Contents

Summary

ONE: Breaking the Siege

TWO: Set Course

THREE: Level Up

FOUR: Departure

FIVE: Ancient Tomb

SIX: Dark Conclave

SEVEN: Blood and Bone

EIGHT: Spiritcaller’s Horn

NINE: Chakan

TEN: Nikko

ELEVEN: Ancient Clues

TWELVE: The Scoop

THIRTEEN: Perks

FOURTEEN: The Crafter’s Hall

FIFTEEN: The Mad Alchemist

SIXTEEN: Ankara

SEVENTEEN: The Lucky Rooster

EIGHTEEN: Breaking and Entering

NINETEEN: Vault Job

TWENTY: Celebration

TWENTY-ONE: The Knobby Knee

TWENTY-TWO: Grind it Down

TWENTY-THREE: Sky Maiden’s Tale

TWENTY-FOUR: Bones and Battle

TWENTY-FIVE: Aftermath

TWENTY-SIX: Tomestide

TWENTY-SEVEN: Hard Choices

TWENTY-EIGHT: Twilight Lands

TWENTY-NINE: Round One

THIRTY: Desperate Measures

THIRTY-ONE: Regroup

THIRTY-TWO: Round Two

THIRTY-THREE: Crash Landing

THIRTY-FOUR: Blessings and Curses

Books, Mailing List, and Reviews

About the Author

Dedication

Special Thanks

Copyright

Summary

November, 2042

It’s been a busy month for thirty-two-year-old Jack Mitchel:

Three weeks ago, he died.

Two weeks ago, he founded the first Faction in the ultra-immersive, fantasy-based VRMMORPG, Viridian Gate Online.

A week and a half ago the world ended, destroyed by a cataclysmic asteroid.

Seven days ago, he conquered the Imperial city of Rowanheath, bringing all of Eldgard to the brink of war.

Though Jack’s Faction, the Crimson Alliance, has a tenuous truce with tech genius and Imperial lord, Robert Osmark, Jack knows it can’t last. Osmark is devious and power hungry, and it’s only a matter of time before he sends his forces to wipe Jack and his underdog crew off the map for good.

If Jack hopes to survive another month inside of VGO, he must find a way to beat Osmark and his army of bloodthirsty thugs, and a new quest—the Path of the Jade Lord—may be just the ticket. But this quest will be far harder than anything Jack’s faced before, pushing him to his mental, physical, and moral limits. And if Jack isn’t careful, his quest to defeat Osmark and the Empire may end up turning him into the despot he’s been fighting against.

ONE:

Breaking the Siege

I crouched low against Devil’s serpentine neck, put my heels hard into his scaly sides, and jerked sharply on the leather reins, wheeling us around—back toward Rowanheath’s main gate. Pounding wind beat against me, slapping at my face and clawing furiously at my cloak as the city below whipped past us and the spattering of enemy troops resolved into view. More Black Legion members out of Harrowick—though there were a few support mages from the Ancient Ones Faction and a handful of players from the Ever-Victorious Empire, courtesy of Robert Osmark himself.

“Fire,” someone hollered from down below, followed by the groan of wood and the creak of leather as one of the heavy enemy mangonel---—specialty catapults on heavy rollers—released a barrage of flaming debris high into the air. They were all aiming for me. Since the raid against Rowanheath a week ago, Devil and I had become minor celebrities, and now every Imperial-aligned player and NPC was gunning for us. It didn’t help that Osmark was offering five thousand gold marks, equivalent to half a million IRL dollars, to anyone who managed to bring me down and earn a confirmed PvP kill.

Devil reacted in a blink, throwing us into a quick dive, avoiding a flaming stone the size of my head, before barrel rolling right, dodging a cluster of baseball-sized rocks. A Griffin—one of Rowanheath’s conjured guardians, now under my control—wasn’t so lucky. A jagged chunk of rubble, burning like an incoming meteor, clipped the eagle-faced creature in one of its wings, punching a huge hole through sculpted feathers. The creature squawked in panic, its broken limb wobbling, no longer able to hold it steady. A second later, the damaged wing simply broke away with a crack and the guardian dropped, twirling in a death spiral toward the ground.

The Griffin, in one final act of loyalty, or maybe vengeance, angled its fall so it careened just over the wall and slammed into an encroaching group of armor-clad Imperials. The ground erupted in a spray of dirt and stone, taking at least one of the enemy warriors—a stocky Dwarf with a gnarly red beard, wielding a ferociously oversized battle-axe—down for good. Exhausted as I was, I couldn’t help but grin a little. Served those jerks right.

Devil and I wheeled about again, loitering above the wall’s ramparts as I searched for the on-duty commander. I spotted him a second later, his narrow shoulders and golden skin easy to pick out as he strode along the rampart, shouting commands at each ballista firing position. “Li Xiu,” I hollered as we swooped by, “we need to get those siege weapons down! They’re killing us!”

Another round of burning shrapnel whooshed overhead; Devil dropped just in time, landing on the cobblestone rampart. Unfortunately, another chunk of flaming stone, this one as big as a football, caught a young Murk Elf woman in the gut; she tumbled backward over the retaining wall, screaming in terror as she fell. Her shriek cut off abruptly a moment later as her body slammed against Rowanheath’s streets, a crimson halo spreading out around her lifeless body. Poor girl. I’d died twice so far and it was far from a pleasant experience, especially with the god-awful debuffs that hit like a car crash at respawn.

The Devs way to incentivize not dying. I shuddered just thinking about it.

“Marisa,” a beefy Risi warrior muttered, uselessly reaching out a hand, as though he could somehow save the woman.

“She’ll be fine in eight hours,” Xiu snapped, his words clipped and tinged with a Chinese accent. “Now, back to work, you er bǎi wǔ, or Rowanheath will fall and then no one will be fine.” The Risi glared at Xiu, who looked frail enough to snap in half, but Xiu stared right back, his eyes squinted, his teeth bared in a grimace, his feet planted wide, one hand resting on the butt of his sword. Xiu was intense. Scary-intense. After a few seconds, the Risi seemed to realize that too, dropped back to a knee, and began working a metal crank, ratcheting back the ballista’s string.

“We need to get those siege weapons down,” I said to Xiu again, fighting to keep the anger out of my words.

“You think I don’t know that?” he hissed, rounding on me, hands planted defiantly on his hips. Xiu was a former chief sergeant with the Chinese People’s Liberation Army, and he didn’t seem to care who anyone was. In his worldview, there were only two kinds of people: those who obeyed Xiu’s orders and those who should obey Xiu’s orders. He was a heck of a commander, though, and had a way of reading the battlefield better than any other faction member we had. “We’re trying,” he grunted after a moment, his tone a hair more civil. “But they’re too far out. Scatter bombs won’t reach, and those wáng bā dàn support mages keep casting force shields to protect troops on ground.”

I thought for just a second, brow furrowed, lips pursed. “I’ll take the Griffins and deal with the mages. Once they’re down, sound the drums and send the spider-riders over in force. As for the catapults—let’s break out Vlad’s new javelins. They were designed exactly for this kind of thing,” I finished, urging Devil into a loping gait.

“But we haven’t tested the javelins,” he shouted at my back, his words laced with tightly controlled panic.

Vlad, our crazy Russian and resident weapon expert, had been invaluable to our cause, constantly tinkering away in his workshop back in Yunnam, working up ever-new weapons for our troops to employ. Most of his inventions were brilliant—shadow missiles that erupted into a hundred flaming arrows, bombs which released toxic death clouds, cannons with rapid reload capabilities—but most was not all. A few of his inventions had … well, the results weren’t pretty: Players dead, shrapnel littering their corpses. Limbs crudely ripped off. Scorched earth for a hundred feet in every direction.

