level, I pass through three well-lit halls connected by large corridors with walls covered in strange mosaics, successfully evade a run-in with a patrol squad of two surprisingly young priestesses, and find myself in a wide passageway leading to the mistress' chambers.

Quenta a.k.a. Daughter of the House, is a title akin to an Erantian countess. From what I know of drow life and politics, the locals don't don't bring their work home, so Felata's chambers should be mostly empty. A few guards, a half-dozen servants or so, and Monsieur Ecilau Aine. My main objective now is to get past the guards; I'll play the rest by ear. I've nothing to lose, anyway. I'm bound in Zul-Gehit, so in case of failure I'm taking an express train back there and saving myself a day of travel.

I walk another thirty yards and peek out from behind the corner. To my surprise, the gate to Felata's manor is open, and there's not a guard in sight.

Well, maybe calling the priestess' abode a manor isn't terribly accurate, but I don't know how else to call the house carved into the rock. All the houses here differ wildly from one another, from size to quality of finish and everything in between. Either way, the ruler of a city simply must have guards stationed. Of course, it's possible that some of the guards are invisible on purpose, but surely not all of them! That would be foolish. And I would have likely detected some of them already—aside from Felata herself, there shouldn't be anyone here above level 200.

But there's no point standing here waiting. Being extra careful, I sneak through the gates and end up in a spacious, well-lit yard. Or, to be perfectly precise, a huge stone hall.

The ceiling here reaches up to roughly sixty feet. On the right, a section of the manor juts out of the rock. A high porch with broad marble stairs, six columns as white as virgin snow, and two six-foot-tall statues of a man and a woman framing the foot of the staircase.

On the outside, the manor's pediment is virtually identical to those found in Erantian noble houses. It's not easy for the developers to conceive truly unique architecture for every race, so the houses were designed off a limited number of templates. Fans of the classic drow universe might complain, but I wouldn't know where to begin—all I remember from that realm are fortresses and shrieking mushrooms.

There aren't any shrieking mushrooms in this yard, however. Instead, I see five service structures, a servants' dwelling, a stables, and a small water tower.

The absence of guards is a real concern. Where could they be? The door to the main building is open—perhaps they move their watch duty indoors for the night?

I make my way slowly along the edge of the yard to a small shed standing directly across the manor, then peek out from behind it to look for the best approach to the main quarters. I'm sure that's where I'll find the mage. Where else would he be at night? The shed?

Nearly one hundred feet of open space. The yard is empty, and with no signs of traps. I'm about to get moving when I hear noise coming from the servants' house to my right. In a few moments, two strange characters walk out into the yard, hooded faces over black cloaks. The sight of them sends cold sweat down my spine as I press my whole body into the wall.
Level 235 with twenty-five million HP each! Their names and titles are hidden, but what the hell are NPCs of this caliber doing here? In theory, they shouldn't be able to detect me—not with the less-than-forty level difference between us—but given this strange new post-patch reality, better safe than sorry.

So I stand there with my bated breath, waiting stupidly for these buggers to take off, when the next development happens, this one even more unpleasant than the last. A tall male figure appears on the porch, likewise in a black cloak but with the hood off, and I thank my lucky stars for the wall of the shed serving as my cover. Level 300 with one hundred million HP! Seriously, what the hell?! Is this the Last Supper? The signing of the Declaration of Independence? What is a level 300 NPC doing in these bloody boondocks?

Meanwhile, the man on the porch signals something to the other two. I can't make out what it is from here, but one of the cloaked figures puts up his right hand in a calming gesture, then displays two open palms, and nods at the house they just exited.

The one on the porch nods and retreats back inside. The other two start toward the gate before vanishing midway through.

Chapter 42

The Faceless! I'm in deep shit now!

These bastards are going to shut the gates now, sealing me in for good. And it don't matter that the bars above their heads are yellow—what do they care about some kinless? Still, what the hell are elite units doing in Thalim? Did the Quenta summon them? At least that would explain why all the servants were expelled from the property.

All these thoughts race through my head as I gun toward the house from which the two Faceless emerged. Its position between the manor and the gates provides decent cover, and I'll be able to peek inside, maybe even learn what they were doing there. Just one peek, then I'll get back to the main objective. I've got no choice, anyway—the mark is going to activate in a few hours' time.

A familiar smell of corroded metal hits me on the doorstep. My suspicions are confirmed as I step into the very first room. The gesture of two open palms is likewise explained. Lying in a pool of blood on the floor are ten bodies. Four with their throats cut, evidently slain right here in the house. Three others—soldiers with the sigil of House Akkri on the front of their uniforms—with swollen bluish faces suggesting strangulation. These were killed right at the gates, then dragged inside to keep the yard from looking like a bloodbath. None of the others show any signs of injury, though. Two priestesses and one familiar mage lie supine on the floor, staring up at the ceiling with glassy eyes. What a curious turn of events...

It would appear that the Faceless came here for the mistress of the city. But why are they still here? To torture her or search the manor for something important? I don't hear any crying or moaning, so the second scenario is the likelier one. Then again, it's easy enough for a high-level NPC to cover any location with a Shroud of Silence so that not even the tiniest sound would escape.

I quickly loot the badge off the dead mage, which the killers couldn't see, and crush it in my fist. Then I allow myself a minute to think. The Mark of the Killer is off now, and nothing is holding me here. The gate is sealed so no one can get through, but I can hole up in some corner and wait this thing out, then slip away undetected. And that's all well and good, only I'm never going to forgive myself for such cowardice. All I have to lose is twenty percent of my levels to try and find out certain information. And if I succeed, I'm looking at the kind of reward that will make anyone's head spin. Even if all I learn is who these guys are, that information alone will fetch a silly sum of money. Do I really need the headache? After all, I've got more than enough shit on my plate already. And yet, this is precisely the kind of thing that got me playing this game to begin with! And now that I've got only one month left to live, I'm going to live it as I like.

It takes less than a second for all these thoughts to race through my head. Without wasting another second while feeling the familiar pleasant tremble in my knees, I start toward the manor, moving as quickly as I'm able. I don't care if those inside the manor can see me. Back in the real world, spies and saboteurs had no invisibility at all, and they managed just fine without it.

Running up the steps, I enter the property and find myself in a large, empty hall. Four paintings on the walls, two paunchy vases with weird-looking plants that smell of pine, a large oval mirror on the right, and absolutely no one around. I sigh with relief and keep walking, looking around as I go. Down one of the hallways branching off the main hall, then left.

The floors are carpeted, making my footsteps soundless. I don't make much noise to begin with, but this isn't the real world. Some NPCs have hearing so keen that a cat stalking on carpet is as loud as a legionnaire returning home from a drinking binge. When you're dealing with the Faceless, no precaution is redundant. They are an elite force of the drow race—plate-clad warriors with Fade to Dark. Every House has them, but the finest of them serve the Council, naturally. A force akin to the human Silverwings or the elvish Wind Walkers. There wasn't much written about them on the forums, but I can only imagine the destruction potential of a warrior capable of attacking from stealth.

The Quenta's house ain't bad at all. There's a refined elegance to the vases nestled in niches and art lining the walls. It would have been nice to rummage through the place, but that is not going to happen, alas. It won't be long until the crime scene is swarming with people, and a few hours isn't enough to find something truly valuable. The art and the vases are useless, too. When stealing an item that cannot fit into one inventory slot, you can't throw it into your bag until after you've left the property on which the theft occurred. In this case, that's about fifty yards from the main gates. Besides, what the hell am I supposed to do with a painting or a vase? Look for a fence to unload it on? Organize a museum in Louu's central square? That's a surefire way of landing on a penal mushroom plantation.

"She's coming to, master."

The unexpected sound gives me a start. The male, somewhat muffled voice came from somewhere up and above.

"I see," another voice answers. "If she starts to scream, choke her a bit. And watch for any sudden movements."

The seemingly apathetic voice of the unseen master rings with steel. It is the voice of someone who's accustomed to deciding the fates of others. It reminds me of my army division commander's voice. Arkon abounds with powerful figures like him, and I wouldn't want to antagonize any of them unnecessarily.

Stepping softly while hugging the wall, I make my way slowly forward. Though I could theoretically eavesdrop from here, what good would it be if I can't identify these people later? Even if they call each other by name, there's no guarantee those names are real. I won't forget the blondie from the porch, but that doesn't mean anything in and of itself. A portrait from my description wouldn't be accurate, and I don't intend on letting a mentalist poke around in my head. There's way too much sensitive information in there to risk exposure.

I find the staircase ten paces later, and the air grows heavy with iron once again. I climb up to the second floor, careful as always, skirt the corpse of the majordomo prostrated on the upper steps, and wind up in a spacious square antechamber with three doors. The one leading right was taken out, along with a section of wall, but that is where the voices were coming from. Back in the hallway, on the approach to the staircase, I could hear somebody's hoarse breathing, but the sounds ended as I was ascending the stairs. It would seem that that's where the Shroud of Silence ends.

Trying to avoid stepping on the rock debris strewn all over the stairs and being seen through the breach, I inch closer to the cracked wall.

"...Caen Jhess... scumbag... Do you really expect to get away with this?" there are whistling notes in the speaker's voice.

It's a woman speaking, and by the sound of it, someone is holding her firmly by the throat.

"I'm certain of it, geissa," replies the other, the same voice that was dubbed 'master' a minute ago. "Either you will tell me everything or you will die, but not before you savor Sherra's Embrace. And don't even try to lie—there's a reason I've brought a tsargh with me. This creature of the Abyss will recognize any falsehood—even one uttered by the likes of you."

"Who could have known that Alehan is in bed with children of the Fallen," the woman laughs hoarsely. "I'm sure the Council will love that..."

Taking advantage of their being distracted by conversation, I sneak a quick peek from behind the wall, take in the hall that lies just beyond it, and immediately snap back, struggling to contain my glee. I did it! This is going to net me a truckload of dough, and maybe something even better besides.

At the far end of the hall, roughly thirty yards away, a beautiful white-haired female of level 280 sits on a leather coach. The upper section of Quenta Felata's torso is shrouded in transparent black smoke. The mistress of the city's hands are twisted and bound behind her back, her half a billion HP down to barely more than forty-five million. The Quenta looks pale, but from her facial expression I wouldn't say she's experiencing any great pain.

The room looks like a battlefield, with the only piece of furniture intact being the couch upon which the prisoner sits. The rest of the room is in shambles—the floor strewn with broken glass, sections of walls and ceiling caved in and streaked with blood.

Chapter 43

The bodies of three priestesses lie near the entrance, with one essentially chopped in half. The attackers, in contrast, are unharmed. I count four of them: the one who came out on the porch, another one just like the first, without name or title, but the other two... Leading the operation to capture Quenta Felata is Duke Caen Jhess, commander of the Faceless of the Elder House Alehan. Because the captive called him by name, it now appears above his head. At level 490 and one-and-a-half billion HP, I shudder to imagine what could have happened to cause an NPC of his prominence to drop everything and head to this hole. The locals never had a chance.

But the most fascinating figure in this whole motley crew is the fourth one, the very same "tsargh" referenced by the prince. A black blot the size of a large wheel, the creature hovers off the floor, its short tentacles shuffling slowly. No name, no HP bar to speak of.

What I see before me is impossible, but with everything I've witnessed in the past several days, I'm not even surprised anymore. Let's see how deep the rabbit hole goes... Objectively speaking, I've learned more than enough already—certainly enough to sell the information for a pretty penny—and yet, I can't force myself to leave now. It's like pickpocketing—the deeper in you get, the more valuable the prize.

"We're wasting time," the duke speaks, ignoring her remarks. "I will remind you what's at stake, geissa. Just to make sure we're on the same page. So, the day before yesterday, Astara Niori, the Elder Daughter of House Klahd, was killed in Stonewood fifteen minutes before her meeting with Matron Cornelia. The cause of death was established soon after. Shadow Blade, the matron's favored spell."

The duke speaks in a dry, emotionless tone, but each word almost scrapes the mind, its impact heavy like a finishing shot. Man, that's some mental pressure. If I were in her place, I would have already confessed to everything from the assassination of JFK to masterminding the Japanese Riots of thirty-seven.

"House Klahd blamed the murder on us," the duke continues. "Our houses were never on friendly terms to begin with, but this is a whole other matter. We're on the precipice of a great war that nobody needs. So, as you can see, my dear geissa, we had no choice but to contract a tsargh to get to the bottom of this. It picked up a faint astral track on the crime scene that led us straight here, to your abode."

"I can imagine how many drow must have lain on the altar for that to happen," the quenta laughs, wheezing. "But what do you want from me?"

"Nobody from your House, don't worry," the duke says calmly. "Hundreds of thousands of immortal outsiders were dumped into Anthrum. They don't make great sacrificial material, but there are a lot of them. As for you, geissa, you're going to have to answer a few questions. If you refuse, I'm going to feed you to the tsargh. It remembers your Fallen mistress quite well, so it's going to love you..."

The last words of the haughty bastard make me cringe. I clench my fist and take a deep breath to keep my anger from boiling over. These scum tortured my people on their altars! Yesterday's office workers, teachers, doctors. People who ended up here against their will. And for no other reason than that they are kinless, like me.

"And what happens if I do answer them? You're not going to sit there and say that you'll let me live, are you?" Felata asks sarcastically.

"Your life is meaningless to me," the duke answers coolly. "My objective is to stop the war. An Elder Daughter of House Klahd is dead, and I'm content to let them deal with you. I swear to you, Quenta Felata, that if you answer all my questions truthfully, neither I nor any who came here with me will cause you any more harm. I swear on the Darkfaced One!"

"So what do you want to know, duke?" Felata inquires, her voice still dripping with sarcasm. "Whether it was me who killed that old bitch? Or maybe the reason for her death?"

"I already know that it was you who killed her. And I suspect I know the reason, too," Caen Jhess assures her after a short pause. "The northern adamantine mines. Akkri thought to sow a rift between the two Elder Houses, then use the ensuing tumult to take the mines under their control. With Klahd being on hard times, they cannot afford to wage war on two fronts. But enough about that. I'm interested in the following: who gave you the order to kill Astara Niori? How did you find out about the meeting in Stonewood? How did a pitiful creature such as yourself manage to take out an Elder Daughter of an Elder House? And what did you do with the girl that accompanied Astara to that meeting?"

"Bel's Mirror and a single-use Ji's Amplifier," Felata explains. "The mirror turned me into Cornelia, and the amplifier boosted the power of my Shadow Blade one hundred times. I wish that you had seen the shock on the old hag's face the moment before the spell sliced her in half, duke! I erred in one thing only: I should have used the mirror earlier, then your new friend wouldn't have been able to track me."

"Black Iron?" Caen Jhess' voice betrays bemusement. "The amplifier was made from it?"

Felata chuckles. "That's right. I still have a piece left, and I'm willing to part with it. You can use it to take an astral copy. You need the evidence, don't you, duke?"

"But where did you—"

"Ghetta gave me the artifacts," Felata interrupts him. "She also provided the intel about the meeting place between Astara and Cornelia. You cracked the case, duke. The lands of Princess Ghetta, also an Elder Daughter, border those upon which the adamantine deposits were discovered. Now guess who would have been her pick to oversee the mining operations?"

The silence that ensues lasts a full minute, over which time I almost forget to breathe. The revelations transcend my wildest imagination. An Elder Daughter of a House is the equivalent of a duchess. If memory serves me right, the assassination of an archduke triggered an actual World War back in the early XX century. I marvel at how neatly the pieces fit. If not for this floating ink blot, Alehan and Klahd would be at each other's throats, the conniving Ghetta would have hijacked the mines, and Felata would have been assigned to manage them. An ingenious plan—if only it had worked. I can hate on these assholes all day, but let's give credit where credit is due. Especially when there are lessons to be learned from such machinations.

At last, the duke breaks the silence. "Very well. But you said nothing about the lesser priestess that accompanied Astara."

"She's alive and mostly well," Felata scoffs. "One of the outlanders. When I killed the priestess, the facade of Cornelia faded, and the little bitch recognized me. There was no point killing her—they don't lose their memories upon death, but resurrect in some special spots. She's presently confined to a private dungeon in Louu. And in a special collar that should drive her to total madness in approximately seven dyns."

"Where is the dungeon?" Caen Jhess inquires dryly.

"Hand me a map, duke, and I'll point it out."

"Loosen the shackles on the geissa and give her a map..."

Those are the last words he utters.

The floor shudders underfoot as some monstrous magic demolishes an entire upper section of the wall serving as my cover. The rock explodes with shrapnel as an inhuman, indescribable howl assails my mind. My HP bar plunges to half, my whole body twists with agonizing pain. Unable to keep balance, I drop to my knees and cover my ears. A healing potion... the thought grazes the edge of my consciousness, but I'm unable to lift a finger.

There's no telling how long the effect lasts. Five seconds? Ten? Only when it's all over, with my health restored and the pain gradually abating, I tear my blood-stained hands away from my ears and realize with panic that the mental attack yanked me out of invis, so I slip back in before all is lost. The howl came from a dying tsargh—no sentient creature could have made such a sound.

"Idiots," comes the voice from the room. "Ghetta warned me that you would come, duke..."

I peek out from behind the wall, taking in the changed scene, and give a mental round of applause to the Quenta, now standing in a pool of blood over the mutilated body of Duke Caen Jhess. It would appear that she had another artifact up her sleeve for precisely this occasion, and with her hands unbound, used it to amplify some terrible instacast Aoe.

Well played, Quenta, but it's time for me to bounce. I've learned too much already, and the last thing I want is to be collared and thrown into some dungeon like that player priestess, and rot there until madness takes me.

Chapter 44

Wait! Player priestess? House Klahd?! I gasp in horror at the realization. Daria! My Daria! So few players have earned the title of priestess among all the houses, and she's in House Klahd! Possibly the only one in that House...

A faint rustle precedes a pair of the Faceless appearing in the doorway. One of them blocks the stairs with a trap before they both draw their weapons and rush into the room.

Crap... I gaze yearningly at the blot blocking my escape, then leap forward and try to open the adjacent chambers. Fifty million HP between the two Faceless against forty-five million on Felata. Two mini bosses versus one heavily wounded raid boss. Though their levels are higher, their chances are slim on account of the priestess' ability to self-heal in combat. But regardless of who survives, I need to make it out if I want to help Daria! If Felata is right, she has only a week before she loses her mind.

The room explodes with sounds of battle: the clangor of steel on steel and the champing echoes of a battle lash.

The other doors are locked, as expected, and my gaze turns back to the trap. Halfway through my estimating how I'll be recovering the lost levels, the floor shudders once more, a death rattle sounds from inside the room, and the wall covering me comes crashing down, raising a cloud of dust.

"Dobluth? Where the hell did you come from?!" I can't help but feel a sense of satisfaction at the shock in the quenta's voice. In an instant, she steps over the body of the dying Faceless, throws up her left hand and hurls forward a fifteen-foot black net.

There's no escaping this one with a Roll. My mind races with what's going to come next. The capture. The interrogation. Then the collar and the slow descent into madness in some tiny dungeon. And finally, Daria's smiling face...

I don't think so, miss thang!

My body reacts instantly, Shadowsteping past the net flying toward me. Kidney Shot! Cheap Shot! Stab! Slash! Groundwork!

"I came to remind you about the lesser priestess in the dungeon, you bitch!" I snarl, finishing off with a five-point Rupture!

What happens next is... unthinkable. The blade slices through the high leather collar, instantly consuming the priestess' forty-seven million HP. Her body jerks, her knees buckle. With a wild flailing of the arms, Quenta Felata collapses at my feet.

No... freaking... way...

You've earned a unique achievement, Quenta Felata's Slayer. Quenta Felata is a unique boss that can only be killed once. You and your allies have been granted a permanent 3% increase to your physical and magic damage.

I step back in a daze. My eyes wander around the room, then at the dagger in my right hand, then at the corpse lying at my feet.

A soft woman's laughter chimes somewhere to the side. I turn around sharply, but there's nobody there. Feeling my sanity slipping away, I look back at the dagger, and my eyes catch the outline of the ring. The sense of relief is palpable. Obliteration! The ring's killer feature! No wonder Petrified Mermaid was appraised at such an incredible sum.

OK, great, but why am I still standing here? Enemy reinforcements can arrive any minute!

I bend over and touch the priestess' corpse, then nearly cry for joy at the sight of the loot. Six hundred twenty gold coins, a level 290 epic ring for mages and priests, ten alchemical vials, one mysterious letter, one molten piece of some black metal, one small silver hand-mirror, and four uncommon category pieces of gear. But none of those things are the main reason for my joy. Among the priestess' things I find a scrap of map of Louu marked with a red dot and a small silver clasp from a collar. Quickly transferring everything into my bag, I refocus my eyes on the ring.

Ring of Frozen Light

Accessory; ring.

Durability: 14,567/15,000.

Epic.

Minimum level: 210 (mage; priest).

+210 to Intellect.

+210 to Spirit.

+210 to Constitution.

+2.1% to critical hit chance with a spell.

+4.2% to critical heal chance.

+4.2% to the effectiveness of any magic action.

+5% to maximum resistance to Light magic.

Weight: .003 lbs.

A tiny silver band with a dark blue sapphire. A pretty little thing, and I have an idea who it might look good on. Plus, it would save me the trouble looking for another present. It's no wooden bracelet, but I feel that Daria would be happy to get this ring just as much. Hell, a week ago I would have been jumping for joy if I stumbled upon something like this. Funny, how quickly we get used to the better things. When you're wearing an artifact on your finger, epics no longer seem so amazing. Bel's Mirror—the aforementioned silver mirror—functions the same way as Persona, the difference being that, unlike the latter, this allows the caster to transform into someone specific once every three months. The transformation is also more complete, copying not only appearance, but also voice, body language, mannerisms and speech patterns. The accessory is currently out of charges, and I don't know how to charge it or if it recharges automatically. From Felata's words, the mirror was used only a few days ago, so I'm going to have to wait three months either way. The ability to completely copy any NPC is super useful, to be sure, but after today's events, I am too emotionally drained to rejoice properly. Later, then. There'll be time for both joy and reflection on the implications of having this new toy to play with.

The molten piece of metal turns out to be the remains of the amplifier just used to dispatch to the Land of Eternal Hunt a group of rather formidable NPCs. No charges left on this one, but five grams of Black Iron, the legendary material of the gods... I couldn't begin to guess the value of this piece of metal. Barely a hundred players have gotten to so much as lay eyes on it since the game's inception, let alone hold it in their hands.

Then again, these are just my assumptions, based on Felata's words. Focusing on the piece of metal merely reveals that it was once a magic amplifier. But anyway—this, too, I'll deal with later.

Stashing the metal away in my bag, I shift my eyes to the thin leather scroll sealed with a red stamp in the shape of House Akkri's coat of arms. A missive of some kind by the looks of it, only without name or address, the kind only handed to trusted agents for personal delivery. The sorcerous blue sparks running along the seal's edges speak the obvious: trying to open it without special skills or instruments is a direct ticket to one’s bindstone. Lacking any spells neutralizing magic, I have little choice but temper my curiosity in the meantime. Ordinarily, such letters serve as quest-starters, but "ordinarily" is not the same as "always," so it can chill in my inventory for a while.

After putting away the letter and all the uncommon pieces of gear, none of which would be an upgrade, I copy the piece of map, and finally pick up the clasp from the collar.

Chapter 45

You've accessed the quest: Prisoner.

Quest type: unique.

Rescue the lesser priestess of Elder House Klahd, kept prisoner in the cellar of a house on Copper Avenue in the western section of Louu.

Reward: significant reputation boost with Elder House Klahd; unique skill; variable.

Attention! The time for completing this quest is limited. If you don't rescue the prisoner within 7 days, 4 hours and 11 minutes, she will lose her sanity and you will have failed the quest.

If the prisoner dies, you will have failed the quest.

You can engage the help of members of Elder House Klahd to complete the quest, but then the reward will be proportionate to your personal contribution to the prisoner's rescue.

7:04:10:36… 7:04:10:35…

A melodious clink tears me away from reading the system message. I look in the direction of the sound and give a bemused grunt. The Faceless corpses are gone, along with the blood and the loot they contained. Two new elements replaced them on the crime scene: a rough black patch where the tsargh perished, and in place of the duke's dismembered body, a small golden glove now glitters in the faint light of spared magic lanterns. It had to be the glove that made the clinking sound when hitting the stone floor.

Damn, I've never even heard of anything like this. Some kind of off-the-wall magic to ensure that no one ever learns who it was that paid Mistress Felata a visit. The Faceless know how to keep their secrets, even after death. What a pity I didn't get to loot them in time... Sadly, writing to tech support or even ranting on the forums is no longer an option.

I accept the quest, then walk over and inspect more closely the ring lying on the floor. Due to personal experience in the not-so-distant past, I've become somewhat wary of rings. Now, sure, the ring on my finger saved my ass a few times already, but I'm going to think long and hard before casually slipping on any other jewelry in the same category.

Caen Jhess' Signet Ring

Accessory; ring.

Durability: 17,123/20,000.

Epic.

Minimum level: 450.

+450 to Strength.

+450 to Agility.

+900 to Constitution.

+4.5% to critical hit chance with a physical or magic attack.

+45% to critical hit damage.

Weight: .022 lbs.

Crafted by Master Yg Ateis, commissioned by Duke Caen Jhess.

A named signet ring with crisscrossing symbols on a square frame. Curious... This is the only trace left of the strike team if you ignore the black blot on the floor. As far as I understood from the exchange, this creature could be summoned by anyone, including the Quenta herself. I won't be able to equip this ring for a long, long time, but I know someone who will pay top dollar for it. The toppest dollar, actually. Not to equip it, but to conceal what happened here.

With a chuckle, I pick up the ring and put it away, thereby destroying the last piece of evidence. Then, with hardly a pang of guilt or emotional torment, I loot the corpses of the three priestesses, taking only money, potions and reagents. The haul is modest at four-and-a-half gold coins, but added to the money taken off Felata, I can now claim to be relatively well-to-do by local standards. The key now is to keep what I've earned.

It's time to take my leave. The night has been a smashing success, and there's no sense tempting fate with greed. With one final look around the room, I glance at my watch, slip into stealth, and make for the exit. There's a lot to be done, and not a lot of time to do it.

The trap vanished when the Faceless died, so there's nothing stopping me from leaving the manor. En route to the gates, I pass by a patrol, give a wide berth to a tarrying priestess, and reach the city gates some fifteen minutes later. The priestess at the border from earlier is nowhere to be seen, so I stroll right out of the city and keep walking briskly to the inn. Carrying over five hundred gold and a piece of black iron is unnerving—I would much rather keep them stored in my private room.

It's deep night in the inn's backyard. The village feels like a ghost town, its rectangular barracks looking like decorative pieces on the set of a cheap horror flick.

Finding nobody on the road, I climb into my private room and dump all my new treasures into the chest, leaving only the letter—which may come in handy unexpectedly—and some personal items. There's enough time to catch some Zs, if only a few hours, but I decide against it. It won't be long before the bodies are discovered, and I want to be as far away from Thalim as possible when that happens.

I run my fingers along the vials on my belt, check and tighten the straps, then put the room key on the desk, along with a few silver coins, and climb out of the window. Once outside, I make toward the south tunnel. My business in Thalim is over. Onto my next destination: Louu.

Chapter 46

The stop I need is situated in the center of a small, well-illumed cavern serving as a sort of intersection of several caravan routes. I arrived here by eight in the morning, having successfully evaded a century of cavalry moving in the direction of Meddoran and a troop of five level 200 NPC hunters. They didn't see me, and I didn't bother with introductions for obvious reasons. Why hassle unidentified sentients without cause?

Once at the station, I take a seat on a flat stone fifty yards from the pole marking the station, still in stealth, and wait. The caravan will only arrive at ten, and waiting at the actual station is dangerous. Thalim may have sent disgruntled emissaries after me. It wouldn't be the first time—in fact, the first time they even managed to track me down. Even so, I'm probably clear of any danger. The caravan will be here in a couple of hours, and I doubt that Akkri were able to organize pursuit so swiftly.

The cavern looks stunning, like a vast garden of stone. Despite chaotic scatterings of rock of varying shapes and sizes, somehow everything comes together in an inextricably harmonious way. It's reminiscent of an old Italian painting. It looks basic at a glance: a boat by the shore against the sunset, but then you realize you've been admiring it for the past hour. The realization is sudden and unsettling. I used to loathe these caverns, but here I am, marveling at it as if at a ruddy sunset blazing over the sea. My notions of beauty have certainly changed. I suspect that much of it, if not all of it, is Sage's doing. At the very least, he got the process going. The process of our gradual transformation into the characters we used to play. From the standpoint of adaptation, this is undoubtedly a good thing, but what does it mean in the grand scheme of things? What's going to happen to me? To my individuality?

I shake my head to chase away the somber thoughts. There's too much going on to allow pointless philosophizing and navel-gazing. Pointless because I can't change anything, anyway. Besides, I've got other matters to deal with. This whole story of the Departed Gods is fascinating. They may have departed, but the locals still remember them. The duke threatened Felata with Sherra's Embrace, and later, when promising to hand her over to the tsargh, mentioned that the creature hadn't forgotten its Fallen Mistress. Sherra, the mistress of vampires, is one of the Five that blessed me in that temple. It follows that those five have also "fallen" somehow? Or is that just Sherra? And who was that woman that laughed in silence when I stood over the quenta's corpse?

Not even a cat at play could untangle this ball of yarn! My ring, Arkam, the Departed, Lolth, the kneeling dude in the temple, the betrayals... And somehow I find myself between a rock and gods know how many hard places. Drow Houses are essentially criminal organizations a thousand times more hardcore than even the Cosa Nostra, and somehow I've gotten enmeshed in a quarrel between three clans! Akkri hate me already, and I'm about to get on the radar of both Klahd and Alehan. Truth be told, I couldn't care less about their war, whether it leads to tens, hundreds or even thousands of casualties. If not for Daria, I would simply watch the infighting from the side, but now that my girlfriend is at risk, I'm left with little choice but to act. And act in a way that doesn't completely ruin my reputation with either house given that I'm going to have to try and join Klahd eventually. Not as a simple soldier, either, but as a geiss. As for the Departed Gods’ quest, some thoughts came to mind on my journey here. The information learned the night before is the equivalent of being dealt pocket kings. Now it's up to me not to screw up the winning hand.

The caravan headed for Louu is escorted by ten fighters on lizard mounts—a clear sign of valuable cargo. The first and last wagons likewise carry several guards, and the middle one has five players, all of them male. Three warriors and two mages wearing Meddoran colors, with levels ranging from 150 to 170.

The caravan arrived half an hour late, but such delays aren't uncommon here. I slipped out of invis when the first wagon emerged from the tunnel, quickly walked to the station pole, and raised my hand in a hailing gesture. It's all standard behavior, but I feel nervous just the same, knowing not what to expect from these soldiers. Having survived attempted robbery by two NPCs with neutral reputation and watched an entire freaking police force—likewise neutral—try to break into my private room, I don't know what to expect anymore. If not for Daria, I would avoid the risk of hitchhiking altogether and just walk to Louu. In theory, the caravan is subject to the Council, which—again, in theory—should uphold the rule of law. So if those fellas start dabbling in lawlessness, all of Anthrum will surely spiral into the classic Underdark in no time.

They spot me from a distance. As the caravan pulls up to the station, the captain, riding a black lizard to the left of the head wagon, orders a stop. Then he, along with two more soldiers, dismount and start toward me with sour expressions. This must be how cops look at a plastered hobo who stumbles into their precinct. Great, these assholes now have me sympathizing with riffraff...

The soldiers stop across from me, and the captain fixes me with a hard stare. "Who the hell are you?!"

Arys is level 270, with one hundred thirty thousand HP, and wielding a pair of straight-edged blades. Hardly a serious threat for my current incarnation, but I have nothing to gain from making an enemy of him.

I hold his stare. "Kris Venom, master decem. My destination is Louu. That is where your caravan is headed, am I right?"

"Your tag!" Arys commands, peering into my eyes.

I blink. "Pardon me? What tag?"

Upon hearing my question, the soldiers put their hands on the hilts of their swords and look askance at their commander. The captain's frown deepens.

"Have you been living under a rock, kinless? Haven't you heard that your kind requires a special permit for unrestricted travel across our lands?" There's a thinly veiled threat in his voice. Well, maybe not so thinly veiled. "The Small Council issued the decree days ago. Outlanders must earn the right to be present in Anthrum."

"And what makes you think I'm an outlander?" I sniff, producing the scroll from my bag and sticking it under the captain's nose. "Would Geissa Felata trust this to an outlander?!"

Yep, this is the development I both feared and expected. And also the main reason why I decided to keep the missive on me. You don't gotta be a genius to deduce that the Council wasn't going to allow half a million aliens to freely travel wherever they please. I managed to escape the same fate by slinking away to Thalim before the hammer fell. We're not in Kansas anymore, that's for damn sure.

The captain's brows arch at the sight of the scroll, and his features assume a normal, almost human expression. He gestures for his troops to stand down, his eyes fixated on the sparkling seal.

"Why didn't the Mistress of Thalim issue you a pass, then? And what is your relationship with House Akkri?"

If you only knew the full story, bro. It's a good one. I snicker to myself, though on the outside I'm perfectly serious. Solemn, even.

"The geissa arrived in the city late last night, and summoned me to her straight away. I'm not so sure she's even heard of this decree—news travels slow from the capital to Thalim. We met for barely a minute. The Mistress handed me the missive and ordered me to travel to Louu incognito. As for your second question, I am not at liberty to disclose that information." Putting the scroll away, I add conspiratorially. "I trust that this conversation stays between us, master decem..."

The captain says nothing for a few moments, then sighs and says wearily.

"I've had it with all this politicking... Here," he takes out a square-shaped scrap of leather, stamps it with a silver seal, and hands it to me. "This is a ten-dyn pass. Once in Louu, either renew it or get a new one. You owe one gold coin for processing, so pony up and get your ass into the middle wagon."

I hand the money to the captain, take the tag, nod and make my way toward the wagon, raising a mental thanks to Bel and Sata. I was content being an atheist in the old world, but that ain't gonna fly in this one.

The players occupying the wagon greet me with silence dripping with tension. Something in their eyes rubs me the wrong way, and I respond by snarling at the lot of them.

"Y'all need to see my tag, too?"

"Chill..." a mage named Cadmen replies for everyone. "Don't take it out on us—we didn't write the law."

With a resigned wave, I settle onto the bench. "Sorry I snapped. Can you tell me about this decree?"

Chapter 47

The story is just about what I expect to hear. The players dumped into Anthrum were rounded up by the military within a few hours' time. Those who hadn't sworn fealty to any particular House were notified that their presence in the country will henceforth cost them twenty gold coins per month. Payment upfront. Those who cannot pay will be sent to mines and plantations to work off their debt. When the guards attempted to separate the women from the main crowd, a scuffle ensued. Several thousand players—mostly fighters of large clans—broke away and fled somewhere. Nobody pursued them on account of too many other things being on the decision makers' plates. In the end, nothing terrible happened to the women. According to the locals, all of them were marked by the Darkfaced Goddess and subsequently distributed among all ten Houses. And as new women turn up, they undergo the same process.