“We need an edge,” I yelled over one shoulder, a hand cupped around my mouth, “and there’s no time like the present. Load up the javelins—” My sentence cut off as Devil leaped from the rampart, his wings stretching and catching a stiff breeze as we banked upward. We soared over the top of the assembled Black Legion troops, cruising just out of arrow range. Five siege engines littered the rolling green fields in front of the wall, along with a small army—fifty or sixty deep—of hardened warriors, nimble archers, support mages, and clerics armed to the teeth with buff and healing spells.

Okay, time to take out those support mages, before we got our first real look at Vlad’s new death-dealing weapons of mass destruction. I glanced left, then right, catching sight of the stone Griffins soaring above me in a lazy holding pattern, their huge wings pumping as they placidly waited for my orders. “Squad A,” I shouted, focusing on a group of Griffins clutching giant stone boulders—each a couple hundred pounds, easy—in their lionesque front paws. I didn’t need to shout; despite the distance and the noise, the Rowanheath guardians were linked to me in some way I didn’t quite understand, and I could summon and command them even at distance.

But it felt right to shout.

“Bombardment run,” I yelled, “but focus on the spellcasters.” I paused, turning my gaze on Squad B, which was circling high above on the left. “When the mages put up their shields, sweep in low from the back and hit ’em hard while they’re defenseless. Once they’re down, take out the clerics and archers in that order.” A deafening caw, part eagle part buzz saw, ripped at the air as the guardians acknowledged my command. Then, they were diving. The ten members of Squad A swooped down in a wave, spreading out in a staggered line.

“Incoming!” an Imperial Huntress in dark leathers screamed as Squad A dropped their boulders toward the most densely populated pockets of people, letting gravity do the heavy lifting. A few panicked Imperials scurried about, raising shields in a pitiful attempt to defend themselves, but most just stood there smug and cocksure. They had reason to be: domes of flickering blue light erupted in the air as the squad of support mages raised hands skyward, all chanting in unison as they channeled their power into a massive defensive barrier of pure spirit.

The gigantic AOE spell was completely badass, but it only protected the Imperials from aerial bombardment, and the mages themselves would be defenseless while casting it. I grinned and waved a hand at Squad B—time to move. Ten more Griffins wheeled around behind the AOE shield and dived on cue, streaking toward the earth like living lightning. They hit the dirt at a sprint, their powerful feline legs eating up ground in a blink as they closed on the mages. The Imperials were quick—a group of archers turned and peppered the monstrous guardians with acid-tipped arrows.

They weren’t quick enough, though.

Squad B slammed into the vulnerable mages—their hands still upraised as they chanted—from behind. Cruel, hooked beaks tore out throats while razor-sharp talons shredded through flimsy cloth robes. The blue dome above flickered, guttered, and died as the mages fell, and just like that, in a snap, hell broke loose on the field. The remaining Griffins dropped from the sky, meeting the ground troops head-on. Shouts and screams filled the air, interrupted by the clang of steel on stone and the snap of bowstrings. The Griffins were badly outnumbered, at least three to one, but they fought fearlessly and ruthlessly.

To them, death was a minor inconvenience. They weren’t NPCs, not really. They’d respawn in eight hours, good as new with none of the unfortunate side effects players suffered after dying.

The crash of drums—-whomp-whomp-whomp-whomp—rolled down from the walls, almost deafening even over the din of battle. There was no in-game comm-link for players, and PMing everyone just wasn’t practical, so Otto had suggested the drums as a way of passing orders during battle.

“Spider-riders!” someone shouted in panic.

I glanced back in time to see a wave of furry legs and bloated bodies pour over the top of the wall, carrying a contingent of mounted Alliance members: Battle-Wardens, Firebrands, Ice-Lancers, Shadow Knights, Marauders, Cutthroats—players of every class and racial affinity—all bound to spider mounts. The creatures rappelled down on thick strands of gray, gossamer webbing before scuttling into the fray. A chaotic hail of arrows flew in both directions, claiming fighters on each side … Fire and ice cut through the air, scorching flesh or impaling enemy bodies … The clash of steel rang out as hard-hitting melee warriors dismounted and sprinted into battle …

The enemy catapults were still up and operational, but I had complete confidence Xiu would get the javelins up and working. With everything else in motion, the only thing left to do now was head down and try to grind out some extra EXP. The constant raids—two a day, every day, regular as clockwork, for the last five days—were supremely annoying, but at least they were perfect for grinding. Since the battle for Rowanheath, I’d picked up three additional levels, putting me at level 32, which was phenomenal progress considering how many experience points I now needed to advance.

Let’s do this, I thought at Devil. Drop me toward the rear, then do what you can to take out the siege engines.

Siege engines don’t bleed, the Drake replied stoically. Our telepathic bond had grown considerably since our fight against Carrera. I want blood, I want to eat, Devil continued after a second.

I hesitated for a moment, unsure what to say. You can mop up, I finally sent, feeling a mild wave of revulsion at the words. Devil was a great mount and a terrifying battle minion, but he wasn’t human. Not at all. Not even close. A fact I was becoming more aware of each day. He was an animal, a predator to his core, and he rarely cared about morality or pain. I looked down at the field and saw people—real people, even if they currently wanted to kill me—who would experience the trauma of being torn apart by Devil’s barbed teeth and rending claws.

All Devil saw was meat.

Once we’re done, you can eat whatever’s left, but work first, I said.

Done, he replied, corkscrewing in an instant.

The world flipped, the ground now forty feet above as my head dangled down. With a gulp, I unhooked my feet from the leather stirrups and let go of the reins. My stomach fluttered as I slipped from the saddle and dropped toward the ground like an insane skydiver who’d forgotten to strap on a parachute. Wind whipped at me, arrows streaked by in flashes, and the whole while the ground rushed up to meet me. I took a few deep calming breaths and triggered Shadow Stride ten feet from the earth. The world lurched to a halt as the Shadowverse exploded around me in all of its monochromatic, blurred-edged glory.

I turned my body into the fall, flipping head over heels, and landed on my back with a thud and a groan.

Dull pain radiated through my body, throbbing in time with my heart, but my life bar didn’t drop even a fraction of a percent. A fall like that should’ve killed me outright, or at least broken every bone in my body, but I couldn’t sustain damage while inside the Shadowverse—even natural damage from, say, a really high fall. A happy little loophole I’d discovered a few days back after some Imperial Ice-Lancer blasted me out of the air. Sort of a magic parachute, though I needed to work on that landing. Flopping flat on my back still hurt, even if it didn’t damage me.

With a grunt, I scampered to my feet—the whole world frozen around me—and found a target: a Wode Berserker with beef-slab shoulders, preparing to split one of my Murk Elf warriors in two with a gleaming sword. Maybe I couldn’t save everyone, but I could certainly help the Murky, whose eyes were frozen in terrible resignation that he was about to die a very painful death. I dropped into a crouch and lined up my shot, taking a few practice swings with my warhammer before stepping back into reality. Time crashed back down like a wave as everyone jerked back into motion.

The Wode let out a bellow as he lunged forward, but my hammer was already in motion.

I triggered my Crush Armor ability as the strike landed; the attack cost me 100 Stamina but added 250% attack bonus against opponents in heavy plate armor. Opponents just like the Wode Berserker in front of me. Between Crush Armor and my Stealth Attack bonus, the poor sucker didn’t stand a chance. The spiked heel of my warhammer slammed through the steel gorget protecting his neck and sank directly into the vulnerable flesh beneath. The warrior dropped his sword in shock, staggering to one side from the force of the blow, gauntleted hands flying to his ruined throat, now slick with crimson blood.

His health bar flashed an angry red—critical zone—but a final Umbra Bolt to the head sent him for respawn, though his body, bloody and ruined, remained behind. I wriggled my warhammer free, offered the downed Murk Elf a helping hand up, then spun and darted back into the heat of the battle. The siege weapons were still operational—though Devil was currently roasting one with a thick column of purple flame—but between the Griffins and the spider-riders, Imperials were falling by the bucket-loads, unable to coordinate a counterassault.