As for the folks that share my wagon, they were sent by portal to Mghariatan—the central city of their House—shortly after being sorted. Once there, they were subjected to a near day-long interrogation, then assigned to some subdivision and deployed to their new post to start their service. All the females that arrived in the city with them were taken away by some priestess, never to be seen again.

All in all, the new arrivals to Mghariatan numbered roughly ten thousand. The strangest thing about it all was that the locals seemed to react perfectly calmly to stories about Earth and the fact that Arkon was merely a game up until a mere week ago. They listened, nodded, asked some questions, and didn't bring up the topic again. Other subjects interested them far more, such as talents, skills, and combat strategies. The behavior stunk of RP-17's involvement.

When the story ends, I proceed to recount my adventures in Thalim—or rather a far altered version thereof. Then we drink to the fortuitous meeting, and I get ready for sleep. Which comes instantly after the long, long night I've had.

∆∆∆

The sight of Louu from afar, with its rich palette of lights, Gothic spires and massive hexagonal towers, somehow always reminded me of the palace from the Disney logo. I can't explain the source of such an association, but if Disney Studios ever wants to start filming horror flicks, the frontal view of Anthrum's capital would make for the perfect opening. The spires of Lolth's temple in the center of the city, which is the drow equivalent of the White House or the Kremlin, soar hundreds of feet in the air and sparkle with myriad lights spanning every shade of red.

The exterior of Louu differs quite significantly from Vaedarr. The Gothic style dominates, permeating virtually every structure. Hugging the southern tip of the city is the Ceita—a wide, full-flowing river that falls into the Black Lake before carrying its water further, all the way to the South Ocean. The citizens' diet consists mainly of fish and certain types of seaweed growing in the lake. The latter is also used to feed livestock, making farms a staple alongside each fishing village.

The cavern spans no less than a hundred miles, its shape resembling an isosceles trapezoid.

My co-passengers got off on the fourth day at a small town with name I wouldn't want to bother trying to pronounce. They were your prototypical players, hardly enthused by the developments since the infamous patch. The one thing holding them together was that they knew each other a long time and were roughly the same age. They were transporting copious amounts of booze, but I didn't partake again after the initial round. In my experience, alcohol rarely aids in communicating with strangers. After bidding our farewells and wishing each other luck, I kept riding and reflecting on things. On the looming problems, their potential solutions, and all the possible scenarios that the future may hold.

The caravan didn't run into any trouble, affording me some peace and quiet for the first time since the patch. Yet, one gnawing thought prevented me from truly enjoying it.

I'm out of time... Or almost out of time. My calculations were off. A little more than seven days have passed since Felata's death, I've got another half a mile to Louu, and barely three-and-a-half hours until the quest timer expires. The consulate of House Klahd is in the southern part of the city while the caravan will enter through the North Gate. There's a long queue at the entrance that's going to take at least an hour to get through. In theory, I might make it to the consulate in time, but theory and practice are two different things. Bureaucracy in the game can be as excruciatingly real as it was back on Earth. How long will it take me to explain everything? Assuming I'm taken seriously—and that is a big assumption given my kinless status—how long until the consulate gathers a force to deploy across the city?

Losing one's sanity is tantamount to death. The true death. Daria is going to die in three hours... And I'm terrified. If it happens—if I allow it to happen—I'm going to be left alone. All alone in this terrible world of fantasy and magic. What the hell do I need immortality for if I don't have her?

The house Daria is confined to is a mere five minutes' walk from the North Gate, so this is going to be a solo rescue mission. I would never risk the life of anyone dear to me, but the game has left me no choice. I'm out of time.

The caravan enters the city at two in the morning. I'm allowed in without issues—the priestess barely glances at the proffered tag before waving me through. The station is only a few minutes' ride from here, but I haven't even those few minutes to waste. So I hop out of the wagon the moment the caravan is through, wave at the captain, then hastily cross the square and turn toward Copper Avenue.

I spent the last several hours racking my brain over how to best infiltrate the house. In the end, I could think of no better option than resorting to the same letter. I could, of course, try and sneak in undetected, but any place holding a priestess captive is bound to have special locks, and with my lousy Lockpicking skill I'd probably fumble with the lock until dawn—and with dubious results.

The scroll bears no addressee, and I hope that the seal will be sufficient to get me through the door. From there, I'll play it by ear. Chances are, I'm just going to have to slaughter everyone. It's risky, sure—I may run into a tough cookie, maybe even more than one. But I don't have a choice. I hate this state of frantic stress: the cold sweat, the wobbly knees. Having to risk the life of a woman I love...

As I walk toward the house where those bastards hold Daria, a wave of horror mixed with despair follows me. Props to my granddad for teaching me to keep my shit together in any situation—by the time I reach the right street, I'm in full control of my emotions. There'll be time for emotional releases later, after it's all over. But for now, I need to be one hundred percent focused on executing some unfortunate souls.

Chapter 48

Copper Avenue is not what you'd call a swanky street. Stretching roughly a hundred yards along the city wall, it features mostly craft shops, not residences. The house I need is third on the left. Two floors, an empty yard behind a low stone fence, a rectangular iron door with a small eye-level slit. And not a trace of light in the tall lancet windows. It's quiet, too. All I hear is the faint buzzing of midges swarming a dim streetlight and the dull voices of the patrolmen.

After checking that nobody is watching, I jump the fence and slink toward the door, then scrape its cool rough surface furtively, playing the role of a secret agent as best I can. No one comes, so I keep scraping diligently until finally, some five minutes later, the eye hole slides open and an unknown voice inquires menacingly.

"What do you want?"

"Urgent message from Mistress Felata," I whisper and raise the scroll to make the seal visible through the eye hole.

"And who are you?" the stranger asks after a short pause.

"Kris Venom, master," I put the scroll away and stand directly across, allowing my invisible interlocutor to see my face clearly.

"A kinless?!" the voice behind the door is incredulous. "Why would the Quenta entrust the missive to you?"

The plan is hella risky, no doubt about it—most of all for the woman I'm trying to rescue from this prison. But it worked! The last phrase makes it clear that the fella behind the door believed me. And you better believe I have an answer ready for him.

"I guess it's because Duke Caen Jhess came to Thalim with a squad of the Faceless," I shrug, looking into the eye hole with pure naivety. "Any Akkri was at risk of being intercepted, and I happened to be nearby."

The man behind the door gasps. "Caen Jhess... But why... And what do you mean by 'happen to be nearby?'"

"I was in her antechamber, having petitioned for an audience to join House Akkri," I reply without hesitation. "As you may know, my kind is not in favor in Anthrum. The letter was her condition. If I deliver it and return with the answer, I will no longer be kinless! I have no idea what it contains, master. I was only given the address and instructed that you would recognize the seal's authenticity."

The scroll is too large to fit through the eye hole, so he's going to have to open the door. And open the door he will, having swallowed the story hook, line and sinker. No way he's going to risk turning away Felata's messenger! What's with the twenty questions though? Could it be fear on account of him being there alone? A rogue can wish...

After a few moments of silence, the lock gives a soft click and the door opens.

"Inside, quickly!" the drow grouses, moving half-a-step to the side.

The speaker turns out to be a tall stooping mage named Angh with a deep twisting scar running across his sharp, hawkish face. Level 210 and only one hundred thousand HP. With a mental sigh of relief, I step inside, hand him the letter, and take a quick look around.

The hall is spacious, but hardly posh going by the interior: the mirror is cracked, the coat rack is lopsided, the wardrobe is missing a door, and the carpet is filthy and ridden with holes. Even an idiot can see that no one has lived here for ages, making its function as a secret base or a safe house painfully obvious. Or a prison... Daria is here somewhere, down below. I try to listen, but it's no use—the place is as quiet as a mausoleum.

"I hope no one followed you here?" Angh takes the scroll, closes the door and bolts it.

I suppress the burning desire to smoke this fool right here and now before donning the most clueless expression I can muster and shaking my head vigorously.

"Definitely not. Mistress warned me to keep a low profile, that's why I came at night."

"Are you sure Mistress didn't give you any other instructions?" the mage inquires with a dour stare.

"I don't think so..." I frown, as if trying to remember. "At least not to me directly. She was speaking with another priestess about some captive girl. Something about Duke Caen Jhess sniffing around, asking about her location... Oh! Mistress also appeared to be worried about the girl escaping before 'her time is up.' I don't know what she meant by that, though."

"There's no escaping Kagg," the mage chuckles. "Even I'm on full alert when I bring down his food..."

Angh stops short and gives me a suspicious look, but I just bat my eyes, still playing the part of a useful idiot, and ask.

"Really? This Kagg sounds dangerous... What is he?"

"None of your business!" the mage puts his signet ring to the seal, unrolls the scroll and looks at the contents. After a few moments, his expression changes to surprise as he exclaims:

"Sherra! But this is—"

Those become his last words.

I step forward and stun the mage with a Kidney Shot. Two standard combos follow, with Rupture critting for twenty-five thousand, and by the time Angh, blinded with poison, comes out of paralysis inflicted by Cheap Shot from the second combo, I Silence him with a Kick, then put a hand over his mouth, twisted open in a soundless scream, just for good measure. I catch his body as it goes limp, drag him behind the wardrobe, and sit him up against the wall so that the corpse isn't visible from the side. It's too bad mirroring this bastard with Persona isn’t an option, as that would make my task a hell of a lot easier. Alas, Persona only allows you to select the race—all the other features are assigned randomly.

The slain mage turns out to be surprisingly affluent, yielding twenty-two gold coins, a bottle of Jedyan brandy, a few dozen various potions, and a level 205 rare charm. I take back the letter as well, but I'm not going to read it till later. There's no time for that now.

I take a look around and consider my options. The hall branches out in two directions, left and right. Which one should I take? Glimpsing a staircase leading up at the end of the corridor to my right, I fade into invis and start that way. I still have some time, and my best move now is to search the whole house and eliminate anyone I find to avoid a surprise attack. The aforementioned Kagg is also on my mind. Given that the dead mage would bring down his food, he must be holed up in the basement around-the-clock, supervising Daria like a jailer. If he laid a finger on her, I'm going to cut him up into tiny little pieces. Even if I have to come back here from the afterlife.

There are six rooms in the house, but I don't find anyone else. The place is full of filth and disrepair, aside from the kitchen and a small room on the second floor, presumably the late mage's bedroom. There's no time to waste searching it, so I find the stairs again and head down to the basement. Two hours to go.  I sit on the top stair and begin coating my daggers with poison unhurriedly. Time to consider my imminent encounter with the jailer, and how to best prepare for it.

Counting the twenty percent boost to Agility and Spirit thanks to the blessings of the Departed Gods, both stats are sitting at twelve thousand. A Greater Elixir of Possibilities will raise all stats by another hundred points, and a River Eel Meat Sandwich will further raise Agility and Constitution by fifty. I'll also use the Elixir of Light Magic Resistance looted off Felata. It's not likely that Kagg is a paladin, but better safe than sorry.

Chapter 49

I examine the contents of my bag. An Elixir of Speed? Sure. An Elixir of Maximum Mental Magic? That won't hurt, either. What else... My eyes wander to a scroll of Lesser Madness—a noob curse that I looted off the corpses of the two would-be robbers from that cave. This will come in handy, too—if the effect takes, Kagg will become five percent dumber. I'm not sure why I didn't dump it before, but discarding it now isn't an option. Besides, littering on a crime scene is the stupidest thing one can do.

I sigh and consider the double-leaf door staring up at me from below. Who or what is this Kagg? The mage's words suggest he's no drow, but then what could he be? And what is he capable of?

Oh, what does it matter?!
I'm going down there regardless, even if I have to fight Lolth herself! There's no use getting psyched out prematurely. Once buffed and fed to the gills, I'll go down to the basement and see what we're dealing with.

The big metal leaf opens without a creak. The hall I end up in is large, roughly twenty by twenty yards, and square-shaped. Over by the far wall two narrow door frames gape darkly. Cells? There's a stench of waste and some other, unidentified filth. I move to the right and take a closer look around. Over in the corner lies a heap of bones, gnawed perfectly clean, alongside dented tin cans. And no signs of life.

Is that monster in the cell with Daria? What is it doing to her?!

Without leaving stealth, I rush toward the door frames... And miss the attack.

A huge red mass flashes to my right. I Roll instinctively, but not quite in time—a monstrous blow in the back knocks the wind out of me. One fifth of my HP is gone, yet the mob behind me howls with disappointment. I Roll again, break a health vial, Fade to Dark and slink away to the side, then quickly turn to get a good look at my opponent.

The sight of the beast makes my skin crawl, but not for the usual reasons. The creature looks like a ragged, unkempt bum. Only it's a dwarf! At least some kind of giant variety of the dwarven race, being a foot taller than me and three times as wide. Attired in strange dark leather and wielding a steel club in each hand. His head is one big shaggy ball of fur—not an inch of skin is visible from here, but only the eyes, burning crimson red. Level 200 and over one million HP. And he can see me in stealth!

The cursed ring turned off a second after Fading to Dark. The pain quickly abated, and yet... The dwarf growls something unintelligible, then leaps forward and brings both of his monstrous weapons down on me. I dodge to the side, stun him with a Kidney Shot, execute my standard combo that ends with a critting Rupture, then slip back into invis.

Well, shit! Apparently, the steal health ability that was the blessing of the Vampire Goddess only works off direct attacks, meaning the ticking poison doesn't heal me at all. And there's no way to take down such a beast without a healer. Bloody ring! If I didn't have it equipped, I could simply kite[26] the slow and clumsy beast around the room while my skills reset, but with the ring devouring HP, I will die midway through. And this is my last invis, which I can't even use properly against a mob that sees right through it. My movement is slower when stealthed, so what's the point? As soon as the poison expires, the dwarf will start regenerating HP. So what the hell am I supposed to do?!

As if reading my mind, the dwarf turns toward me, having lost merely two hundred thousand HP. Ignoring the ticking poison, he finds me with his eyes, roars and smashes the floor with his clubs. Cracks form at his feet, then quickly shoot out toward me. It catches me by surprise, and I don't manage to get out in time.

A stinging pain strikes at my feet and knocks me toward the left wall, yanking me out of invis. The enemy spell takes off an additional ten percent HP and reactivates the ring. This is the end...

The next wave of cold, visceral fear is immobilizing. But... Daria... If I'm going to die...

The freak dwarf yowls triumphantly, then starts in my direction. Bastard! I snarl at his bearded mug, feeling the pain slowly intensifying, and take a step forward. I'm not going to beat this thing without a healer, but at least I can meet my death in battle...

Without a healer... Hold on just a second! Quickly breaking a vial on my belt, I Roll away from the next attack of the clubs, then pull out the curse scroll and use it... on myself. The mist, too, was a curse! As long as it wasn't linked to the ring somehow, then the curse currently on me should... "Yes!!!" I holler as the pain recedes and the ring inverts all its values. "Now we can play, shithead!"

Four percent regen in combat is hardly the same as having Lima the priestess watching your back, but I'll manage! My armor class is up, as is my damage from direct attacks and damage-over-time effects—by twenty percent! And when I see Rupture crit for fifty thousand, I realize that I've avoided death yet again. The dwarf is too slow and sluggish for me. He tries—and even succeeds a few times—to get me with magic, but the transformed ring has bolstered my resistances so high that only half the damage gets through, and the black healer clinging to my finger dutifully restores my health back to max in no time.

The fight lasts about five minutes. In the end, the dwarf falls to the poison. Midway through launching an attack, the monster stumbles, then collapses to the floor. His body instantly crumbles into a heap of black sand, leaving behind a pair of dented steel sticks and a small silver key.

Yes! There it is!

Teetering and panting, I walk over to the pile of sand, pick up the key, wipe the sweat off my brow, and proceed to one of the cells. There'll be time to think and rejoice later, after my woman is safe.

At the door, I examine the lock. Finding no magical defenses, I put the key into the keyhole. It's a standard precaution. As unlikely as it is that such a door might be protected by magic, throwing caution to the wind is never an option.

The lock clicks and the door opens. I walk inside and freeze in disbelief. A young woman sits cross-legged on a pile of rags in the corner of the small prison cell, leaning against the wall. Her head rests on her shoulder, her eyes closed but her mouth slightly open, her once fair hair hanging off of her in filthy clumps. I came here for her. Only... only it's not Daria. Taera Klahd, Lesser Priestess of Lolth. Daria's in-game name is Nessa. And I can tell my girlfriend from another woman. Well, this is certainly a twist.

Chapter 50

For the first ten seconds, I just stand there, unable to move, as if an invisible pin has been pulled out of me. My brain and my body are out of sync, so I just stand there, staring stupidly at the girl sitting in the corner.

I don't regret having done all this. I saved the girl's life, and the rewards will be plentiful. But the relief I feel simply cannot be expressed in words.

The girl's mantle is torn in a few places. Her face, white as the driven snow, is streaked with tears. Her feet are covered, and she bears no signs of torture. But why bother torturing her, anyway? The black band around her neck is the foulest thing conceived by the game's developers.

The collar blocks all your talents and skills, and can even be adjusted to nullify your stats. No use of inventory, no access to chat, no way to pick up any object unless permitted by the one who strapped it on you.

I realize that the devs never envisioned a scenario in which the game world goes off the rails. Still, why give NPCs the power to use these collars on others? It's one thing to have the collar automatically equipped as a result of some wrongdoing, but this... Gone is the time where the locals are fully scripted. In this brave new world, wielding that kind of power is genuinely frightening.

Before the patch, the maximum period of time one could spend in such a collar couldn't exceed three days. And then it couldn't be used on the same character for another thirty. I know this from bitter experience. My trips to Shanama would have been far briefer without this bloody thing on my neck, considering its guards are all level 100 and lower.

Also, the collar would vanish automatically when crossing the mine's border. In other words, escaping was possible. And I managed to do exactly that on three separate occasions. But that seems to have changed as well. The bit about losing your mind after seven days—that's new, too. And I'm not a fan of these new developments.

I walk over to the woman and pat her cheek gently. No reaction, she doesn't even flinch. I cup her chin with my fingers and lift her head carefully, then take the clasp from my bag and bring it to the same clasp on her collar. A system message pops up, giving me a start.

Attention! The probability of success of this action is 21%. In the event of failure, the target will die.

Damn it! Theoretically, safely removing the collar is only possible by whoever put the collar on in the first place. Failing that, by someone close to their rank. And I'm as far from Felata in rank as a lobster is far hitchhiking from Africa to Japan. So, what to do? Do I risk it? I'm going to rescue her either way, but I would rather avoid all those penalties for failure! Even if she dies and drops from level 200 to 160, so freaking what? That's a couple of months of grinding in exchange for her sanity. And twenty-one percent chance of success is still twenty-one times better than zero.

I consider the tiny piece of silver in my hand, then sigh and shake my head. No, this isn't the way. I still have an hour and fifty minutes to spare—enough time to deliver her to the House's consulate. There's bound to be someone there who can remove it without almost certainly killing her.  OK, great, but how do I get her there? Carry her in my arms? I'm strong enough, sure, but that won't get us far. I picture the sight of a dirty bum carrying a well-dressed woman across the city, and chuckle. How far would we get? One block? After all, in the eyes of the locals I am a dirty bum.

Another option is to hire a carriage. There were three of them in the square just past the main gate. Get one to ride up to the house, and then... Heh, maybe back in Moscow a bum could manage to drag a blonde in fine clothes into a cab, but this isn't Moscow. Here, every priestess is marked by the goddess, and any coachman witnessing the attempt would either pull out a weapon or call the guards. Or both. Would they bother permitting me time to explain myself? And do I want to drag the Council's Guard into this?

That leaves only one option. Somehow I need to get her to come to her senses. But how?

I shake the girl a bit. Gently at first, then harder, even smack her cheeks a few times. Nothing. Holy hell! How do I get her to wake up?

Exasperated, I slide down next to Taera and massage my face hard. Let's think logically. She needs higher resistance to Mental magic. The collar is driving her mad, so it has to be Mental magic in play. All priestesses max out the resistance by level 200, but this isn't enough in her case, evidently. Either that or the collar slashes the resistance. I have an elixir that grants fifty to Mental magic resistance for an hour, and one that raises max resistance by five for two hours. The ones taken off Felata, incidentally. Well, no harm in trying...

I pull the girl closer and pour the contents of both vials into her mouth. If this doesn't help, we're going to have to take drastic measures: hire a carriage and bring it over to the house, then kill the coachman if he doesn't play ball, and drive the girl myself to the consulate on Rosy Lights Square.

Nothing happens for about half a minute, but then the girl's lids begin to tremble, her breathing picks up, and she opens her eyes at last. Oof! Drow irises are red already—now add to that popped capillaries, and the sight isn't pretty. Bastards! Oh well, they're all dead now...

"Who are you?" Taera whispers and tries to pull away, but I keep hold of her shoulders.

"It's all right!" I say, holding her tight. "My name is Kris. I killed all your captors, and you're almost safe. I have the key to your collar, but I cannot remove it myself. We need to get to your House consulate right away!"

Taera sobs and looks around the cell blearily, no longer trying to break free. Let's hope she believed me.

"Where am I?" she asks quietly, her eyes stopping at the opened door.

"We're in a house on Copper Avenue, in Louu, close to the North Gate. You were unconscious until I poured two elixirs of Mental magic resistance into you. I can't take you there myself—the very first patrol is going to stop us. Players are pariahs in this land, and you're an esteemed priestess. I'll go and bring a carriage over to the house, but I'm going to need you to instruct the coachman with the address."

"No! Don't leave me!" Taera clutches at my sleeve and peers into my eyes beseechingly.

"All right, then I'll carry you. If the guards stop us, tell them that you're tired and that we know each other. Play it smart."

I rise and scoop the girl up in my arms, then make for the exit quickly.

We reach the square past the city gates in seven minutes. Carrying a woman in your arms is pure pleasure in this game. Doing it IRL is just as pleasant, to be sure, but when your load is one fifth the weight, that's a definite advantage.

Taera keeps quiet the whole way there, and I'm glad to have the time to think. I wonder whether I would have taken up this quest—to save some girl I don't know—for no other reason than to save her. Without any reward to speak of. I suppose I'm never going to know the answer. I want to believe that I would...

Upon reaching the square, a patrol blocks our way, as expected.

"Is everything all right, my lady?" the senior patrolman addresses Taera, pointedly ignoring me. I might as well be empty space as far he's concerned.

I tense up. The girl has been confined to a cell for ten days, and she may deem the guards more reliable protectors. What do I do then? But my apprehensions turn out to be unfounded. Like me, Taera was a player once, not long ago.

"Yes, thank you, sargtlin[27]," she answers softly. "I felt ill, and my friend is helping me home. Would you point us to an available carriage?"

That makes everything easier and more efficient. The guards work quickly to hail a carriage and help us inside. I toss the coachman a gold coin and give him the address. The coachman accepts the money with a nod and climbs into the coachbox. As for me, I'm not likely to forget the astounded looks on the guards' faces as I carried her into the carriage. After all, by referring to me as her friend, Taera essentially declared me as her lover.

"Hold on! It'll be over soon," I say quietly, holding the girl by the shoulder, after the coachman calls to the harnessed lizards and the carriage gets moving.

"I don't know... I don't remember..." Taera sobs. "My thoughts are a mess. This is worse than a drug. They killed the preceptress... That terrible woman..."

"She's dead," I reassure her, but Taera doesn't hear me. She's unconscious again, for good this time.

I can't help her anymore. The buffs from the potions are still in effect, so I can't give her any more. Good thing she passed out now and not five minutes earlier. I peek into the quest log, but nothing has changed there. We've still got time, so I'm not worried.

Chapter 51

Interestingly, wheeled transport in Anthrum is almost soundless, though you would expect terrible racket from iron wheels rattling against stone. But then, a magic realm abounds with many such wonders. The rims of the wheels are coated with a special mixture, and that's the end of it. Physicists can take their science and stuff it. It may be paramount back on Earth, but here, iron carriages on iron wheels will keep rolling along the nocturnal streets of Louu without a sound.

We reach Rosy Lights Square in twenty-four minutes. I thank the coachman for his service, gently carry Taera's lifeless body out of the carriage, and give the square-shaped steel gate leading to the grounds of House Klahd three kicks with the heel of my boot, as hard and as loud as I'm able.

The coachman gasps at such brazen antics, then barks at his lizards and the carriage takes off like a race car, apparently scared witless of getting caught in the inevitable and imminent reprisal. But I'm not scared. Brazen will light a fire under their asses. I suppose such a rumpus could be raised by the bodyguards of the Matron of the House—after being ignored the first time. Whatever. They're in there sleeping soundly while I'm running around town with one of their own who's about to bite it.

I'm forced to wait no more than a minute before the left gate opens and a tall man in leather armor overlaid with metal plates stands before me in full glory. Geiss Chavriel, senior officer of the guard. Level 300 with thirty million HP. Standing in a semicircle behind their commander is a team of five soldiers. Their expressions are anything but jovial. They started out apprehensive, but then, having laid eyes on my handsome self... The centurion steps forward, a hand on the hilt of his weapon.

"How dare y—"

That's when he notices that I'm not here peddling Kirby vacuum cleaners, and the expression on his face changes from ire to bewilderment.

"And good health to you, centum!" I smile back at him. "This is your missing priestess. The one that was there with the late Duchess Astara Niori."

I walk forward, transfer Taera into the arms of the still-astonished centurion, nod at the girl, and add.

"The collar on her neck is going to strip her of her sanity any minute now. I have the key, but I can't remove it. Go and get one of the high priestesses right away."

I hold up the collar clasp, deposit it into the guard's massive palm, and step to the side.

For a few moments I fear that this hardened warrior is having a stroke. The missing priestess, the collar, the barefaced stranger... In all the parallel universes he would have cut me down for even one kick at the gates, let alone three, but this situation is different. They're not going to kill me, at least not until the quest is completed. This rule has always been sacrosanct—now let's see if that's still the case.

"Veng! Go get Mistress Etna! On the double!" the centurion barks upon recovering his senses, then turns back to me.

"You! Get inside and wait there!"

With a shrug, I enter the consulate's grounds and, for want of anything else to do, proceed to examine my surroundings. When would I get another chance to see how things work in this place?

What I see roughly matches my expectations. A relatively small five-story Gothic style palace with high ogival windows, carved columns, and statues of varying monsters in place of gargoyles. Maybe it's the growing drow constituent in me talking, but I have to admit that it looks absolutely gorgeous.

Standing some fifty yards in front of the gates, the castle sparkles with thousands of varicolored lights. In front of the main entrance stands a fountain in the shape of a bowl, the water jetting up, then cascading down in tact with some silent melody. The pathways leading to the castle are lined with local flora trimmed in a decorative fashion. I even glimpse flowerbeds with bright pink flowers. To hell with the dreary, ugly Underdark! Even if these drow are the same bastards as the ones they were modeled after, life in Anthrum will still be better! The only thing I can't understand is why they would hide all this beauty behind their gates? But I suppose that's their business.

The gates close as soon as I enter. Five minutes pass since the soldier disappears with the order to get the high priestess, yet the expression on the centurion's face doesn't change. He reminds me of a father having been given his firstborn, all bundled up, in the hallway of a birthing hospital.

The stern, six-and-a-half foot giant is still as a pillar of salt, and seemingly incapable of breathing, his face radiating awe and... is that fear? In actuality, men don't outnumber women by such a large margin in Anthrum. Sometime ago the devs published the statistics, and the ratio is somewhere around three to four. The patch exacerbated the margin a bit further, but that doesn't fully explain his reaction. Perhaps it's the fact that he's holding a priestess?

The soldier returns, interrupting my thoughts. Appearing in the doorway, he gives a quick wave and rushes over. Wrested out of his reverie, the centurion barks orders at his subordinates. Two of the soldiers vanish into the sentry tower, the others line up along the wall. A minute later, a woman emerges through the same doorway. Alone, without the accompaniment of guards—not that she needs protection. Elder Daughter of the House and High Priestess of Lolth, Duchess Etna Cahali, one of only twenty-five members of the Small Council. The Snow Queen incarnate, boasting level 550 and three billion HP.

Reaching the gates in the blink of an eye, the duchess nods at the soldiers, glances passingly at me, then walks over to the centurion.

Up close, she is lovely. Her runic mantle hugs her like a fine cocktail dress, and she moves with the confidence and grace of a woman with decades of experience on the runway. The priestess utters a few words to the centurion and takes the key from him. And then it's over. Before anyone knows what happened, the collar is in the duchess' hands.

"Take her to Thaema right away. Second floor," she issues a terse command.

The centurion motions my way. "What about this one, mistress?"

"This one?" the priestess turns, sizes me up and down skeptically, and orders curtly. "Toss him in the dungeons!"

I don't fully comprehend the meaning of her words until a line of soldiers bearing down on me shakes me out of my stupor.

"To the dungeons? Go ahead and try!" I hop back with a snarl, baring my daggers. "You want to imprison the man who rescued your younger sister? Come at me, then! I'll kill as many of you as I can before dying. And you will never know how Astara Niori died!"

Something flashes in the priestess' eyes, but I don't care anymore. The brakes are cut.

"You're well aware that I'm immortal, woman. But do you know where I'll resurrect? I will die, sure, but I'll take sweet solace in watching Alehan and Klahd slowly bleed each other into irrelevance!"

I'm not taking any risks here. She cannot take control of me at this range, and the soldiers would still need to Charge to get to me. That second will be sufficient to break a bottle of poison on my belt.

"Where do you get off, kinless scum?!" the soldiers rush toward me, but Etna's sharp yell stops them in their tracks.

"Stand down!"

The duchess walks toward me, stops a few feet away, and peers into my eyes. I hold her stare. She's a tad shorter than me, but her eyes... I'm reminded of my junior high school principal, sitting in her office after knocking over a stand of tubes and mixtures in chemistry class. Those eyes were judge, jury and executioner, finding me guilty and sentencing me to burn with everlasting shame. It must be the memory of that episode that helps me now not to avert my eyes. The game of chicken lasts fifteen seconds before Etna finally nods, turns around and starts toward the building entrance.

"Come, let's talk," she orders without turning around.

I look around at the stupefied soldiers, smirk, and follow after the priestess.

Chapter 52

I'm ashamed to admit that in all my time playing the game, I never set foot in even a baronial castle, never mind a proper palace. Sure, I've been to museums in Moscow, but no one actually lives in a museum.

After ascending a broad marble staircase and passing through tall wooden doors, I enter a hall that takes my breath away. It's grand and flooded with light from three enormous chandeliers cascading down off a mosaic-filled ceiling. Black marble floor with tall windows draped with fine heavy curtains. Huge square mirrors decorate the walls alongside six battle-paintings and a pair of black statues at the base of a white marble staircase.

The wave of awe subsides as quickly as it rushed in, displaced by fury. Fury at myself. The feeling is similar to what you might feel after pulling in a crap-ton of overtime, then heading home exhausted past glittering shop windows and realizing that you can't afford any of it for your wretched, barely furnished studio apartment. Despite all your diligence and hard work, you're too embarrassed to even bring a woman over. And here... It's clean slate for everyone, and yet, all I have is my private room.

"Follow me!" the duchess interrupts my somber thoughts.

I follow her toward the staircase. The four young priestesses chatting by the entrance nod to Etna and follow me with curious eyes. It's the kind of curiosity students display in lab watching the professor pull a test frog out of its tank. Just for giggles, I give a lascivious grin and wink at the women. The curiosity on their faces turns to mild disgust and... surprise? Ha! That's more like it.

After ascending the stairs, the duchess takes the first right, then leads me down two long carpeted corridors into a small antechamber with an empty secretary's desk and a lone picture hanging on the wall.

"Wait here," she points to one of three leather armchairs and disappears behind the tall oaken doors of the adjacent chamber.

The wait lasts twenty minutes. More than enough time to closely examine the portrait on the wall, and all the ways in which the woman depicted on it appraises and judges every new arrival. I'm about to open up my character menu when the door finally opens, and I get called in.

Inside are two tall bookcases overflowing with books, a stand overflowing with scrolls, and the map of Louu half-hidden by a curtain on the wall. And finally, a long rectangular table with a dozen wooden chairs.

Two others are in the chamber, aside from the duchess. A thin priestess with ice-cold eyes and a stern warrior with neatly cut hair and a strong square chin. A deep scar runs across the warrior's right cheekbone. Quenta Yssa and Quent Sayed, levels 420 and 410, respectively. Their surnames, titles and HP are all hidden. It isn't clear whether they have been waiting here or have entered through another door.

The three sit in a semicircle in broad leather armchairs, directly across from the entrance. Nobody bothered to prepare one of those armchairs for me, naturally. When I enter, Etna, presiding in the middle, falls back in her chair and speaks coolly.

"Speak, then! What do you know of the death of Astara Niori?"

In response to the question, I pull my best Good Friday face and start looking around the room pointedly for a seat. Finding nothing, I shrug nonchalantly, walk over to the table, grab the furthest possible chair, and start dragging it all the way back, unhurriedly, its two feet screeching nastily along the fine floor.

This is the only way to make their kind understand. A man, and a kinless besides, to them I might as well be a talking rat. But the quest hasn't ended yet, and they need the information I have, so let them stew a bit before they get it. When I felt like it, I could get even the normally imperturbable Mike to start seeing red in ten seconds or less—these haughty assholes never had a chance.

The reaction is just as I expect. The warrior's face flushes with rage as he takes a sharp breath and is about to say something when the duchess stops him with a gesture.

"Are you trying my patience, kinless?" she inquires coolly.

"No, mistress," I shake my head, set the chair down and take a seat, then look the duchess in the eye. "I'm simply demanding basic respect."

"Respect is earned!" Sayed spits with a contemptuous frown.

I turn my eyes toward him. "And how have you earned it, quent? Perhaps it was you who found the missing priestess and brought her here?"

"Silence!" the duchess' command is quiet but hard as steel, stopping the twitching warrior with another gesture. Then she addresses me with utmost courtesy.

"I trust your seat is comfortable?"

Something flickers in her eyes. Is it mockery or respect? I can't tell. Apparently recognizing the absurdity of arguing with a mulish kinless, she decided to shift tactics and play along.

"Indeed, mistress," I nod.

"In that case, we're all ears."

Unlike the warrior, not a muscle moves on the face of the other priestess, sitting to the duchess' right, throughout all my clownery. If anything, her slightly slanted sapphire blue eyes sparkle with curiosity. Idle curiosity? Far from it. To call her stare penetrating would be a gross understatement. I feel like my body and my soul are being turned inside out and put on display. Attired in the beige mantle of a Mentalist, Yssa appears to be one of the local security agents. A living lie detector in service of the duchess. Mentalists can sense the most trifling fib from a mile away, so I ought to mind my tongue very, very carefully.

"First, I would like to discuss a few details," I begin, gathering my thoughts. "The information I possess is sufficient to stop the impending war between two Elder Houses. As such..."

"What do you want in return, kinless?" the duchess doesn't let me finish.

"My name is Kris Venom. I am not kinless. I am simply from another world."

"Very well," the duchess nods patiently. "What do you want, Kris Venom?"

"I want to be adopted by the Elder House Klahd."

Being adopted by a House automatically raises one to nobility. Upon uttering the phrase, I brace myself for another wave of indignation and scorn, but it doesn't follow.

Etna takes a brief pause before speaking. "Matters of adoption are handled by the Matron of the House, Grand Duchess Alessa Klahd. All I can do is promise you to relay the contents of our conversation to her word for word."