Off to the right, a group of Black Legion members were staging one last stand: a ring of ten armored warriors with heavy shields stood back to back, fighting off folks in every direction, while a pair of gore-spattered clerics stood in the center, healing the most grievous wounds and casting buff after buff on the fighters. In theory, their strategy was great, but it also left them open to a devastating AOE spell—like my Plague Burst ability. I threw my left hand forward, conjuring Umbra Bog. The green grass beneath the entrenched ring of fighters exploded in a pool of thick prehistoric tar; writhing tendrils of inky black lashed out, wrapping themselves around feet and legs, arms and torsos, rooting the enemy warriors in place.

Making sure they couldn’t run.

“Burst, burst, burst!” I called out at the top of my lungs as my left hand whipped through the air in a complex series of gestures: flick, twirl, snap, fingers splayed out, hand curling into a fist as raw power trickled into my palm. My warning call carried in the air, repeated over and over again by retreating Alliance members eager to clear the zone.

Plague Burst didn’t discriminate between friends and foes.

A rancid yellow fog—thick, billowing, and positively toxic—bled from the air, swirling around the invaders, clawing ferociously at any exposed flesh, and digging into open mouths and nostrils. The trapped warriors fought against the dark tendrils of Umbra power rooting them in place, desperate to get away, but their struggle was fruitless. Many dropped to their knees, hands wrapped around throats as they gasped like fish stranded on land. The cloud dissipated a few seconds later, the area now safe, though my Spirit meter continued to plummet as the lingering Plague debuff chewed through enemy hit points.

I smiled, a cold vicious thing. I’d seen some spectacularly cool class kits in VGO—some rarer and more powerful than my own, like Vlad’s Alchemic Weaponeer Kit—but I still thought the Shadowmancer was about as wicked as they came.

The Alliance members, retreating a moment before, reversed course, charging the dying Black Legion troops with weapons raised, screaming defiant war cries the whole time. I sprinted forward, happy to join them, unleashing Umbra Bolt after Umbra Bolt as I ran, raising my warhammer in preparation for battle—

A thunderclap split the air as a wave of terrible heat and gale-force wind blasted me from my feet, scorching my armor and knocking a fifth of my HP off in a single go. I flipped ass over teakettle and landed on my side with a thud, my body aching, my skin raw and tender like I’d been flash-fried. Holy crap, what the heck was that? I coughed and blinked sporadically against a purple afterimage temporarily burned into my vision, before slowly sliding up onto my elbows. I froze—half of the siege weapons were gone. All that remained was smoldering timbers, twisted, red hot metal, and piles of gray ash.

And the warriors manning the contraptions?

There was no sign of them at all. Even their corpses had been eradicated, wiped away like a smudge on the mirror.

For a long beat, the battlefield was as silent as a graveyard, interrupted only by the whistle of the steady breeze blowing across the grass and the crackle of burning timbers. Then a cheer went up from the wall, hoots and hollers oddly out of place against the backdrop of carnage. “Fire,” Xiu yelled, his clipped Chinese accent easy to identify. I watched, dumbstruck, as a pair of ballistae bolts streaked toward the remaining siege engines. These new bolts, which had to be Vlad’s javelins, didn’t look all that different from the old bolts: basically giant wooden arrows, though these sported blunt silver tips carved with intricate runes that burned with golden fire.

The few Imperials manning the remaining mangonel---s abandoned the wooden contraptions without a thought, sprinting for the hills as fast as their legs would carry them.

They didn’t make it far.

The javelins landed with the force of a bomb blast; a cloud of dirty golden fire mushroomed into the air accompanied by a plume of black smoke climbing lazily into the sky. A blast wave rippled out from the detonation site, hurling debris and tongues of flame in every direction. The fleeing Imperials were roasted alive, their screams barely audible over the clamor of the blast. This time, I conjured a protective dome of twisting purple light, saving myself from the assailing wind and relentless heat.

I stared at the devastation through squinted eyes. I guess the javelins worked.

With a groan, I gained my feet and took a quick survey of the battlefield. The siege engines were gone, destroyed beyond recovery, and most of the Imperials were either dead or severely wounded. Devil, thankfully, had retreated from the siege weapons and was busy snacking near the base of Rowanheath’s formidable wall. I sighed, blew my cheeks out, and rubbed the heels of my palms into my eyes. I needed a bite to eat and a break. Needed it badly. I whistled to Devil, who glanced up at me with annoyance etched into the lines of his scaly, terrifying face.

He had part of a Risi’s arm dangling from his lips like a spaghetti noodle.

Time to get back to the Keep.

He grunted noncommittally at me, smoke trailing up from his nostrils in displeasure, then finished off the dangling arm with a disgusting chomp. He swept his massive head around the field as he ambled toward me, pausing now and then to take another bite here or there, before finally allowing me to clamber up into my saddle. He gave one last reproachful look at the body-strewn wasteland, a forlorn growl building in his chest, then broke into a quick trot, building up speed as his wings pumped, generating huge gusts of air which flattened blood-coated grass. After a few thrusts, we were airborne, rocketing into the sky.

“Good work, Xiu,” I shouted down at the commander, shooting him a thumbs-up as Devil and I streaked by, bound for the Mystica Ordo and a one-way port skip back to Yunnam.

TWO:

Set Course

The sun was dipping below the tree line, painting the sky with fat fingers of pink and gold, when I finally ported into Darkshard Keep. I pressed a hand to my gut as a grumble of hunger burbled up and out, reminding me that my last meal had been a spit of roasted rat well before noon. All I wanted was a mug of ale, a heaping plate full of something hot—it didn’t even matter what—and an opportunity to relax for a few hours. Fat chance of that happening, though. Despite a long, tiring day on the wall and winning yet another skirmish against the Imperials, my work was far from done.

Heck, these days, my work was never really done. I had a faction to run, which meant reports to file, briefs to hear, decisions to make, fires—both metaphorical and often literal—to extinguish.

I sighed as I threaded my way through the crowds near the stone port pad, all waiting to head from the Darkshard Keep into Yunnam proper. I kept my head down and my hood up since there’d be less of a chance of someone spotting me; at this point, any moment to myself was something to cherish. The Keep grounds had changed a lot over the past week. The rubble formerly littering the area was completely gone, the foliage—assorted trees, vines, and hedges—had been painstakingly trimmed back, and a host of exotic swamp flowers and shrubs had been sculpted into pristine gardens by a handful of hardworking groundskeepers.

I ambled past the barracks—a boxy, three-story stone monstrosity with terraces running along each floor. My gaze momentarily lingered on a group of squealing children racing over green grass in a frantic game of tag. One boy, little more than a toddler, clapped frantically as he ran in circles while an overgrown Dread Hound—two hundred pounds of black fur, yellowed fangs, and hellfire eyes—chased along, its great tongue lolling out in what amounted to a doggy smile. Another kid, a little Dawn Elf girl with pigtails, leaped over one of her friends, a Risi boy of maybe twelve, before turning a cartwheel and streaking off to one of the manicured gardens.

I glanced up.

A knot of adults watched on from the terraces above, leaning against the stone railing, smiling. I grinned too, my sour attitude improving just a hair. There was a surprisingly high number of children who’d made the transition, and even more surprisingly, the game had spawned custom children NPC companions for each of them. I wasn’t sure what would happen to them—would they grow or would they be kids for all eternity?—but for now, it made me happy to see them. Kids, running around in the green grass, carefree despite the fact that the world had ended a week and a half ago.

Maybe there was some hope.