"That works for me," I nod amenably and note that the warrior is strangely quiet, then continue. "A little over a week ago I arrived in Thalim for some brown moss. I am an assassin, and the moss is a reagent I require for brewing poison. As I was gathering the moss, two warriors of House Akkri decided to rob me, so I killed them. That same night House Akkri sent out a raid party to bring me in. Again I escaped, and House Akkri added five more to their list of casualties."

As I begin the story, Sayed perks up visibly, his eyes sparkling with irony. But then he looks at the quenta across from him, who's listening to me very carefully, and his irony turns to bemusement.

Chapter 53

I continue. "The next night, I headed to the home of the Mistress of Thalim, Quenta Felata. My intention was to have a heart-to-heart with a buddy of hers. After infiltrating the house, I bore witness to a very interesting conversation, from which I've learned that it was Quenta Felata who killed Astara Niori."

"Wait!" the duchess holds up her hand, then speaks very slowly, accentuating each word. "Do you know how Astra Niori was killed?"

"She was killed by a Shadow Blade, a favored spell of Matron Cornelia."

Etna looks as if she's about to say something, but stops short. Her eyes flicker with dismay for barely a second before the duchess regains control of herself.

"How could the mistress of a wretched backwater hole craft such a monstrous Blade? And how could she have even gotten close enough to deploy it?"

"Bel's Mirror and a black iron-based magic amplifier," I explain. "Should I go into the specifics of how—"

"No, wait," the duchess stops me, then turns to the quenta to her side.

"It's true, isn't it, Yssa? That would explain the strange residue from the spell."

"It is," the quenta answers in a surprisingly pleasant voice. "And if we can find that mirror, we will have proof. The object retains Astral prints from its last use." She then turns toward me.

"Kris, would you happen to have the mirror's current location? Did Felata discard it or is it in her possession still?"

I hesitate for a moment before answering. "I have it. I killed Quenta Felata and took the mirror off her corpse. I can give it to you, if you want."

The sight of their jaws slowly dropping is the sweetest fruit. Sure, parting with the mirror hurts, but if that's the price I need to pay for nobility, so be it. I would pay it ten times over, in fact, as long as I still have Persona.

"You killed Quenta Felata?!" Sayed breaks the thick silence, then turns to Yssa for confirmation.

She nods—not that I need her to. Instead, I display the title awarded for her killing, and the warrior is done for good.

"I don't... I don't understand..." he exhales with shock, falling back in his armchair with arms crossed and looking stupidly at his feet.

"You are indeed a bearer of many latent talents, Kris," the duchess speaks thoughtfully after a ten-second silence. "But what I don't understand is why you killed her? What connection do you have to this story?"

I look into her eyes with a sad smile. "A most direct connection, unfortunately. Astara came to the meeting with a lesser priestess, one of the new arrivals. I thought it was my woman. Nessa Klahd is from my world, and she was recently adopted by your House. So I took the map from Felata, then left Thalim and headed straight to Louu. Running out of time, I was forced to rescue the captive on my own. I infiltrated the house she was kept in by presenting a sealed letter found on Felata, then killed the mage and some kind of giant dwarf guarding her... And you know the rest."

"Oh, so he killed a tsverg, too," Sayed flashes a smile unexpectedly. "If this kid does get adopted, I'm promoting him to a lieutenant on the spot."

I halt in a stupor for a few moments. Seeing the warrior smiling, hearing his words of praise... A local, and one of such high rank to boot! It takes me a bit to properly digest the meaning of what he said. Is this really going to work?!

"That explains a lot," the duchess says with approval, still peering into my eyes, then adds. "I believe that the matter of adoption shall be settled favorably. But tell me, Kris Venom, what do you want as a personal reward? Our House values and rewards those who help our cause."

The question doesn't catch me unprepared—I've been expecting it at some point in the conversation. Completing the quest merits a unique reward, which can range from the ability to sense water at a distance to seeing through walls, and anything in between. But when you know these things well in advance, perhaps you can steer the giver in the direction you want. Well, I'm about to put that theory to the test.

"Mistress, when I had that misunderstanding with House Akkri and they decided to come after me, their pursuers followed some kind of astral track..."

"A misunderstanding!" Sayed snickers, but the duchess gestures for him to be quiet.

"I assume that they had your blood?"

I nod. "They did. Was it some kind of Blood magic?"

Etna shakes her head. "No. Every creature living in this realm has an astral body that's linked by blood to its material shell. It's not magic, but simply the way of things—as the Maker wished them to be. One particular spell allows the caster to temporarily see the astral track of any sentient, provided they're in possession of the target's blood."

"Temporarily?"

"Yes, a relatively short time since the blood was spilled. Of course, there are creatures in the world that can pick up and follow an astral track indefinitely. I trust you've heard of bonehounds?"

"And there's no protection against such beasts?" I frown.

"Not against bonehounds and their kind," Etna shakes her head. "But I can help you regarding the rest."

The duchess rises from her seat, walks over to me, and puts her palm on the back on my head.

"Don't move," she orders, and I obediently cease all movement.

Nothing happens at first, but a few seconds later violet lights flash before my eyes as shivers run down my spine.

You’ve completed the quest: Prisoner.

You have gained a level! Current level: 201.

You have 1 talent point to allocate.

Class bonus: +1 to Agility, +1 to Constitution.

You have 3 stat points to allocate.

You've learned a unique skill: Astral Camouflage I.

Astral Camouflage I.

Passive skill.

Other creatures' ability to detect your astral body is reduced by 10%.

The link between your blood and your astral body deteriorates 10% faster [543 minutes to detect by blood at level 201].

Your reputation has increased. Drow members of House Klahd relate to you with respect.

Yes! I did it! And I don't care that the camouflage only adds ten percent. Now, for a price of only four talent points, I'll be able to cut the probability of my astral track being detected by half. Waving away the lines of text from the system message, I rise and bow my head before the duchess.

"Thank you, mistress!"

"I hope that's not the last reward you will earn from us, sargtlin," Etna smiles with only the corners of her mouth, then her eyes grow serious once more. "Wait for me in the antechamber. We have certain matters to discuss."

With a nod, I take the chair back to its place and head for the door, reflecting on the incredible day I've had. Before this day I have never seen a real drow smile, but just in the last hour I've already seen two.

Chapter 54

The only difference between Louu in the evening and Louu at night is the size of the crowds on the streets. Signs and placards glow around the clock, but the locals still prefer to live by a schedule. I'm surprised to find so many players out and about given that most of them don't belong to any of the Houses. Could it be that the locals turned out to be not so vile? More likely, this bunch found some way to pay for the privilege. After all, half a million people were dumped into the realm, and how many have I seen so far? Five hundred? A thousand, at best?

I dig my fork lazily at the seaweed on my plate, then put away the utensil, fall back on the bench, and get back to contemplating the task at hand.

After my audience with the royalty of House Klahd, the three of them held a meeting that lasted nearly three hours, at the end of which the duchess called me back in and briefly outlined the situation. I was right to suspect that Yssa is head of security in the Klahd consulate in Louu. As for Sayed, he leads diversionary operations for the entire House. Which explains why he has nobles serving as his lieutenants. But that's beside the point.

According to the duchess, the situation isn't quite as rosy as it might appear. Stopping the war will require yours truly to infiltrate the Lolth temple complex and speak with Matron Cornelia. The conflict is too far along at this point for Alehan and Klahd to openly negotiate in good faith, but she might listen to an objective third party, which is where I come in. All ten Matrons are currently in the temple, each in her own residency. Tomorrow they're set to convene for a special emergency session. I suspect that the subject of the session will be the recent patch, but that, too, is beside the point.

In response to my logical retort that it might be easier to go directly to the Alehan consulate, the duchess dropped a few unfavorable epithets about its head, and suggested they're more likely to kill me than hear me out, just as she had nearly done herself a few hours prior. A logical response given that I have no quest to the Alehan consulate, so they have zero reason to be ceremonious with me. Of course, Matron Cornelia could kill me just as easily, but if I'm going to take risks, I might ass well go big.

I look around the empty dining hall, take a sip from my cup, then turn back to silently contemplating the window. I'll be heading out in an hour and I should eat something, but I just can't force anything down. Oh well, it won't be long now.

I accepted the quest without argument. In part because the promised reward was adoption by the clan, but for another reason as well. The quest of the Departed Gods weighs heavily on me, and if the Matron of an Elder House doesn't know anything about a secret vault hidden somewhere in the temple, no one does. And now for the easy part: find Cornelia, survive the early stages of our encounter, pose the question about the vault's whereabouts, then survive the fallout. The task may seem insurmountable, but I do have one ace up my sleeve. And though I'd love nothing more than to visit Daria while I'm there, I'm realistic about my slim chances.

After accepting the quest, I handed over to the duchess the opened letter, which ended up being a weekly excavation report from the Thalim mines. Then Sayed personally escorted me to the nearest inn, where I grudgingly parted with Bel's Mirror. Though they considered housing me in the palace, they eventually decided against it. As to how I'm supposed to sneak into the temple complex, that part is easy indeed. Midnight marks the start of a shift of an officer indebted to the duchess, and he's going to let me through unmolested.

Waking up in the afternoon, I had a quick lunch and headed straight to the auction house. It took nearly the whole day, but in the end I managed to avail myself of two enchanted rare level 200 daggers and fifty scrolls of Lesser Madness, spending a little over three hundred gold. I decided against buying any armor for now. Whereas daggers are a necessity in my line of work, armor is more of a luxury that can wait for a cheaper upgrade.

As for the molten piece of black iron, I carried it with me all day but never did work up the resolve to show it to a jeweler. The material is simply too precious. Better wait until I'm accepted into Klahd and made a geiss before putting out inquiries.

"May I join you?"

The voice gives me a start. Turning away from the window as I scold myself for inattentiveness, I behold the young guy who had approached my table.

A level 51 NPC rogue, he holds in his hands a bottle and two wine glasses. Simple armor and two daggers at his waist, and the name 'Leeque' floating above his head. A strange name for a drow—stranger still that I didn't notice him approach. Of course, with all that's on my mind, it's a wonder I'm able to focus on anything at all.

I don't feel like talking—even less like drinking. The NPC doesn't have the characteristic exclamation point indicating a quest, and I'm about to tell him to take a hike when the kid plonks the bottle on the table and flashes the Sign. The words get stuck in my throat.

A master thief at level 51?! But that's impossible! At least for an NPC...

"Greetings, brother," getting a hold of my emotions, I reply with the Sign, and motion at the seat across from me. "Have a seat."

The corners of his mouth twitch, and the kid takes a seat. He pours the wine into both glasses, pushes one toward me and takes the other. Only then does he speak.

"A toast to our meeting, Kris Venom?"

I shake my head, gesturing at the glass. "I can't. Got a job."

"Your job at the temple isn't until midnight," Leeque retorts blithely, and clinks his glass to mine. "Plenty of time to sober up."

"How do you know about..." I start to ask, but stop midway through the question.

Reality blinks, and for a brief moment I see a completely different person. Not even a person, really. Only the broad, windswept face of a man in his middle ears, his gray hair trimmed, a gold earring hanging from his left ear. A brief moment, and then it's gone.

The effort it takes to keep control of my emotions is monumental. I reach out and pick up the offered glass, nod, and peer into the stranger's eyes. Well, not really a stranger anymore.

"To our meeting, Bel..."

He nods in response before gulping down his drink. I follow his lead, then put the glass back down on the table and fix the god sitting across from me with a questioning look.

"For four years I've dreamed of so much as sneaking a glimpse of you. But I don't suppose that's the reason you're here now, is it?"

"Give me your hand," Bel orders. "No time for small talk."

I put my hand on the table, palm up, and then he places his over mine.

You have garnered the attention of a higher being. Bel, the God of Deceit, is friendly to you.

You have earned a new title, Grandmaster of Stealth.

Your Invisibility skill has increased to tier XII.

Your Cloak of Shadows skill has increased to tier VII.

Your Shadow Vision skill has increased to tier VII.

From here on, your astral track vanishes after half an hour, regardless of your level.

From here on, all your Stealth category skills impact your astral body as well as your physical one.

Invisibility XII

While under the effect of Invisibility XII, your movement speed is one-and-a-half times greater than standard. The intensity of smells exuded by your body and equipment is reduced by 95%. Creatures and non-player characters capable of seeing through shadows can detect you only if their level exceeds yours by at least 100. Creatures and non-player characters incapable of seeing through shadows cannot detect you at all.

Cloak of Shadows VII

Passive skill.

When you hide in the shadows, a translucent shield engulfs you, consuming a part of your body heat. The intensity of smells exuded by your body and equipment is reduced by 10%. The effect stacks with your Invisibility coefficient.

Attention! You can still be detected by certain non-player characters and creatures with a higher Shadow Vision coefficient.

Shadow Vision VII

Passive skill.

Life underground has changed the denizens of Anthrum. As a representative of the noble drow race, you are able to see body heat exuded by non-player characters, players and creatures if their body temperature differs from that of their environment.

Attention! Non-player characters, players and creatures detected with Shadow Vision VII remain invisible to everyone else.

Chapter 55

Grandmaster of Stealth! The tsunami of emotions I've been riding over the past week reaches its apex, and I barely hold on to my sanity. Me! The calmest, most level-headed person I know! This shatters the very notion of balance to smithereens! I'm damn near uncatchable! My only regret is that the skill bestowed by Etna has been rendered useless, but at least it happened before I wasted any talent points on it.  But my joy is short-lived. Bel doesn't look like a fairy godmother and I'm no Cinderella. Nothing is free in these games, and any boost to your arsenal is invariably followed by a boost in difficulty to match. And seeing as this is the greatest gift I've ever received in my four years of playing—and one that hasn't been merited, to my knowledge... Suddenly, I feel beads of cold sweat form on my forehead, and the God of Thieves hastens to confirm my suspicions.

"Finding you now is going to be a problem even for me," he chuckles, looking at my still-astonished face. "But, as I'm sure you've already gathered, this is an advance..."

"Yes, of course," I nod feverishly, tearing away from reading the lines of text. "Thank you! Now, what service do you wish me to do in return?"

I'm fine with such an advance. The achievement is mine for good, and won't disappear even if I'm knocked all the way down to level 30. So even if he asks me to solo a dragon, I don't care. I'll gather up my things and rush merrily into battle.

"You're already doing me the required service." Bel shoves the dishes aside unceremoniously, spreads a small map out on the table, and fingers a point marked with a red cross. "This is the library of the South Wing, the very farthest chamber." A small leather scroll appears in the deity's hands, and he hands it to me. "A scroll of True Light. Use it on the northern wall of this chamber, and you will open the door to the vault. Be careful to only use the scroll when no one is around. Casting such a spell may draw the attention of adepts of Darkness, and you will fail."

I accept the proffered scroll automatically. The realization comes later.

"So you know about the quest from the Departed Gods? And you want to help? But how are you connected to it?"

"I knew them all. As to my connection..." Bel draws a sigh and peers into my eyes with inexplicable sadness. "There are quests that not even gods can refuse. Like you, I've been paid in advance. More than fairly. Sherra the Seer sensed her imminent death and asked for my help."

"Did Lolth kill them all?"

"Aye," Bel nods. "They were all sacrificed in exchange for a speck of a Primordial Element. Any true element is indivisible. True Light, Primordial Chaos, True Darkness... An element bestows its power freely, to a hero of its own choosing, but a Great Sacrifice makes it possible to acquire its smallest particle, barely a smidgen. Yet, taken under control, the speck is sufficient to master the element fully."

"You're talking about the Vial of True Darkness?"

The flow of information is dizzying, and I struggle to keep my thoughts from scattering in every direction. So, Lolth wishes to take control over True Darkness? Or has already? No, probably not—otherwise there wouldn't be the quest...

Bel shakes his head to my question. "I don't know. All I know is that nothing you take from the vault must fall into the wrong hands. Should you get caught, your fate will be worse than death. But even then, don't even think about relinquishing anything."

Well, I didn't like where this was going from the start, and I like it even less now. I briefly entertain the possibility of refusing the quest altogether and suffering the debuff—briefly being the operative word. No, that would be against my principles. It's like the Departed knew whom to pick to carry out their task...

"Give me the piece of black iron you're carrying," the god's voice returns me to reality, and I obey, laying the amplifier's remains into his outstretched palm.

Bel takes the iron and stretches it as if it's simple rubber, giving the metal a familiar form—that of a lockpick. He twirls the new construction in his hand reflectively, then shakes his head.

"No, that won't work," he mutters, taking out another scroll. "Take this," Bel puts the lockpick and the scroll down on the map. "It will help you break the lock. Now I've got to run. May Sata not leave your—"

"Wait! Just one more question!"

"Ask away," the god's figure, nearly translucent, regains its normal contours.

"Why would such valuable things be stored in a library? And unguarded? It would make more sense to—"

"The secret vault used to be at the center of a very different temple," Bel interrupts me. "It is the most protected location in all of Anthrum. Not even the gods can locate it. I learned about it from Sherra, and now you know about it from me. Aside from the two of us, only Lolth knows, and no one else. Putting up a guard would only draw attention to it and thus risk exposure. The Darkfaced One thought of everything, driven by fear of her own teacher. The only thing she didn't account for was Sherra's prophetic gift... That is all I can tell you now. Farewell."

Bel's figure ripples and blurs, and soon dissipates in the air, leaving me to sit in silence for a solid minute, gazing thoughtfully at the vacant seat.

At last, I shake my head and look around the dining hall. Throughout our conversation, and a pretty loud one at that, none of the other diners so much as turned their head. What's more, I feel like they were purposely avoiding looking in our direction. A Shroud of Silence? Mm-hmm, possibly something even more serious.

Anyway, it's time to go. I pick up the items gifted by the deity and focus my eyes on them, one at a time.

Goddess of Luck's Smile

Epic item. Scroll.

Expendable.

Duration: 1 minute.

The Goddess of Luck favors her chosen ones! All the actions attempted by you in the course of the minute are going to be successful.

Break to use.

Bel's Blessed Hand

Lockpick.

No minimum level.

Bind on pickup.

Epic. Indestructible.

+200 to Lockpicking.

Bypasses all traps.

Combined, the lockpick and the scroll can open any lock in the game, guaranteed... Holy crap!

I tuck both items away in my bag and massage my face. Bel! In the flesh! I just spoke with Bel! Four years I've dreamed of this, and it actually happened! And his gifts are godly indeed, advance payment or not. Even more importantly, now I know the vault's location, and I have a way of getting inside. The System doesn't assign impossible quests—that rule is still in effect. When the temple guardian asked me whom I most revered, and I answered Bel, that answer became the key! That was the only way to get into the temple.

I think back to the strange way Bel spoke of Sherra. As if something connected them. Could they have been lovers? Anything is possible. And the petrified pool in the temple likely depicted the source of True Darkness that, for one reason or another, exploded and obliterated the five gods. But how did Lolth manage to surprise them? You don't get to be a god by being stupid. Perhaps the manuscript I'm out to steal has the full story. And what's the deal with Lolth fearing her own teacher? Who could that be? Arkam or some other entity?

My head starts to spin from all the loose ends. This isn't an MMORPG—it's a bloody detective novel! Then again, I doubt the devs are fully to blame for all this. There's no mention of any Departed Gods in the game lore, and it's another mystery as to what the governing AI wants with them. Anyway, there's no point guessing, at least not at this point in time.

I rise from the table and check the time. After a moment's hesitation, I pick up the bottle and wine glasses brought over by Bel. He didn't gift them to me, but he must not need them seeing as he left them behind, and I'm happy to make this—the cup that Bel himself drank from—my drinking cup henceforth. The thought makes me smile as I drop a silver coin on the table, fix the sheaths holding my new daggers at my waist, and quickly make for the exit.

Chapter 56

In terms of size, the Lolth temple complex rivals the Moscow Kremlin. And it terms of architectural extravagance, far surpasses it. The statues alone number in the thousands. I never counted them myself—I've never even been here before—but I've seen the screens and read about the place on the forums. The temple's main building resembles an elongated letter n, boasting seven visible floors topped with hundred-foot-long conical spires. Besides the main building, the complex holds about twenty other structures, and if I didn't have all these pressing quests, I'd be checking out every last one, marveling like a tourist sightseeing in Paris for the first time. Of course, I'd never have been allowed in here without said quests to begin with, and I've yet to learn to climb forty-foot-tall walls.

Geiss Garmiel, a hard-faced member of the Council's Guard, issued me a special tag, escorted me through the West Gate, and explained the way to the Alehan residence. He spoke coolly but without contempt, adding in the end that I have only five hours before the tag expires and any patrol will... Well, that part is self-explanatory.

I entered the temple ten minutes after midnight. This was the only available time slot—friendly centurions in the Council's Guard are hard to come by, even for a duchess. But Matron Cornelia shouldn't be asleep just yet. According to Etna, she never goes to bed before one.

Passing through the gate was akin to crossing the border into a magical realm full of spectacle and wonder. Myriad lights spanning the color spectrum, white marble fountains, statues of strange beasts and humanoids, and real trees from the surface! Where the Klahd consulate astounded with its beauty, the temple literally stripped me of the gift of speech.

The main building stands on elevated ground. Illuminated on all sides, it almost looks like the palace of some benevolent vampire king. I don't know where I got the association, but this makes me better understand Daria and her whole roleplaying crowd and their habit of not leaving the city for months at a time. Hell, even I would pencil out a few weeks to enjoy these marvels properly. Or is it that I'm a drow myself now? Whatever the reason, though the patch never gave me a choice, at this moment I feel no regrets over selecting precisely this race. Whatever their shortcomings—and, undoubtedly, there are plenty—there's something truly wonderful about drow if it led to the creation of all this splendor.

Breathing in the fragrance of flowers in bloom while trying to avoid gawking, I skirt around the temple wall clockwise until I hit a wide path lined with white marble tiles. Not many people are out this time of night, and the two patrols I pass by don't even glance in my direction. It seems strange at first, so I assume they have some way of knowing that I'm permitted to be here.

The Alehan residence is a large three-story building with pointed mosaic windows and a richly ornamented facade that blends organically into the surrounding landscape. Passing the wrought-iron gate, I head straight for the entrance, which is guarded by two NPCs. A mage and a warrior, each level 300, each wearing an expression of inconsolable boredom. I may not be a specialist in drow mimicry, but I can still read basic emotions on them.

"Are you lost, outlander?" the mage inquires without malice when I stop fifteen feet away from them. "These aren't guest quarters."

A subtle change in the surrounding world. Somehow I went from "kinless" to "outlander." Hell, back in Klahd I was even called a "sargtlin." But what matters is that I no longer detect disgust and scorn in the locals' eyes. Could it be my newly respected status with one of the Elder Houses? Perhaps.

"Good evening!" I extend a greeting in place of an answer, then motion at the entrance to the residence. "No, I'm not here by mistake. I need to speak with Mistress Cornelia."

A silence ensues as the eyebrows of both guards arch upwards. Even the yellow lanterns flanking the front door seem to glow a little bit brighter.

"Maybe you want to have a word with the Darkfaced Goddess, too, while you're at it?" the mage speaks with a touch of admiration in his voice. "You need only ask the priestesses over in the temple. They'll call her right over and you'll have a lovely chat."

Ha! A day ago my question would have elicited wrath and indignation, but this fella responded with surprise and mild sarcasm. That's a trend I can live with.

Ignoring his quip, I dig into my bag and produce Caen Jhess' Signet Ring to the guards.

"I'm here to speak with the mistress about this object and its master."

At the sight of the ring, the jaws of both drow slacken, the mockery gone from their eyes.

"Where did you get that? And where is the duke now?" the mage asks coolly.

"I will speak of this only with the mistress," I reply calmly. "And she can then decide with whom to share this information."

"Very well. Don't go anywhere!" the mage commands in a grouchy manner, then turns to his mate and adds, "Watch him closely!" before disappearing in the doorway.

Well, that was surprisingly fast and effective. I check my buffs, consider renewing them for a moment, but decide against it. I've got plenty of time, and I doubt that my audience with the Grand Duchess will last more than fifteen minutes.

Back at the gates to the temple complex I gulped down two elixirs of Mental magic resistance—the same ones I used on the rescued priestess—and cast one curse scroll on myself. Matron Cornelia is a powerful mentalist, but with my eighty percent resistance to Mental magic, her chances of taking control of me are fairly low[28]. Though I don't have any beef with Alehan, I'm not keen on sharing any sensitive information about the Departed Gods with random NPCs, no matter their rank. As for the scrolls, I won't be attempting the completion of any quests whatsoever going forward without first making sure that the curse is ticking. It's a damn shame the auction house had only fifty of these babies for sale. I should remember to place a custom order with the local enchanters.

I wait roughly five minutes before the mage finally returns, then escorts me to the second floor, points at a door with an elegantly carved arch, and says:

"Go on, you're expected."

Chapter 57

I enter into a spacious rectangular hall with beige walls and high windows. I spot Cornelia right away, perched in a high armchair—more throne than a chair—in the far corner of the room. The sight of the Grand Duchess triggers a slight cognitive dissonance. And not due to the priestess' astronomical level 603. Coming here, I expected to see a mature, domineering bitch. A kind of mix between the Snow Queen and Cinderella's stepmother. But reality ends up being far more amusing. Sitting on the throne is a petite young woman with silver-blond hair and a light beige mantle. The artist who drew her must have been a fan of a particular XX century show, as Cornelia's resemblance to one of the main protagonists is striking. Or it could be a pun of sorts. Matron of a House, Mother of Dragons... It's not that much of a stretch.

The hall is empty save for the two of us. Cornelia watches me silently, appraisingly, seemingly expecting me to make the first move. All right, if you insist...

I greet the priestess from the doorstep, then make my way over and place the signet ring on a small stand before her throne.

"Here you are, mistress! Duke Caen Jhess perished, along with his squad. Quenta Felata killed them using a black iron amplifier. She used the same means to kill Duchess Astara. Felata used Bel's Mirror to take your form, allowing her to draw within the amplifier's attack range. I killed Felata, recovered the ring, rescued the lesser priestess held captive by House Akkri here in the city, on Copper Avenue, and returned her to House Klahd."

I exhale and look up at the Grand Duchess questioningly. She doesn't say anything, so I continue.

"Duke Caen Jhess wished to stop the war, and House Klahd wishes the same. Bel's Mirror is presently in their possession, and they're withdrawing any and all claims against—"

"What made you intervene?" Cornelia interrupts me, her tone even but icy.

"I thought that the lesser priestess held by Akkri was my woman, but that turned out not to be the case. Nevertheless, House Klahd is prepared to adopt me if the war is averted. And also..." I peer into the priestess' eyes. "You should know, mistress, that I made no mention of the signet ring to House Klahd. No one will ever know about it except for you and me."

Something flashes in Cornelia's eyes as she replies with a subtle nod.

"Tell me everything, in detail."

I repeat the whole story, this time with Caen Jhess' involvement but no mention of the Departed Gods or the tsargh to whom the duke promised to feed the quenta. Those who know too much boast unsurprisingly short lifespans—this was true back on Earth and it's especially true here in Anthrum. And though I may be immortal, this tiny frail-looking woman can think of a million ways to complicate my life, so it would behoove me not to give her a reason.

Cornelia stays silent throughout, but as soon as I finish, she immediately leans forward, her head cocked slightly, and asks:

"Did you notice anything strange?"

I nod, anticipating questions along these lines. "Sure. The two that died last never revealed their faces while the duke didn't bother concealing his. That's certainly strange."

"I don't care about that," the priestess frowns. "Was there anyone else there, besides the duke?"

I shake my head, my expression as sincere as I'm able to make it. "I saw no other sentient there. Of course, it's possible that I missed something, or someone..."

Cornelia keeps boring me with her penetrating eyes for a good ten seconds, the tension in the air growing as thick as jelly, but then the corners of the mouth twitch and relax. She nods and rises from her armchair with remarkable grace.

"Very well. I trust we understood one another," she says softly and walks up to me.

"Take this, sargtlin," the priestess hands me a gold ring. "As a token of my gratitude."

Your reputation has increased. Drow members of House Alehan relate to you with respect.

The Grand Duchess' eyes are so big and green, her scent of violets so intoxicating, that I stand there for a moment, unsure of what to do or say. But the moment quickly passes.

"Thank you, mistress," I accept the ring from the priestess' hand, trying not to stare at her heaving chest, and bow my head. "What message shall I relay to Duchess Etna?"

"Tell her that there shan't be a war. Today I will give the order to withdraw our troops from the border, and I'll speak with Matron Alessa before the Council convenes." Cornelia gives me another appraising look, the corners of her mouth twitching once more. "As for you, Kris, I want you to come see me after your adoption is settled. I have a task that seems a perfect fit for an enterprising young man such as yourself. Simply announce yourself at the door, and you will be let through. Now go..."

"Of course, mistress. Thank you and take care!"

I spin on my heels and start toward the door.

"Take care, Kris..." she says softly behind me.

The mage is waiting for me on the other side of the door. Only now do I notice his name: Kyrn. He escorts me out of the building and bids me goodbye. And it's not until I exit the residence altogether that I realize I'm still clutching Cornelia's present in my hand.

Tiny green symbols shimmer faintly along the rim of the ring, its triangular frame inlaid with three small emeralds that seem to have been drowned in the surrounding metal.

I smile and focus on the ring, then gasp with awe.

Band of Deferred Death

Bind on equip.

Durability: 18,976/20,000.

Epic, scalable.

No minimum level.

+201 to Strength;

+201 to Agility;

+201 to Constitution;

+20.1% to damage-over-time effects.

Crafted by an unknown drow master.

Yes! My second scalable epic! And without any trickery this time, it would appear. Cornelia essentially traded one ring in exchange for another, but it happens to be the most lucrative trade of my life. And she sure is gorgeous... Yes, of course, my Daria is the best, and it's silly to desire a woman who's a thousand times stronger than you could ever be, and yet...

Hold up! What are you thinking?! I chastise myself for acting like an amped-up teenager at his first school dance. My mind should be focused on the task at hand! Everything has been going a bit too smoothly for my liking, and that's reason enough to be concerned. All of a sudden, priestesses have turned to good witches, the locals don't even grimace at my approach, and I scored a gift from Bel himself that far surpasses anything I could have hoped for. If it weren't for this quest, I'd be boozing it up in the inn to celebrate properly. Which is exactly what I will do once the quest is finished and I've reported to Etna.

But that will be then. Meanwhile, I must focus on the vault. After all, the tiniest error may result in my screwing up and negating all that I've achieved thus far. Somehow I doubt that the drow would smile favorably on a kinless caught trying to steal from their goddess.

With a deep sigh, I equip the new ring, tighten my armor straps, and start down an alley toward the temple. The statues framing the path watch me reproachfully as I pass.

Chapter 58

Lolth's temple is drastically different from the other temples I've been to. The temple proper is really the central part of the building, containing the altar, which is also where services are performed. The North Wing is where both Councils meet, and the South Wing serves as a sort of boarding school where priestesses dwell and study.

I renew my buffs at the temple steps, use the curse scroll, fade into invis, and only then begin my ascent, keeping to the right wall.

I pass an enormous rectangular terrace on the level of the third floor. Upon it, at the edge and right down the center, stands a black-as-coal statue of a bat. Wings spread, jaw open in a soundless scream, huge fangs curved inward...

The sight of the beast makes me uneasy. It doesn't seem to be anything extraordinary at a glance, yet somehow the sight of it changes everything, stripping away the sense of fairytale wonder, warping the refined beauty of the temple complex into garish, cartoonish decorations. A thought settles deep in my head, gnawing at me. This winged foulness has no right to be here, no right at all. This must be the statue mentioned by the Guardian of the Temple of the Seven, I've no doubt about it now. Now if only I knew what he meant by the statue being "nearly full." Nearly full of what? And how can you "fill" a statue, anyway? Before the patch, it was a mere symbol. Female roleplayers who chose to play as priestesses gathered on this terrace once a month and the statue singled out one of them by some metric. That is exactly how Daria became a lesser priestess, in fact. But something has definitely changed since those times, though I'm not sure why I harbor this feeling. Perhaps it's due to my accepting the quest from the Departed Gods whereas the statue represents the goddess who betrayed them? I don't know, but this isn't the time to indulge in premonitions. Business first...

The doors to the South Wing are open. Inside, two player priestesses stand watch behind a counter, and they notice me right away. I allow myself a glance in the direction of the living quarters before turning right, toward the staircase. The library is on the third floor, and Daria... I'll find a way to visit Daria later, somehow. Perhaps once I hand in the completed quest to the duchess I'll have free access to the temple complex.

What do they actually do here? Just study? Or are there social events of some kind? Damn! What if Daria found someone else?!

The thought sends chills down my spine. Could this be the reason I've been getting so lucky?

I stop, close my eyes, and take a deep breath to calm myself. No, impossible... I've been betrayed once, and I can't handle the thought of it happening again. Oh, screw it! As soon as I'm done with the quest, I'm paying her a visit. Room number nine, I remember...

On the way up the stairs, I pass by a patrol going down: two warriors and a mage, all level 300. What could they be guarding here? Or are they just wandering around empty halls?

The third floor is allocated exclusively for education, with the library being located at the tail end of it.

I walk down a long empty corridor and turn right. There's the door to the chamber I need. A level 150 lock opens from the first attempt. I enter, closing the door behind me carefully, look around, then whistle mentally to myself. With four colossal rows, each comprising a healthy fifteen shelves, the library is impressive indeed.

For the life of me I cannot understand the purpose of all these books here. Whatever they may teach, magic is the last thing you'll learn by reading them. An oversight on the devs' part? As in, how do you not put a library in a school? Of course, I could be missing something seeing as I haven't a clue what priestesses actually study. Histories of Karn and Anthrum? Drow language? Or something else entirely?

Wasting no time, I cross two halls and make another right, ending up in a small dimly lit room. No books here, just empty scrolls resting on three glass shelves. A pleasant scent of leather permeates the air. This is it!

I walk over to the far wall, push aside one of the shelves carefully, and produce from my bag the scroll gifted by Bel. Having never used one of these before, I nonetheless suspect that I shouldn't look directly at the True Light with my drow vision.

I turn my head and squeeze shut my eyes, then break the seal on the scroll. A brilliant flash illuminates the room, burning my hands as though someone poured a bucket of boiling water over them. My vision blurs, seeing nothing but orange spots. It takes about a minute before my eyes recover. I blink a few dozen times, then look at the wall. It worked!

The small door of light metal bears the engraving of a black sun over an equally black bonfire. The keyhole gapes right in the center of the celestial body.

I focus my eyes on it and grunt. The lock's level cannot be ascertained, but I don't detect any traps. Thankfully, Bel's lockpick will bypass them all anyway, so it doesn't matter. I stand there for another ten seconds, thinking, before a  sudden impulse compels me to take out the lockpick from the premium chest and slide it into the keyhole. The lock clicks and the door inches forward as the belated realization of what just happened washes over me.

Your Lockpicking skill has increased to 153.

Idiot! I just staked your life on a fifty percent chance! And all because I didn't want to squander an epic Luck scroll. How mighty foolish of you, Venom... On the other hand, it worked! And you don't judge winners.