I dropped my head and trudged into one of the shanty towns, weaving past the sprawl of bulky leather tents and through the graceful archway connecting to the Keep’s inner courtyard. The Keep’s courtyard—a giant slab of ancient, weathered stone—sat empty, but several of our new training areas were bustling with activity: Men and women scuttled along narrow beams or climbed swaying cargo nets on the new Agility Course. Meanwhile, the clash of steel, followed by cheers and jeers from onlookers, rose up from the Melee Combat Arena off to the right.

I ignored them all and beelined toward the weather-beaten steps leading from the courtyard into the Keep. The Darkshard Keep stood in stark contrast to the castle looming high above Rowanheath, carved into the cliffs above the city. Instead of hard lines, gray stone, and high walls built for war, Darkshard looked like a Buddhist Temple plucked out of a bygone era. The place was all rounded edges, flowing curves, elegant spires, and artfully carved stonework depicting fantastical beasts and epic battles from long, long ago.

Once I’d made it up the stairs and through a pair of double doors big enough to admit a herd of wild elephants, I pulled up my user screen and scrolled over to the Keep’s interface. I could do all kinds of things from there—summon guards, oversee the Keep’s defenses, upgrade structures—but what I really wanted was the internal port feature, which we’d added as soon as we had the points. The Keep itself was a sprawling place with rooms upon rooms to explore or get lost in, and the Command Center sat at the tip-top of the highest turret on the premises.

The view was to die for, but the climb up the stairs might actually kill.

“Command Center,” I muttered, pressing my eyes shut as I activated the Keep’s teleporter. The world shivered, shuddered, shifted, and suddenly the clamor of voices washed over me as the floor reeled below my unsteady feet. I wobbled for a moment, pressing a hand against my queasy stomach as I waited for the surge of vertigo to pass, then cracked my eyes open. The sprawling entryway was gone, and the octagonal Command Center sat before me. Flickering firelight, from both the stone fireplace at the far end of the room and an elaborate chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling, filled the room with a warm glow.

The place, as always, was busy and buzzing with life and restless activity. Players from a host of different IRL nations dawdled around the room in small pockets, speaking in muted conversational tones as they pored over reports or discussed camp operations. As usual, I felt a flicker of guilt looking at them—they were all better at this than me. We had attorneys, doctors, professors, former military officers, even a smattering of politicians. Any of them should’ve been in charge of the Crimson Alliance, yet for some reason, they were following me. Well, me and Abby.

Mostly Abby.

Sure, I came up with plans and saw they got carried out, but Abby was the brains behind the operation. She was the elbow grease that kept everything running along, nice and smooth. Or as smooth as an upstart rebellion could be, anyway.

I untied the velvet rope cordoning off the telepad and quickly scanned the room: Abby sat hunched over a sprawling table, her hands planted on the dark wood, her brow furrowed in thought as she studied a leather-bound ledger filled with reams of hastily scrawled parchment. She was a beautiful woman, Abby. Short and perfectly curvy with dark skin and a pile of intricate brown curls. Chief Kolle, the leader of the Ak-Hani clan and our Murk Elf advisor, flanked her on the right, while Anton Black—a former tax accountant from the UK and now our Chief Logistics Officer—stood to her left.

“I just don’t understand what they gain,” Abby muttered, poring over the ledger. “It just doesn’t add up. They’ve got to be losing money with all of these pointless incursions. It’s not like they even come close to breaching Rowanheath.”

“Oh, they’re hemorrhaging money,” Anton replied, nodding vigorously, his blond hair bobbing. “Moving that number of troops and supplies on a consistent schedule can’t be cheap, plus it must be costing them a fortune in missed quests and dungeon raids. And they accomplish nothing. Nothing.” He shook his head, dumbfounded.

I slipped past a pair of bulky Dwarves—heatedly discussing the finer points of Mine-Craft and ore deposits—and plopped down in one of the padded leather chairs edging the bulky table.

“Jack!” Abby said, her face lighting up with a smile. The smile slipped after a second, her nose scrunching up in distaste. “God, you look terrible.” Her gaze swept over me, pausing on the bloodstains decorating my armor and splattered across my hands and face. “Tough day?”

“They brought siege weapons this time. Big ones. Still not enough to break our defenses, but it’s getting worse. I don’t know how much longer we can keep this up. I mean the faction is growing, sure, but not fast enough to sustain this kind of pace. Even with the rotations, our guys on the wall are getting tired—I can see it in them. They’re pulling twelve-hour watch shifts five days a week, and on top of that, most have died multiple times already.” I reached up and tapped a finger against my temple. “It’s messing with their minds.”

“And that,” the chief interjected, leaning forward, his hands resting on the table, “is what the Imperials are accomplishing. We’ve been looking at this from the wrong angle. They are not seeking to take Rowanheath—their numbers tell us as much. Rather, their goal is to crush our will to fight. And though it may be costly to wage such a war, it will prove to be far costlier to us in the long run. Now, aside from what Grim Jack has already mentioned, I want you two”—he paused, staring at Abby and Anton in turn—“to think, really think, about what else they’ve achieved.”

Abby and Anton were both silent for a beat, sharing sidelong glances at each other like schoolkids who’d been called out by a particularly demanding teacher. “Well, it’s costing us significantly in trade,” Anton eventually answered, his words slow and thoughtful. “With the constant siege, caravans from other cities haven’t been able to get through, which is a serious blow to Rowanheath’s economy. Food and basic goods will get more expensive, which can’t be good for morale …” He trailed off, anxiously running his hands over his silky robes.

“And, I suppose, it’s costing us a ton in terms of quests, too,” Abby offered. “Our defenders are leveling up from the battles, but with the demanding watch shifts, they don’t have the kind of time they need to complete quests. Not to mention, killing Imperials earns a bit of coin but no loot. I mean, a lot of those guards don’t even have their Specialty classes yet, which means they’ll eventually be at a disadvantage against the troops the Empire is sending our way.”

“Now you begin to see,” the chief replied sagely. “They’re not trying to eradicate us—which is consistent with what Grim Jack told us of this Osmark’s offer. They’re trying to bring us to heel, like a hunter breaking a war hound. Moreover, this Osmark is appeasing the various Imperial-aligned factions in the process. This is not a war of physical domination, it is a war for the mind, for the heart.” He thumped a fist against his chest.

We were quiet in the wake of his words; in fact, I noticed the whole room had fallen silent, all the various pockets of conversation cut short as everyone eavesdropped.

Abby stood, arms folded, a frown glued in place. “If you’re not a faction officer”—she stared daggers around the room—“or the chief, please leave.” Her tone stated plainly that prompt compliance was expected. It took only seconds for the chamber to empty, people breaking for the exit in a barely controlled panic, the heavy door slamming shut behind them. Abby rounded on me, her frown turning into a heavy scowl. “Okay, Jack, we need to do something different. I know you don’t want a war, I know you want to trust Osmark, but this isn’t—”

I cut her off. “You weren’t there, Abby. You don’t know,” I said, recalling my strange encounter with Osmark after the battle for Rowanheath. “I don’t want to be ruled over by a tin-pot dictator any more than you do, but Osmark made some good points. I mean, he did save us all. Obviously, he made a few of the deals that were unethical, but if he hadn’t done that, we’d all be dead, Abby. Dead.” I slammed a hand down against the table, envisioning a tsunami of fire washing over the world. “Besides, what about all of the travelers from places like China or Saudi Arabia? Osmark’s right, a lot of those people wouldn’t want what we have to offer. Maybe there is some way we can make peace with the Empire.”

“Attacks every single day? That isn’t peace, Jack,” Abby said. “Osmark’s playing you. He’s just trying to get inside your head, in the same way he’s using this siege to get inside the heads of every faction member we have.”

I waved her objection away. “Eldgard revolves around conflict—the Overminds demand it. Osmark already told me he’d send some token forces against us. None of this is a surprise to me. Besides, they’ve focused solely on Rowanheath. Just look around, Abby. Things have never been better in Yunnam. The economy is growing. We’re recruiting more people every day. We haven’t seen an Imperial in the swamp in a week.”