Wiping the sweat off my brow, I open the door and peek into the vault. The initial reaction is that of... disappointment. At the center of a small blue room is a metal stand with three items lying on it. A book, thick and tattered with cracked leather binding; a small black vial; and a huge soulstone. Nothing else. No chests overflowing with gold or any such riches from Ali Baba's cave. Of course, these three items may turn out to be priceless, even if I can't extract any practical use from them at this time.

I walk into the room, pick the stone up off the stand, and focus my eyes on it.

Level 775 Soulstone

Bound item.

Material: enchanted rock crystal impregnated with truesilver.

Does not contain any souls.

Holy shit... This thing can hold the soul of a god! And yet, it has zero practical use to me, as I feared. In order to confine a soul to the stone you need to a) know to do it, and b) the target must be down at least eighty-five percent HP. Now show me a force capable of bringing the HP of a Great Essence into the red... Of course, the stone can also be used to capture a lesser soul, but doing so would be downright moronic. Such a stone can only be used once, and wasting it needlessly is tantamount to firing a nuclear rocket at a wasp. Oh well, perhaps I'll find use for it in a thousand years...

With a chuckle, I put the stone away and pick up the vial.

Vial of True Darkness

Contains a speck of Primordial Element.

Break to use.

Attention! Using the Vial of True Darkness will permanently transform your character.

Mm-hmm, somehow that doesn't make me eager to use this thing. Permanent changes and all. What if I grow a tail and horns? Or maybe scales?

It's too bad the vial isn't bind on pickup, meaning it can be looted off my corpse. And Bel made sure to mention that I mustn't allow it. After a moment of deliberation, I remove an Energy potion from one of my belt slots and replace it with the vial. Now I'll be able to break it in an instant if cornered, and I'll make sure to store it in my personal chest after making it to my private room, safe from harm.

Arkam's Manuscript

Bound item.

Contains the notes and observations of Arkam, the God of Wisdom, over the period of his study of the Great Dark Ocean.

The cracked leather cover bears the same black bonfire and sun. Interesting symbolism... I make a mental note to check the Chronicles for any information.

I open the book, leaf through a few yellowed pages, and nod with satisfaction. The book is written in perfectly legible calligraphic font.

But now is not the time to read it. This, too, will need to wait till later.

I tuck the manuscript into my bag, triggering an expected flood of text from a system message.

You've completed the quest: Covenant with the Departed I: Arkam's Manuscript and the Vial of True Darkness.

You have gained a level! Current level: 202.

You have 2 talent points to allocate.

Class bonus: +1 to Agility, +1 to Constitution.

You have 6 stat points to allocate.

You've accessed the quest: Covenant with the Departed II.

Read Arkam's Manuscript.

Reward: experience.

Attention! Under no circumstances may the Vial of True Darkness or Arkam's Manuscript fall into anyone else's possession. Failure to fulfill this condition will result in the loss of your character.

Chapter 59

A loss of my character? Do they mean final, irreversible death? How is that even possible? Not that I plan on giving up the vial. It would be pretty foolish to die for real when you've got your whole life in front of you, and that life is immortal. Anyway, reading the manuscript will likewise need to wait until I'm in a safe place. Besides, I'm pressed for time—even more so if I am to visit Daria, as planned.

Down in the hall, the priestesses on duty are conversing with the patrolmen, distracted. I slip through the door and proceed toward the living quarters. It's hard to express in words my emotions. What if Daria isn't alone? What if she has found someone else? Hell, any one of the local nobles beats a kinless rogue by a mile! Then again, I'm on the doorstep of being granted membership in an Elder House, so I shouldn't sell myself short.

The wide hallway is steeped in shadows. Stepping soundlessly on the carpeted floor, I take a right and stop in front of a wooden door with the number "9" carved on the face of it. Well, here goes.

I fight down the rush of emotions and the lily-livered fear, slip out of invisibility, and knock one, two, three times. Time to find out whether I'm alone in this world, or we are still two.

My mother died of an overdose when I was six years old. This was followed by three years at an orphanage. My grandpa took me in after getting out of prison, and that must have been when I felt a sharp need to be close with someone. I... I don't like people, but everyone should have someone whom they can trust unconditionally. Someone who won't betray you, no matter what... Grandpa died three days before I returned from the army. I just barely made it to his funeral. He was everything to me, and the solitude I felt when he left me was unbearable.

Twenty seconds pass without an answer. Nasty thoughts start crawling into my head, and I feel hysteria mounting when, at last, I hear the sound of soft footsteps. The door opens...

"Oleg? Is it really you?" Daria steps back, her eyes wide with shock. The next second, the girl falls into my arms and presses her forehead into my shoulder. "Silly rogue," she whispers softly while clasping me around the waist.

And I... I simply hold her. I need nothing else but this. Everything is right with the world, and all that has happened to me hasn't been for naught.

"Get in, quickly!" Daria steps back and pulls me into the room.

I follow her in, close the door, and smile.

"Hi there! I've been missing you, is all. And seeing as I happened to be in the neighborhood..."

My girlfriend laughed with glee. "I figured. Come on in, have a seat."

Her room is small, maybe one hundred and fifty square feet. Pink curtains, computer desk, blue closets, coffee machine, a couple of chairs next to a small sofa, and an unmade bed. Daria never cared much for interior design. And I couldn't care less now that we're together again.

"How did you find me? Better yet, how did you get into the temple to begin with?" Daria flicks on the light and turns to me with feigned suspicion. "Do you have any idea the risk you're taking?"

"Oh, it's all right," I smile and take a seat on the sofa. "How have you been handing it? The recent changes, I mean."

She shrugs, walks over and sits next to me. "Like everyone else, I suppose. I was upset at first, but then... My mom is here now, too. Turns out your relatives can use the same capsule to enter the game. Only she picked humans—she didn't want to live underground. And now I don't know what to do. I cannot forsake my service to the Mistress," Daria looks away, her eyes filled with sadness as she contemplates the vase decorating the desk. "I told her that I couldn't, but she didn't listen."

Seeing the sudden shift in her mood, I try to offer some consolation.

"We've got lots of time now. You'll see her again eventually, and you'll catch up on everything."

Daria shakes her head. "It's more complicated than that. Drow and humans aren't exactly on speaking terms. But anyway, enough about me." She looks away from the vase and back at me. "Again I ask, how did you get onto the temple grounds? Getting access is not a simple thing."

"Oh, it's not so bad," I give a shrug. "I'm on a quest from Duchess Etna. Completing it with grant me membership in your House and a promotion to nobility."

My girlfriend's eyes go round. "Duchess Etna? You're joking?! But she never—"

"A lot has happened to me since the patch," I interrupt her, getting up from the chair. "I'll tell you all about it, but not now. Tomorrow we'll have plenty of time. I just wanted to see you real bad, make sure you're all right."

Though I have nearly three hours in reserve, having allayed my fears regarding my girlfriend, I want to get the hell out of the temple and to my private room as quickly as possible. The vial on my belt is too dangerous a possession for dillydallying.

The girl grabs me by the sleeve and sits me back down. "Oh no. You're not going to come here, drop a mountain of intrigue, and skedaddle right out. Tell me what happened to you! The short version, at least."

"Really, babe, I would have to start from the very beginning," I try to object. "And I have fifteen minutes, max."

"Fifteen minutes, then," my girlfriend insists with an imploring look. "And whatever you leave out, you'll tell me later."

"All right, all right," I smile at her. "So, when the patch first hit, I thought it was some kind of system malfunction, so I decided to take advantage and hit up Thalim for some brown moss. It's a rare reagent for my poisons. That decision liberated me from having to pay for residence in Anthrum. Oh, but right before the patch, I robbed this one paladin, and among other things, I picked up this." I show Daria the ring and get ready to continue the story, but she stops me.

"What's so special about this piece of junk? It doesn't even have any stats."

I stop short and focus on the ring. Curious... I see stats, which means that only the ring's owner can, but no one else?

"It's cursed in a number of ways, including severely hampering my damage," I explain. "On the other hand, if not for the ring, I would have never made it through the cursed mist and reached the temple of the Departed. But that happened after Thalim, where I was—"

"Hold on just a second!" Daria doesn't let me finish. "You were in the temple of the Departed Gods?!"

My girlfriend's entire demeanor changes in an instant. She's all business now.

"Yes. I guess you’ve heard of them?"

"Of course I’ve heard of them! They are an enemy of our people, Oleg. An enemy of our Mistress, too. They dream of returning and laying ruin to all of Anthrum!"

"Is that so?" I chuckle. "Who told you that? Why would they be enemies of the drow? They were in Anthrum before your Mistress arrived. Lolth betrayed them, sacrificed them so that she could take control over the True Darkness..."

"Stop talking nonsense! The Mistress banished them from Anthrum because they schemed to eradicate our people!" my girlfriend insists with conviction.

"Daria, darling, you should take the things they tell you in the temple with a grain of salt. Or have you forgotten that Lolth is the Goddess of Cunning? I have the quest right here. Also, I spoke with Bel, and he told me that—"

"You have a quest from the Departed Gods?!"

I nod. "I do. Only no one bothered asking me if I want it. They 'blessed' me with a bunch of passive skills that will turn to debuffs if I fail."

"You mustn't complete this quest," Daria gives a somber frown. "You have no idea how dangerous it is for all of us. And for the Mistress..."

"Are you hearing me? I'll be forever crippled if the quest is failed. Why should I sacrifice myself for a traitorous, power-hungry goddess? We're not roleplaying anymore, Daria. This is our life now."

I reach out to touch her shoulder and peer into her eyes, but she recoils from me, cold and tense.

How quickly her mood has shifted... And that's some serious brainwashing they're subjected to in the temple. I'm not too worried about Daria, though. She's a smart girl, even if a bit stubborn. Give her time and she'll understand. At least I hope she will... My mood suddenly sour, I shrug and get up from the sofa.

"Anyway, I really got to go now..."

"Can you tell me about the quest, at least?" my girlfriend asks in a strange, synthetic tone.

I draw a sigh. "We'll talk tomorrow, all right? I can see I've upset you, and I really am pressed for time."

"All right, tomorrow, then," she agrees readily. "But let me make sure the hallway is clear."

Daria comes up to the door, opens it and peeks out, then moves suddenly to the side. A trio of level 300 patrolmen rush in, the same ones that were chatting with the priestesses earlier.

"Grab him!" Daria orders curtly, pointing at me. "Carefully! He serves the Departed Gods!"

Chapter 60

For a long moment, I cannot digest what's happening. To digest is to accept, and accepting this... The 'how' of it is clear enough. All priestesses are capable of mental communication, even when not grouped in the same party. This is the only way she could have summoned these assholes. The 'why' of it, on the other hand... Daria, my darling Daria. How could you... A great weight plunges on my heart, like a sandbag, crushing and grinding all things pleasant, leaving nothing but grief and despair. What is the point of living when you're betrayed by people you love? Betrayed by a woman that could have been my wife—if she wasn't a priestess of the Goddess of Cunning.

A dark shroud envelops Daria's hand as the warriors simultaneously bare their weapons. The mage hurls Paralysis at me, which finally wrests me out of my stupor. Eat shit, you assholes! I've never betrayed anymore, and I will not die over anyone else's betrayal! Not only that, I will complete this quest chain in spite of it. Because more than anything in the world, I despise traitors!

Dispelling Paralysis with the ring, I Kick the mage away as he runs up, leap into the left corner of the room, and break the vial in my belt slot with the hilt of a swiftly drawn dagger. The next second, I double over with AGONIZING PAIN as the world around me plunges into a blue-black darkness.

Your Toughness skill has increased to 13%.

Your Toughness skill has increased to 14%.

Your Toughness skill has increased to 15%.

I feel my bones breaking, my joints and ligaments tearing. I dive into the mouth of a volcano, then plunge into a pool of liquid nitrogen. My HP bar doesn't move, yet my whole body twists and turns inside out. A lifetime seems to pass by before the torment finally recedes.

You have garnered the attention of a higher being. Lolth, the Goddess of Cunning, Treachery and Twisted Desires, relates to you with hatred.

Attention! You have imbibed of True Darkness. The primordial element favors those who walk its path...

I wave away the scrolling text and slowly rise to my feet. Whoever said that objects in a player's private room cannot be destroyed was dead wrong. Everything in the room has been turned to dust: from the furniture to the appliances to the people... Even the floor underfoot is more sand than floor now. The walls have crumbled, exposing the adjacent rooms that bear similar signs of destruction. I can see the lanterns burning from the temple courtyard... Too bad the actual temple didn't fall along with this dorm. But anyway, it's time to bounce!

Sheathing the dagger that I still clutch in my right hand, I slip into invis and start making my way through the broken walls toward the street, teetering as I go.

Cries of alarm follow, and then the heavy footfall of plated boots. This place will be swarming with people soon, and I don't want to be here when 'soon' turns to 'now.'

A strange lightness of being takes over my body. I turn left to skirt around the South Wing and toward the staircase. I still have time. It's only in movies that cops and firetrucks roll up on the scene a minute after it becomes 'the scene.' Experience suggests I have about twenty minutes to flee the temple grounds before the local security forces ascertain even the broad strokes of what happened here and who's to blame for it. The better question is, what do I do next? Try to hand in the quest? Become a geiss and hightail out of the city?

Daria will resurrect at her bindstone in six hours, and it would behoove me to be as far away from Louu as possible when that happens. Besides, do I even need nobility anymore? Say I hand in the quest and get adopted by Klahd. After the shit I just pulled, mine will be the quickest expulsion from a drow House in the history of the game. And I couldn't care less! With all my new gifts, I can bypass even the demon blockade on the border. There's nothing holding me in Anthrum anymore...

A sickening clangor assails my ears. Then, a dark cloud gathers just ahead to the sound of wings flapping. A moment later, a tall dark-haired woman emerges from it.

You are detected.

You are paralyzed.

Well, this is bad.

Lolth looks like the cover girl of some glitzy fashion magazine. Straight nose, symmetrical features, tiny waist. Only cover girls don't come with eyes burning a furious crimson...

"Do you realize what you've done, worm?" the goddess' voice rings with uncontrollable hatred. "And did you think you could escape once you've done it?"

I cannot answer on account of being paralyzed, so I just stand there and gawk at this angry chicken clucking away. She is the reason my woman betrayed me, and all I feel toward her now is weariness and disgust. What is she going to do? Kill me? Declare me a criminal in a land filled with her toadies and bootlickers?

"If you're hoping that your death will be easy," Lolth draws closer, peers into my eyes, and shakes her head. "Then you're in for a rude awakening, worm..."

The goddess' eyes are entrancing. The world around me grows still, from the distant voices to the light of the magic lanterns. A great chill takes over my body, freezing even the beads of cold sweat running on my spine. My knees buckle as a wacky thought scrapes at the edges of my consciousness. What is she going on about, all ominous like a second-rate Bond villain? I can't help but start laughing. It starts in my head, then shifts to my belly, frothing and fuming deep within before finally bursting up and out of my throat, my facial muscles tingling. Her attempt at subjugating me foiled, the goddess frowns with displeasure, walks right up to me, and puts a hand on my shoulder.

I wonder why her hair is black when everyone else's is white? That is the last thought that registers before my consciousness fades.

Chapter 61

Coming to, I quickly realize that I'm stretched out like a starfish, chained to an angled slab of smooth, cool stone. The room I'm in is small, less than one hundred square feet, and illuminated by four magic lanterns hanging off the ceiling, one in each corner. Encircling the slab are six black rods jutting out of the floor, each about six feet long and crested with light metal. My hands and feet are bound with thick leather straps that grow right out of the stone. My action bar is inactive. My character menu is available, though. I can even distribute stat and talent points, but that, alas, is all I can do.

Calling my predicament "dire" at this point doesn't quite fit. To fall into the hands of a goddess who hates your guts... Why couldn't this bitch just kill me?

A wave of pure terror washes over me, making breathing a struggle. I jerk a few times, but it's pointless, so I stop and will myself to calm the hell down. I don't know how this story will end, but it won't end with me giving up the book. I don't want to die any more than the next guy. And I am terrified of being tortured... But I will fulfill this bloody covenant, if only to pay back this vile bitch for stealing my girlfriend from me. I still can't believe that my Daria did what she did! All priestesses carry the mark of the goddess, but I have no idea what that actually means. Could it be the reason for her betrayal?

I take a deep breath, then clench my teeth and shut my eyes. Idiot! Why do you console yourself and look to justify a betrayal? No mark, divine or not, could compel me to go against my will. Daria had a choice, and she made it freely. And that choice wasn't in my favor. Simple as that, and no excuses. It is that same betrayal that brought me here, to this slab. I hope that bitch is happy to have served her Mistress so well. She's not my Daria anymore. My Daria is far from here, back on Earth, in that cafe on Kuznetsky Bridge...

I check my inventory just in case, to make sure the stolen book and the soulstone haven't vanished. Then, as I look around the room, I remember something quite important.

The scrolling text after breaking the vial! I rush to display the system log and start reading. My capacity for shock already stretched thin, I feel it bursting at the seams.

Attention! You have imbibed of True Darkness. The primordial element favors those who walk its path. You have earned a new title, Born in Darkness.

From here on:

You have full immunity to all spells from the Dark school of magic.

Your maximum resistance to the Light school of magic is reduced to 50%. (Increasing maximum resistance to the Light school of magic is possible with items that boost maximum resistance to Light magic.)

Any damage you deal is automatically converted to True Darkness damage.

Your base damage is amplified by 2020 True Darkness damage (proportional to your level).

A new talent branch will unlock for you at level 250.

You've learned a skill: Phantom of Darkness I.

Phantom of Darkness I

True Darkness favors those who walk its path. Once every three minutes you can assume phantom form and become invulnerable to all types of damage and control while all of your attacks will hit for critical damage.

If it wasn't for my current predicament, which includes being bound like a guinea pig, I'd be jumping for joy right now. I look around the room with mild despair. Am I still drow or not really anymore?

"Kris Venom the two-lived..."

Lolth manifests right in front of me, but this time her expression shows neither fury nor hatred. More surprisingly, she's wearing a see-through baby blue dress that conceals absolutely nothing. It would appear that the goddess is no fan of undergarments, and despite the horror of my situation I can't help but feel incredibly aroused. Lolth catches me looking and smiles, baring delicate teeth that are white as snow, then cocks her head and asks.

"Where are they, Kris? My book and my stone."

Her voice matches the body fully. With a voice like that she'd be a top earner answering the phone at one of those premium 1-900 numbers. Hell, there'd be hour-long queues for just a few minutes of her time. Dude, where the hell is my mind going with this?

"Are you deaf? Where are the book and the stone? Answer me!"

"I have no idea," I try to shrug, but do a poor job at that on account of my arms being spread out on the slab. The goddess isn't convinced.

"Don't you know that you shouldn't take what doesn't belong to you? And then lie about it..." she says insinuatingly.

I smirk in response. "Sure, I know that. Only the book doesn't belong to you, either. It belongs to Arkam. And you only got the vial by betraying the other gods of Anthrum, so how do I know the stone is really yours? Look here, girlfriend. You should know that I despise traitors, and I will use any means necessary to fight them. So don't expect special treatment from me."

The slab grows scalding hot in an instant. My HP bar jerks, then starts rapidly dwindling. A sharp pain shoots through my chest and lower back.

Your Toughness skill has increased to 16%.

The pain too much to bear, I scream and twist in my bounds. After several spasms, the world goes dark once more.

I don't know how much time has passes, but I suddenly realize that I'm lying on a soft surface. The pain is gone, and my hands... my hands are free! I open my eyes, then scramble up to my feet and take an astounded look around the seemingly boundless ravine coated with ash.

"Greetings, Dark One!" a voice speaks behind me. I spin around and see a young and beautiful drow female standing not ten feet away. Her eyes a blend of almond and jade, her hair short and light, with a straight nose atop full lips. She's tall, almost as tall as me. And her voice... It's a voice I've heard somewhere before.

"Greetings," I nod, and that's when it hits me. "This is a dream, isn't it? And you're Sherra?"

"I am the shadow of one who was once Sherra. But this isn't a dream. We are in your subconscious."

"Be quiet and listen!" The woman puts out her hand, palm out. Seeing that she has my full attention, she continues. "You must live through all that has been prepared for you by Providence. You are the last hope of Anthrum and all our people. She... she knows not what she's doing! But if you don't fulfill your destiny, our whole realm will sink into the foul blackness of the Dark Ocean. I had a premonition that something would happen, and so I left behind my shadow. She will help you as much as she can, but..."

I snap open my eyes and find myself back on the same slab, opposite the same bitch.

"Well, Kris, where are my book and my stone?"

Her head cocked, Lolth clasps her hands behind her. The fabric on her bust grows taut...

I shake my head to get my mind right, then turn away to avoid looking at her protruding nipples.

"I'm not giving you either the book or the stone. Get that through your head! I'm not keen on repeating myself..."

Once again, the slab grows scalding hot...

Chapter 62

"You're a stubborn one, Kris Venom. I like that," the goddess smiles unexpectedly after the tenth go-round. "So let's try something else. Tell me, what do you want with this book?"

I feel like shit. Covered in sticky sweat, my breathing becoming increasingly difficult with each new awakening, and still I can think of little else than getting her in the sack. First I'll screw her, then I'll kill her. The thought keeps pumping in my head, displacing all others. I feel vile and dirty thinking it, but I can't help myself. Among other things, Lolth is a Goddess of Twisted Desires, after all, so I shouldn't be surprised.  Though my Toughness has grown to twenty percent, the pain I feel only grows in intensity each time. Or maybe it's my perception? Sherra doesn't appear again, but I remember everything she said to me, down to the letter. Not that remembering aids in understanding. The last hope of Anthrum? Foul blackness? What the bloody hell did any of that mean?

"Wake up, Kris! I ask you again, what do you want with my book?"

"It's on my reading list," I flash a wry smile, staring at the revoltingly alluring body under that translucent dress. "Arkam is a writer of some renown, I hear. I hope to pick up some wisdom from him and become just like you."

Lolth smiles. "The book teaches how to master True Darkness. How to capture a speck of Primordial Element by sacrificing five dolts and casting the sixth into eternal exile. During his study of the Dark Ocean, my teacher met the Fallen One, who told him about all this. In order to capture POWER, one needed to create an accumulator, wait for it to fully charge, then sacrifice to it a speck of Primordial Element. Anthrum suited my purposes best, and so I moved here. I used to be human, Kris. A companion and pupil of Arkam, the God of Wisdom," the goddess draws real close and puts a hand on my shoulder, her gaze growing distant and pensive. She continues, softly. "Everything happened just as my teacher predicted. The statue is nearly fully charged, and the vial... Do you really think that it doesn't exist anymore, huh, Kris?"

"And do you have five more gods to sacrifice?" I ask in a voice hoarse with tension, intoxicated by her scent, my eyes glued to her heaving chest.

"You are the vial, Kris," the goddess smiles tenderly. "You are the sacrifice. Imbibing of True Darkness and mastering it are two different things. My teacher did the same thing as you... only using a different method. Alas, I have no access to his body..."

"Even so, you won't be able to sacrifice me without the book, right?"

"Are you joking? I know that book from cover to cover, so you're free to keep it. Keep the stone, too, in fact. It'll become mine after your death, anyway."

"Then why the histrionics back there, in the temple? Why bind me and torture me?"

"Ah, that... You see, conducting the ritual in the most optimal manner will require a man. Just for one night. And I can't think of a better candidate than one who is Born in Darkness. The one condition is, he has to be a real man indeed, and so I needed to test you. You've passed with flying colors, so before your final departure into the darkness, you're going to have one unforgettable night."

"Oh? I'm ready, then. Let's get to it," I mutter, eyes still boring the goddess' chest.

"No, not yet. Too much of you is still human, and you wouldn't live more than a minute. Then I'd have to run around Anthrum looking for you. Bel bestowed a whole basket of prized gifts onto his follower, that sly bastard... What, did you think I didn't know what he told you about the vault? Ha! As if I would have allowed you to enter otherwise."

The words hit me like a bucket of ice water. Daria! Could it be that she didn't...

"Relax," Lolth smiles, as if reading my mind. "Your girlfriend acted on her own volition. My plan was somewhat different, but in the end it all worked out perfectly."

"So what now?"

"Now you suffer. We will not stop until the last bit of human is exorcised from your being. It's not a pleasant process, as you can see, but it's the only way..." Lolth puts her hand on my forehead, sending chills down every inch of my body.

Attention! You have once more garnered the attention of a higher being. Lolth, the Goddess of Cunning, Treachery and Twisted Desires, is friendly to you.

You've earned an achievement: Favorite of the Goddess of Cunning.

Your resistance to Mental magic has increased to 95%.

From here on, players and non-player characters whose level does not exceed yours by more than one hundred will not be able to trick you with an illusion. You cannot lose your sanity. Any creature, player or non-player character attempting to attack you mentally will fall under your control. The control effect will last two minutes against a target of equal level. Against a target of a different level, the duration will be proportional to the level difference.

The goddess draws back and nods. "There's a lot there that you'll never come to need, but it's the only way. You must not lose your sanity, that part is key. It wouldn't matter for an ordinary sacrifice, but it does for everything else."

"What... what are you planning to do?" I ask anxiously after reading the system message.

Lolth waves a dismissive hand. "It'll be like Velena's Embrace. Oh, and should you die unexpectedly, you will end up in a rather unpleasant place for a very, very long time. I've shared too much with you to be careless, so call it insurance. Thankfully, your chances of dying before I will it are essentially nonexistent. Take care for now, Kris! I shall visit you in ten dyns' time."

"What the hell?!" I yell, but the sound falls into a vacuum, Lolth having dissipated in the air and left behind only a plume of glowing sparks.

At that moment, the tops of the rods explode with brilliant colors, smoldering strands springing from them and reaching for my shackled body. My HP starts shrinking, and after thirty seconds of more insufferable pain, I pass out for the umpteenth time in one day.

Chapter 63

Tatyana Ivanova, a corpulent black-haired schoolteacher nicknamed Ursula, peeks into the playroom, locates me with her eyes, and calls out.

"Oleg Smirnov! Mr Alexandrovich wants to see you in his office!"

"Go on, son,” smirks Alex Sheglov. "Mr. Potato Head is going to enjoy shoving that Swiss army knife where the sun don’t shine!"

"I ain’t your son!" I toss the controller aside and smack Sheglov upside the head to drive the point home. "Work on your game!"

Dodging the expected counterpunch, I flash him the bird—furtively, so that Ursula doesn’t see—and strut toward the schoolteacher.

It's just a tiny Swiss army knife, but it did already land me in the principal's office for a good hour, where I struggled not to die of boredom before the monotonous, long-winded speech on school safety and the dangers of cold weapons concluded. Cold weapons? The knife was hardly longer than a thumbnail! And that was yesterday, so why is Potato Head calling me in again? Surely not to re-grill me about the knife. Last I heard, Alzheimer's is a disease of the past.

"Come, Oleg," Ursula waits for me to exit, then closes the door and fixes me with an odd look.

The teacher's eyes glisten suspiciously. What could this be about? I think, panicked, as I follow her toward the stairs to the third floor. Something serious must have happened to make this rock of a woman shed a tear. She's usually the one making others cry.

We walk to the principal's office in silence.

"Go on," Ursula opens the door and nudges me gently from behind.

I walk in and take a wary look around. The principal, nicknamed Mr. Potato Head by the students, is behind his desk. But there's another man in the office with him, one I've never seen before. Tall with a long, hard face, a short buzz cut of gray hair, and a small but deep scar on his chin. He sits to my right, across from the principal, watching me with a set of piercing bright blue eyes.

"Come on in, Oleg, you have a guest," Potato Head motions at the man and is about to continue when the latter stops him with a gesture.

Rising easily from his chair, the man takes a step toward me and holds out his hand.

"It's nice to meet you, grandson! I'm sorry I couldn't come get you sooner..."

∆∆∆

I open my eyes and look with hatred at the HP bar crawling back over ninety percent. Every breath is a struggle now. I hate this stupid dance. I hate this black-haired bitch. And I especially hate the cursed AI that started this whole mess.

I cannot begin to guess how long it's been since the torture started. The hellish device keeps bringing my life to the point of passing out from the pain, then restoring it fully, waiting until I'm fully conscious, and starting the torment anew. Any normal person in my place would have gone mad by now, but I can't on account of my latest "gift." My voice is long gone from screaming, I'm dying to drink, to eat, to sleep... My body has lost all its moisture from sweating. Visions visit me in the intervals without consciousness. Most feature either my grandpa or Daria, but sometimes I see other things. Endless wastelands littered with decayed bones, shattered mountains, enormous black fortresses... There are moments when I cannot fathom where I am, but when my Toughness finally passes seventy, a bit of clarity sets in.

When the torture first began, which seems a thousand years ago at this point, my first emotion was that of fear, which was quickly replaced by fury and hatred, and eventually with despair. None of that remains anymore. I feel nothing. And why should I feel anything? There is only one way this is going to end. This bitch is going to sacrifice me. I am going to die. Die for good. I am going to dissolve in the "foul blackness" of the accumulator. And the only thing that can save me from certain death is a miracle. Only I don't believe in miracles anymore.

As my HP bar drops below forty percent, I feel the pain slowly begin to intensify yet again. Whoever said that a person can get used to pain, I would gladly swap places with them now. Twenty percent... My vision fades into a bloody fog.

Your Toughness skill has increased to 77%.

When will I pass out this time? Last time I managed to hold out until five percent. As my body spasms with pain and my wrists pop, I notice the ring glimmering darkly on my finger. What if...

If it works, I will die and escape this cursed room. Lolth warned that dying on this slab would cause me to end up in some terrible place, but the bitch could have easily lied. At any rate, she would be unlikely to find me.

Ten percent...

The bloody fog is everywhere now, the monstrous pain seeping into every cell. Another convulsion, harder than even the last.

Seven percent...

All I need is to cheat this wretched torture device. But I'm only going to get one shot. Wheezing and twisting with pain, I open the character menu...

Five percent...

I reset all my talents and skills with the saved-up ability. My Spirit resets, too. The cursed ring—no, the blessed ring—activates instantly, dropping my HP bar to precisely zero, and I welcome the embrace of a most blissful darkness...

To be continued…

Note from the author

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GameLit Society

[1]
PvP, which stands for Player(s) versus Player(s), is a type of multiplayer interactive conflict within a game between two or more live participants. This is in contrast to games where players compete against computer-controlled opponents and/or players, which is referred to as player versus environment (PvE).

[2]
Combo points are a major combat resource of the rogue class. They can be accumulated with combo attacks and spent on finishing moves. The maximum possible is 5 combo points. The more combo points the player has built up, the greater the effect of the finishing move. Besides combo points, the rogue also expends Vigor to execute attacks.

[3] The baselard (also basilard, baslard) is a historical type of dagger or short sword of the Late Middle Ages.

[4]
In MMORPGs, a mob, short for mobile, is a computer-controlled non-player character (NPC) hostile to the player.

[5]
Cutthroat is a rogue specializing in combat.

[6]
A player’s "build" refers to the arrangement of stat points, talents and/or gear to achieve the best results for their playstyle. A build is based on a "spec" (specialization), though the two notions are not interchangeable. For instance, a priest character may specialize in Holy Magic and employ build 32/5/4, indicating the allocation of their talent points.

[7]
A DoT refers to a Damage over Time spell or ability that inflicts damage on the target at regular intervals for a limited duration.

For example, a poison DoT will remove a certain amount of hit points per tick for a set number of ticks, whereas an equivalent healing spell (HoT) will heal a certain amount per tick.

[8]
The offhand (aka off hand) is the secondary hand slot for weapons (dual wielding), shields, or other items that you are able to wield/equip. Offhand weapon damage is typically lower than main hand weapon damage, but can be raised with certain talents.

[9]To "one-shot" is to kill a target with a single strike.

[10]
In the Realm of Arkon, the sensation of pain grows as the player's HP (hit points) decrease. Theoretically, the character should start feeling pain only after their HP drops to 10%.

[11]
At the start of any match, a team must decide on a quick way to orient themselves in an arena. A round or near-round arena is viewed as a dial with six o'clock denoting the exit. A square is mentally split into nine even platforms. In an irregularly-shaped arena, the four corners of the world are used for orientation, with South being the exit.

[12]
Sap is an ability akin to Stun, incapacitating a target not in combat for 1 minute. Only works on humanoids and beasts. Any damage taken breaks the effect. Only 1 target at a time.

[13]
An accessory purchased for Glory points. Allows the player to remove certain negative effects once every 5 minutes.

[14]
The rothé are oxen-like creatures and the primary livestock of the drow of the classic Underdark.

[15]OP, short for overpowered, is a common term referring to a perceived lack of game balance. It is often used when describing a specific class, tactic, ability, weapon or unit. For something to be deemed overpowered, it is either the best choice in a disproportionate number of situations (marginalizing other choices) and/or excessively hard to counter by the opponent compared to the effort required to use it.

[16]PK, short for player killer, is someone who makes a point of killing other players when the opportunity arises.

[17]NPC is any character in a game which is not controlled by a player.

[18]Farming is the process of amassing valuable resources, items or money by repeatedly killing the same creatures over and over.

[19]Social quests refer to tasks performed with the aim of raising reputation with certain factions or organizations.

[20]Ganking refers to the practice of killing an opponent especially vulnerable to an attack. Examples may include attacking someone substantially lower in level, currently engaged in combat with one or several mobs, or having been previously weakened by an unrelated threat.

[21]Instances aka instance dungeons are special areas where a group or raid party is able to interact with a dungeon privately; that is, without interference from other parties or raids. Instances are populated with mobs and bosses that can be killed by players for loot and experience.

[22]The concept of aggro can be described as the "desire" of a mob or NPC to attack a player. An aggro range refers to a certain distance past which the hostile creature is guaranteed to attack.

[23]Corpse camping refers to the practice of repeatedly killing of a player or non-player character immediately after they respawn or resurrect.

[24]The standard maximum resistance in the Realm of Arkon is set at 75%. Therefore, a player with a maxed Fire resist is going to sustain only a quarter of the damage from that school of magic. Raising the resistance further is possible via achievements and special pieces of equipment that expand the maximum resistance. Resistances can also be temporarily raised with buffs, alchemical potions or special food. The absolute ceiling for any resistance is 95%.

[25]
Hate (also threat or aggro) is a mechanism used in many MMORPGs, as well as in some RPGs, by which mobs (enemies controlled by the system) prioritize which characters to attack. The player who generates the most hate on a mob will be preferentially attacked by that mob. The act of initiating such situation is called "getting aggro" or "pulling aggro." The character with the highest amount of hate relative to others has aggro. The threat list or threat table is the ordering of players by the amount of hate they have generated. The role of a "tank" is to keep and hold the top spot on the threat list during a fight.

[26]Kiting is a combat tactic of a player character keeping a mob or another player at a certain distance, usually out of melee distance but within ranged attack, and luring the pursuer toward your direction while dealing damage at the same time.

[27]
Sargtlin—drow warrior (Drow tongue).

[28]In the realm of Arkon, mental subjugation is calculated in percentage by the following formula: (L1/L2 x [100 - R2])/5, where L1 is the caster's level, L2 the target's level, and R2 the target's resistance to Mental magic. In the event of failure, the chance to succeed fall by half for every subsequent attempt. The duration of a control spell is calculated by an analogous formula. (For more information, see The Cursed Princedom, Book 2 of the first Realm of Arkon series.) Factoring in all these elements, a level 600 NPC has only a twelve percent chance to take the target under control.