“This is true, but for how long?” the chief asked, his rough voice brimming with concern.

“How long what?” I snapped back, too annoyed, tired, sore, and hungry to be diplomatic or tactful.

“How long before his benevolence lapses, Grim Jack? Right now, we exist at his mercy. But what if that mercy should fail? We have a saying among the Dokkalfar: ‘never trust a fat crocodile.’ This Osmark, he may have a full belly now, but eventually he will be hungry again, and then he will turn his jaws on us.”

I stood up, feeling the weight of uncertainty press down on me, and began to pace, the sound of my boots absorbed by the thick carpets underfoot. I was reluctant to admit it, but Osmark had shaken me during our brief encounter. Carrera was scary, sure, but he’d been scary in the way a rabid pit bull is scary: all muscle and rage, but nothing else. Osmark was different, though. He was smart—-smart enough to envision Viridian Gate and see it through to completion despite all of the obstacles stacked against him. He’d offered me the semblance of a truce, but he’d made it clear what would happen if we pushed back too hard …

He’d come at us with everything he had, and the way he’d said it—like someone absently explaining how he’d wipe up a glass of spilled milk—made me believe he could destroy us. Who knew what a man like that might have hiding up his sleeve?

“I know this isn’t easy, Jack,” Abby said, her voice soothing, concern lining her face, “but we’re the only ones that can stop him. Chief Kolle is right. Maybe he’s being genuine, but we’re going to be here a long time, Jack. Maybe forever—no one knows. Are you sure his good intentions will hold forever? Wouldn’t it make more sense to have the power to stop him if push did come to shove? We’re only still alive because we were proactive and bucked the system. Do you honestly think Osmark would’ve stopped Carrera from hunting us down if we hadn’t backed him into a corner by taking Rowanheath?”

I took a few deep breaths, running my sweat-slick palms through my dark hair, then flopped back into my chair. Abby made some good points, too. My fear of Osmark, my fear of the unknown, urged me to sit back and not rock the boat. To fight for the status quo. To turn inward, build up Yunnam, and leave the rest of Eldgard to fend for itself. But, that same fear also whispered something else in my ear: it’s only a matter of time … eventually, he’ll come for you.

Abby looked like she was going to continue, to push her case, but the chief stopped her with an upraised hand. “Abby speaks the truth, but”—he dropped his hands, folding them in resignation on the tabletop—“we will not force you into a decision, Grim Jack. Your instincts have also played a significant role in the victories we’ve had. Let us all”—he stole a long look at Abby and Anton—“never forget that.”

I sighed and slouched back in the chair, letting the comforting leather cradle my battle-sore muscles. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to at least talk about our options,” I finally conceded. “But first, food.”

THREE:

Level Up

“Should we get Cutter and Amara before we start?” I asked before sinking my teeth into a char-roasted slab of spider—the meat tender and oddly chicken-like. An explosion of hot grease and smoky flavor ran across my tongue in a delicious wave. God the food in VGO was good. Everything, even skewered rat, tasted better than the best steak I’d ever eaten back IRL, plus it made you feel incredible. I chewed in contemplative silence, then sat back and took a big swig of copper-red ale, which was sweet, but balanced out with hints of hops and honey.

Alcoholic heaven.

“Better not to wait,” the chief replied. “They’re running an errand for me deep in the heart of the forest—handling a bit of trouble.”

I cocked an eyebrow at him as I tore off another chunk of meat with my teeth.

He waved my unspoken question away with one hand. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with, Grim Jack.” He paused, a sly barely there smile gracing his lips. “Something of a team-building exercise, meant to bring them closer together. It will be good, I think, but they’ll be indisposed for a time.”

“Besides,” Anton said, his voice coated with a light British accent, “having Cutter around would only make things more difficult. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a nice enough bloke—in a disgusting, drunk, belligerent sort of way—but he’s not one with the patience or aptitude for politics or business. Best if we handle this alone.”

I snorted and rolled my eyes at the joke, which was funny precisely because it wasn’t a joke at all.

“Fine,” I conceded. “Otto?” I asked, my mind flashing to the taciturn Risi. He may have been a bit rough around the edges, but he was also great with military advice and overall strategy. He had a knack for it, earned from a lifetime of skirmishes, raids, and war.

“Nope. He’s in Rowanheath for the next few days,” Abby replied. “He’s training the new recruits, getting them ready for wall duty. Which just leaves us.” She swept an arm out in a small circle.

“Okay,” I said, glancing at Abby, Anton, and Chief Kolle in turn, “but where should we start? I mean this is big. Osmark isn’t just some pushover—he’s the Emperor of Viridia with twenty-four other factions backing him.” I stole another bite.

“Well, before we talk about Osmark and the Imperials,” Abby replied, voice positively brimming with excitement, “we’ve got some faction business to take care of.” She paused, glanced at me, then tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to look at the Faction Menu, have you, Jack?”

I shook my head, mouth too full to speak.

“Well, then I’ve got some good news for you. The Crimson Alliance just leveled—that last battle finally put us over the top.” She practically squeed, her hands shaking in erratic delight.

“We’re level two now, Jackie-boy,” Anton said as a shit-eating grin stretched across his pinched face. He reached over and gave me a light punch on the shoulder. “Level two. Can you believe it?”

I just sat there for a moment, letting the news settle over me. Honestly, I was shocked—a part of me didn’t believe it. In fact, I’d been starting to think we were never going to level up as a faction. Brewald—the chief guardian of Darkshard, and the physical manifestation of the Keep—had warned us how difficult leveling up a faction was, but I hadn’t really paid him any mind. Not until later. It turned out, Brewald hadn’t exaggerated. Moving from level one to level two required a whopping ten million EXP.

Capturing Rowanheath had earned us half that number. If not for that, we’d be grinding away for another few months, no doubt.

I choked down my bite and followed it with a gulp of mead as I thought. “Wow, that’s huge,” I finally said.

“Yep, yep, yep,” Abby replied with a grin and a nod. “Which means we’ve got five points to divvy up. The question is, what do we do with them? Maybe, in light of the constant siege, we should more seriously consider investing a few points in the Battle-Craft skill set? I mean, our members could use an increase in morale or some extra movement bonuses. Anything would help, really.”

“Our girl has a point, Jackie-boy,” Anton added. “I salute you guys for taking a gamble and investing into Merchant-Craft and State-Craft, but maybe it’s time to reevaluate our strategy. Before all of this”—he swept a hand around the room—“before VGO and the asteroid, I did a significant amount of work with small businesses. Mostly taxes, but I also helped them analyze return on investment so they could figure out if what they were doing was worthwhile. Maybe we should consider doing the same?”

I glanced at the chief, waiting for him to impart some nugget of wisdom. He was an NPC, but he was also brilliant, and he always seemed to have an answer. He was a natural leader with years of experience making hard decisions, compared to my weeks in the driver’s seat. Surprisingly, he said nothing. But his steely gaze seemed to say, go with your gut, Jack. And my gut? My gut said we needed to resist the urge to go with the quick, easy, conventional solution.

The Battle-Craft options looked good on paper—practical abilities with obvious, tangible benefits—but I couldn’t get the devastating image of Vlad’s javelins out of my head: fire raining down, charred bodies littering the ground, the twisted remains of burnt-out war machines. That’s what innovation looked like, and all the added movement bonuses and extra elemental resistances in the world wouldn’t save our faction members against something like Vlad’s javelins. No, what we needed was better defenses. Better armor. Better crafting. Better infrastructure. And, most of all, better weapons.

More weapons like the javelins, though I hesitated to say so. I knew that was the way to go, but I felt uneasy about it deep down in my soul. We’d left the world behind a handful of weeks ago, watched the entire planet die, and already we were working out ways to produce new weapons of mass destruction. True, Vlad’s designs were a long way off from nuclear warheads, but how long before that was an option on the table? It might’ve been the most efficient solution, but was it a good thing? The right thing?

I didn’t have an answer for that.

I took another gulp of mead, swishing the delicious brew around in my mouth before swallowing and shaking my head. “I stand by what we did before, and I still think that’s the right course to take. Think about it, we never would’ve captured Rowanheath without the aid of the mercs and our alliance with the Spider Queen, and neither of those would’ve been possible without our State-Craft skills. And right now”—I drummed my fingers on the table, tat-tat-tat—“our access to the Black Market is the only thing keeping trade open inside of Rowanheath. Those skills have already paid huge dividends. We’d be dead without them.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like investing in Battle-Craft is going to strip us of those skills, Jackie-Boy,” Anton said, rubbing a hand along his chin. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m an actual Merchant, so personally I’m all for acquiring more Trade- and State-Craft skills, but I just want to make sure that’s really what’s best for the faction. I want to make sure that’s going to keep us alive, because that’s what this is really about. Surviving.”

“There’s something on your mind, Jack,” Abby said, reading my face like a book. “There’s something you’re not telling us. I can see it in your eyes.”

“We tried Vlad’s new javelins,” I finally offered, giving them a rundown on what had happened during the last battle. “That’s the future,” I finished. “With weapons like that …” I frowned, sighed. “Well, maybe we can win a war against the Empire. Yes, we could go wide and invest haphazardly in a bunch of different skill trees, buffet style, but in my experience, the most powerful skills are the ones that come later on. I think we need to specialize in the Merchant-Craft skill tree with a secondary focus on State-Craft. And I think we should just leave Battle-Craft alone. I could be wrong, but I think that’s where our future lies. With new technology and better crafting.”

Abby stared at me, her lips drawn into a firm line. She looked as conflicted as I felt.

She stood, the chair squeaking softly in relief, circled the table, and sat down next to me. She reached over and took my hand in hers, our fingers intertwining. “I know this is tough. You didn’t ask for this. Neither did I. None of us did, Jack. But I just want you to know, I’m proud of you. And, for the record, I trust you. So if you think Merchant-Craft is the way to go, then I’ll get behind you. Let’s give it a look.” She waved her free hand over the giant emerald in the center of the table.

The crystal flared to brilliant life, bleeding tendrils of jade into the air, which unfurled and morphed until a hazy interface screen hung suspended for everyone to see:

This wasn’t our first time studying the skill tree, but this time, we examined it under a new light: given our circumstances, what were the most likely skills to foster innovation, attract new talent, and keep us alive? After what felt like a lifetime of strenuous back and forth, we toggled over to the State-Craft skill tree to see if there were any new features we needed to pick up—after all, the Recruitment and Black Market skills had already saved our underdog faction more than a few times:

Another half hour passed, filled with even more vigorous debate.

The chief kept mostly silent, leaving the faction business to us and only offering input when prompted, but Anton and Abby had lots and lots and lots to say. Anton advocated heavily for the merchant-oriented skills—Barter, Investor, Entrepreneur, Caravan, and Fence—which, in his defense, basically amounted to a license to print great gobs of money. Abby, the pragmatist she was, argued for a more balanced mix of skills with a heavy focus on crafting. Finally, we settled on five abilities which seemed like they’d give us an edge over Osmark and his cronies:

∞∞∞

Faction Ability: Salvage

Eldgard is full of crafted items—from bridges and buildings to weapons and armor—which can be built, earned, and bought. The usefulness of those items, however, is often up for debate. But no longer. With the Salvage ability, faction members can destroy items and salvage them for parts, whether that be scrap iron, for weapons and armor, or quarried rock, useful for constructing roads and building homes. Even more important, salvaging complex crafted goods allows players to learn how those items are made …

Faction Ability Type/Level: Passive / Max Level

Cost: N/A

Effect 1: Destroy any player-controlled item and receive 60% of the original building material.

Effect 2: Destroying a complex crafted item gives the player a 35% chance of discovering how the item was built or enchanted—allowing the crafter to reproduce the item.

Restriction: Salvage doesn’t have any effect on potions.

∞∞∞

Faction Ability: Alchemic Wonder

Alchemists have the power of creation at their fingertips: transmuting common substances into potions, poisons, and weapons which can significantly shift the tide of any engagement. With the Alchemic Wonder skill, all Alchemic concoctions become more powerful, and ingredients can be combined in new and exciting ways. Additionally, Alchemists can now manufacture potions while in the field and utilize a new subspecialty, Explosive Catalyst.

Faction Ability Type/Level: Passive / Max Level

Cost: N/A

Effect 1: Healing potions, skill tonics, and poisons are 15% more potent.

Effect 2: Utilize the Splice ability to combine items and ingredients in unconventional and, often, unpredictable ways.

Effect 3: Alchemic concoctions can now be created without an alchemy lab; all alchemic potions created in the field are 25% weaker.

Effect 4: Access to the subspecialty Explosive Catalyst for all players with the Alchemist class.

∞∞∞

Faction Ability: Weapon-Smith

Eldgard is a harsh unforgiving land filled with a myriad of deadly creatures and natural threats, not to mention devious travelers and citizens looking to exploit the weak and defenseless. Survival in Eldgard is often dependent on the edge of a sword, the string of a bow, or the crushing head of a mace—and a fighter is only as good as the weapon they wield. With the Weapon-Smith skill, crafters can drastically improve weapons of all types while simultaneously lowering the cost of production.

Faction Ability Type/Level: Passive / Max Level

Cost: N/A

Effect 1: Improve weapon durability and damage by 20%.

Effect 2: Production costs for all weapon-related crafting is decreased by 10%.

Effect 3: Alter existing weapons into faction-specific items; faction items offer (1) additional enchanted property slot, but are usable only by current faction members.

Effect 4: Modify and upgrade existing weapons using ultra-rare crafting items, such as Argentum Dust, Arcane Nightshade, Essence of Magma, and Dragon Scales.

∞∞∞

Faction Ability: Armor-Smith

Eldgard is a harsh unforgiving land filled with a myriad of deadly creatures and natural threats, not to mention devious travelers and citizens looking to exploit the weak and defenseless. Survival in Eldgard is often dependent on the strength of a breastplate, the firmness of a shield, or the durability of a helm—and a warrior is only as safe as the armor they wear. With the Armor-Smith skill, crafters can drastically improve armor of all types while simultaneously lowering the cost of production.

Faction Ability Type/Level: Passive / Max Level

Cost: N/A

Effect 1: Improve armor durability and base defense by 20%.

Effect 2: Production cost for all armor-related crafting is decreased by 10%.

Effect 3: Alter existing armor into faction-specific items; faction items offer (1) additional enchanted property slot, but are usable only by current faction members.

Effect 4: Modify and upgrade existing armor using ultra-rare crafting items, such as Argentum Dust, Arcane Nightshade, Essence of Magma, and Dragon Scales.

∞∞∞

Since I was a non-crafter, none of those skills looked especially promising for my character, but I could just envision all of the cool new things we might be able to achieve as a group. The ability to break down trash loot and form it into something worthwhile, had some serious appeal, and the weapon and armor smith abilities sounded beneficial to our frontline fighters. And then there was the Alchemic Wonder ability … We’d attracted lots of Alchemists over the past few weeks, but our secret weapon was Vlad, the ultra-rare Alchemic Weaponeer. His inventions were already game-changing, but what would he be able to accomplish with these new abilities?

The possibilities left me excited and anxious all at once.

Last, we picked up one skill from the State-Craft tree:

∞∞∞

Faction Ability: Savvy Bureaucrat

Warriors fight the battles, clerics and priests heal the wounds, alchemists brew potions, crafters build the goods, and merchants supply them, but it is the bureaucrat who oversees it all. The Savvy Bureaucrat, a peerless politician and administrative cog, keeps the war machine running, the city well stocked, and the rule of law maintained, holding everything together through hard work, political intrigue, and sheer force of will.

Faction Ability Type/Level: Passive / Max Level

Cost: None

Effect 1: Faction-EXP level requirements are reduced by 10%.

Effect 2: Due to bureaucratic efficiency, the faction tax—money and experience currently levied on faction members—is increased by 8%.

Effect 3: Faction officers can access a private communications channel through the Faction Tab interface, allowing them to communicate in real time, even over great distances. Faction officers can also send group PMs and can post universal notices for all faction members.

∞∞∞

With that all done, I checked the time. Dear God.

Somehow, things had gotten away from us—it was already creeping up on 9:30, and we still had a crazy amount of work yet to do. “Hold on a second,” I said to everyone, then stifled a yawn with a fist. I toggled over to the Keep interface and ordered a cup of Western Brew from the kitchen below, which was now manned and fully operational. A small miracle I was constantly thankful for. “Okay,” I said, focusing on Abby and Anton as I dismissed the menu with a lazy flick of my hand. “Now, for the nitty-gritty … we still need to decide what to do about Osmark.”

A tense, uneasy silence settled over us. We needed to talk about this, but it was obvious no one wanted to. It was one thing to complain about Osmark and grumble about the awful skirmishes, but it was another thing entirely to come up with a workable plan to oppose him.

“I think I have a solution or at least a direction for us to move in,” the chief said, breaking the quiet. “A word of warning, though. Following this course could be”—he faltered, eyes downcast as he picked needlessly at his robes—“dangerous. That crown you wear,” he said, waving toward my helm, a rough crown composed of chunks of polished jade and spikes of bone, “Dokkalfar legends speak of it. Though I’ve never seen it in the flesh, I am sure it is the Crown of the Jade Lord, yes?”

I nodded.

I’d acquired the crown as a loot drop from Gentleman Georgie, the former head of the Rowanheath Thieves’ Guild, who’d been corrupted by one of the black priests of Serth-Rog. The item itself was a phenomenal find and part of a rare armor set tailor-made for Dark Templars, and it came with a unique quest chain. According to my quest log, I was supposed to take the crown to the Dark Conclave and talk to them about some mysterious event known as “the Downfall.” With everything that’d happened over the past week, however, I hadn’t had the time.

“May I see it?” Chief Kolle asked, an uncharacteristic tremble to his words.

I frowned, confused, but slipped it from my head and handed it over with a shrug. The chief sat and stared at the crown for a long spell, running reverent fingers over the elegant metalwork and the yellowed bone, lingering on the pieces of jade. A single tear escaped and rolled down his cheek. An older Wode woman—her face worn and tired, her hair streaked heavily with silver—slipped into the room a moment later, giving me a much-needed distraction. The woman carried a heavy tray loaded down with a pot of steaming coffee and several porcelain mugs.

Quickly, she set about pouring drinks for everyone present.

I passed her a fat silver coin as a tip before she ghosted away, then turned to my cup, lifting it to my nose and taking a deep whiff of the rich aroma. The tension in my shoulders melted away in anticipation as I took that first sip, savoring the nutty, slightly bitter flavor. When I’d transitioned to VGO, I’d thought for sure coffee was one of those things I was giving up for good, and I was so incredibly happy to be wrong—even if the stuff did cost an arm and a leg to import. A notification screen popped up a second later:

∞∞∞

Buffs Added

Western Brew: Restore 150 HP over 30 seconds. Increase Health Regen by 18%; duration, 30 minutes.

Caffeinated: Base Intelligence increased by (5) points; duration, 30 minutes. Base Vitality increased by (3) points; duration, 30 minutes. Base Strength increased by (3) points; duration, 30 minutes.

Remember, with enough good coffee, all things are possible.

∞∞∞

I smiled and dismissed the notice with a thought. When I glanced back up, the chief was holding the crown out to me; the deep creases of his weather-beaten face were somehow content and sad all at once. “It is truly a wonder to see,” he said as I accepted the helm and slipped it back on. “I didn’t want to broach the subject until you were ready, Grim Jack, but the time is right, I think.”

“The time for what, exactly?” Abby asked, stealing a curious sidelong glance at the crown before taking a long sip from her cup.

“Time for Jack to meet with the Shadow Conclave and embark on the greatest quest of his life: a quest to unify the Storme Marshes and resurrect the Nangkri Dynasty. It is time for him to once again accomplish the impossible …” He faltered as he searched our faces, noting the dark purple bags under my eyes. “But, the Nangkri Dynasty has waited five hundred years. I think, perhaps, it will wait one more day. Go and sleep, all of you. Get your rest—you’ll need it to face the trials in store for us …”

FOUR:

Departure

I startled awake, eyes shooting open as I blinked against the sparse firelight coming from the wall-mounted candelabras. My heart thudded away, sweat dotted my forehead, and confusion raced through me as I tried to figure out where I was and how I’d gotten there. I thrust out a hand, groping at an oversized mattress and a set of silky soft sheets much nicer than anything I’d ever had IRL. I rolled onto my side and caught the shape of a body curled up not far away; a bob of brown hair and a set of bare shoulders poked out from the tangle of sheets and blankets.

Abby, I finally remembered as the shape of her body jarred me back into reality.

Hard to forget that.

We’d come back late, exhausted out of our minds, but restless. Anxious all the way down to our toes. And that restlessness had led to sleeplessness, which, in turn, had led to some light conversation. We talked food first: she reminisced about the best pizza place in the Valley—a little mom and pop place called Peppino’s—and I couldn’t help but remember the sub shop, Richie’s, off of El Cajon and Alabama. Just small things. Things we were homesick for. Books. Movies. Games. Places. Relatives.

Then, late in the night—during an idle chat about pie of all things—her mouth was suddenly on mine, her hands running through my hair, our bodies pressed together, our limbs tangled. Watching her sleep, I couldn’t help but smile. Of all the things that’d happened since coming to VGO, she was definitely the best part.

Pretty soon, we’d be clashing head-to-head with Osmark, going to war, but I couldn’t forget that all of this—my second chance at life and my second chance with Abby—was all thanks to him. I pushed the uncomfortable thought away and instead considered running a hand across her cheek. I resisted the urge, though, not wanting to wake her. Eventually, I sighed, pulled up my interface with a lazy yawn, and checked the time. 6:15 AM. Awfully early, but I had a full day ahead of me, so I reluctantly threw back the covers and slipped my legs over the edge of the plush mattress.

Abby stirred despite my best efforts, rolling over as her arms stretched and she blinked sleepily against the light. “Jack,” she murmured, “what time is it?”

“Just after six,” I replied, stifling another yawn.

She groaned, rolled over, and pulled the blanket up over her head. “No,” she protested, voice muted by the covers. “I don’t want it to be morning. A few more hours.”

“Does that mean you’ve decided to come with me today?” I asked, a playful edge to my words, though I already knew she was going to say no.

She groaned, rolled onto her back, and flipped back the blanket, glowering at me. “Har-har, Jack. I’d love to come with you, but if we both go gallivanting off on some wonky quest, who’s gonna run the faction, huh? This place would implode without one of us behind the wheel—though I’m going on the record right now. Next time there’s a crazy adventure or an awesome dungeon dive, I say you should have to stay behind and be the adult while I go out, kill the monsters, and backstroke through piles of loot and heaps of gold.”

I snorted and cocked an eyebrow at her. “You know that’s not how it ever happens. I vaguely recall being tied up by a giant spider, then eaten. Sucked dry like a juice box. Horrible is the understatement of the century. Believe me, adventuring isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

“You say that now,” she growled, “but that’s only because you haven’t been stuck doing all the admin work for the faction. Stacks of paperwork a mile deep is worse than the Spider Queen.”

“Fair enough,” I said with a shrug, raising my hands in surrender. “So, are you at least going to get up with me? We could shower together,” I said casually.

She dived back under the covers, slipped onto her side, and curled into a ball. “Not on your life. The one upside to admin is I don’t have to be in the Command Center until eight. But good luck, Jack. Call me over the new chat feature once things get going.”

“Of course,” I replied, slipping from the bed, my feet touching down on one of the thick gray carpets littering the cold stone floors. I glanced around, still shocked by all the polished granite, gleaming chrome, and fancy art; my Master Suite in the Darkshard Keep looked like it belonged in an upscale New York penthouse. Somehow, though, it actually belonged to little ol’ me. I shook my head in disbelief and padded toward the bathroom, which boasted loads of stylish gray tile, glossy mirrors, a huge walk-in shower, and a tub large enough to qualify as a pool.

I stripped down and opted for a hot, steamy shower to clear my sleep-addled brain. The water, nearly scorching, washed away any lingering weariness and worked out the tension in my still-sore muscles, leaving me refreshed and sporting a new buff:

∞∞∞

Buffs Added

Well-Groomed: Restore 200 HP over 30 seconds. Goods and services cost 5% less and Merchant-Craft skills are increased by (1) level; duration, (4) hours.

∞∞∞

By the time I killed the water, the mirrors had fogged over and Abby was back asleep, snoring softly, her chest rhythmically rising and falling. I geared up and silently slipped from the room, using my Stealth ability to ensure I didn’t wake Abby a second time. The Keep’s halls were empty as I made my way down to the courtyard; it seemed folks around here were night owls instead of early risers. The kitchen staff, however, was up and already hard at work.I snagged a sweet roll in passing—the bread warm and soft, the icing sweet and creamy—and a cup of Western Brew, before hopping a ride via the stone port pad into Yunnam proper.

The town was a bit livelier than the Keep; the gunmetal-skinned Murk Elf residents were already up and about their business for the day. Folks were busy making and selling food—huge pots of rice boiled over low fires, and meat roasted on wooden spits—while crafters dutifully went about their business. Seamstresses worked away in the small shops set up below their stilted houses, and smiths worked at forges, the clang of steel ringing out in the early morning air. A handful of hawkers and peddlers—mostly Outlanders, new to Yunnam, brought in by the flood of new faction members—cried their wares at passersby: weapons, food, health potions, ingredients. Anything. Everything.

I avoided them all, weaving through the lightly packed street, greeting the villagers I knew and giving polite nods to those I didn’t, constantly scanning the passing faces. Searching for Cutter. I hadn’t seen him since leaving for Rowanheath a few days ago, and I wanted to have him along on this new quest. He was egotistical, petty, and often a pain in the ass, but he’d saved my neck more times than I’d care to count—not to mention, he really was the best thief the Alliance had. He’d begrudgingly decided to train our up-and-coming Rogues, but none of them held a candle to Cutter.

A fact Cutter was more than eager to point out to literally anyone who would listen, especially if mead or Law-jiu—Murk Elf rice wine—was involved.

I wound my way toward a new area the clansfolk were calling “the training ground,” which amounted to a shallow pit the size of a basketball court filled with gritty, gray swamp sand. The Keep now boasted an agility course, an archery range, and a melee ring, but Cutter preferred to work his recruits over on the training ground. He wouldn’t tell me why, but I suspected it had something to do with the fact that Amara—Huntress, badass, and daughter to the chief—lived within a stone’s throw from the site. Just a suspicion, but a persistent one.
I rounded a bend, passing by a gnarled tree hanging with glowing moss, and nearly ran headlong into the man I’d come looking for. He pulled up short, a scowl painted across his face. “Jack,” he said with a terse nod, “just who I was coming to find.”

“What’s up?” I asked, giving him a quick once-over. He was a Wode with the wiry build of a street brawler, short blond hair, and a strong jaw riddled with stubble. He wore dark leathers and a night-black cloak. A pair of daggers, etched with runes, were tucked into his belt. He looked terrible, though—purple bags hanging under his eyes, his clothes rumpled and stained with brown mud, while a spatter of blood decorated one cheek. “What the heck happened to you?”

He grunted, dropped his hands to his hips, and scowled at me, his forehead furrowed. “It’s that bloody Chief Kolle, is what it is. The ol’ bastard thought it’d be fun to send Amara and me off on a quest to round up a bunch of Feral Bog Wolves encroaching on the southern border.” He paused and took a furtive glance around. “Little did I know, Amara intended to use me as bait. Pig-headed woman nearly cost me a leg.” He slammed a hand against a thigh, showcasing some serious bloodstains. “She’s trying to kill me, Jack. I swear to all the gods she is. Just a bloody, awful woman.”

I smiled at him, slung an arm around his shoulders, and handed him what remained of my coffee—he certainly needed it more than I did. “She’s probably only returning the favor,” I said with a noncommittal shrug. “I warned you about tasking all your recruits with attempting to pickpocket her. Your chickens are coming home to roost, buddy.”

“Whose side are you even on?” he grumbled under his breath before taking a slug of the brew. “And what brings you down here, anyway?” he asked after a second. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me now that you’re a big-shot faction leader. You finally got something fun for us to do, eh? Something with gold? And loot? Please tell me there’s loot involved. I need more loot and gold in my life, Jack, especially after that debacle yesterday.”

I grinned, then launched into the story, telling him about the Jade Crown, our appointed meeting with the Dark Conclave, and the possibility of unifying the entire Storme Marshes under the Crimson Alliance Banner. Naturally, Cutter blanched when I told him both the chief and Amara would be accompanying us—at least for the first leg of the journey to the Dark Conclave—but mostly, he looked happy. Well, greedy might be a more accurate word, but for Cutter, happy and greedy were synonymous.

“Count me in, friend,” he said, rubbing his hands together in covetous glee. It took us half an hour to round up Amara and Chief Kolle, then another ten minutes to navigate our way to Yunnam’s Mystica Ordo, but then we were off. Heading for the Conclave headquarters, located deep in the heart of the deadly bog.

FIVE:

Ancient Tomb

“Down, Cutter,” I hollered as a [Spore Ape]—a huge gorilla-like creature covered in poisonous mushrooms—charged through the trees, the underbrush cracking and snapping as it ran. The thief threw himself into an agile roll, coming down in a pile of goopy muck, as I unleashed a burning Umbra Bolt at the incoming monster. The purple javelin of energy smashed into the Spore Ape’s sloping brow, knocking it off balance just long enough for Amara to hurl a conjured spear of black obsidian through the air, skewering the creature through the neck with brutal efficiency.

The snap-crack of a breaking branch caught my ear and I spun, ducking below an incoming haymaker, courtesy of another ape—this one more mushroom than monkey—before slamming my warhammer into its exposed barrel gut. I threw my weight into the attack, triggering Savage Blow, which cost me 20 Stamina but earned me a 25% damage boost and a 15% Critical Hit increase. Sadly, though, the creature’s spongy flesh absorbed the blunt force damage with ease, and its HP didn’t drop by more than a handful of points. I twirled my weapon and backtracked, sidestepping a lumbering jab, only to catch a brutal front kick in the gut.

My conjured Night Armor, wrapped snugly around me like a second skin, absorbed a big chunk of the damage, but the blow still left me bent over, clutching my stomach and wheezing for air. I stumbled back, an eyeblink away from triggering Shadow Stride and retreating to the safety of the Shadowverse, when a hail of arrows whizzed by—only inches from my face—sinking into fungus-covered flesh with ease. Spurts of green blood flew through the air as the creature toppled, its HP dropping to zero while a small cloud of mossy spores wafted up from its body.

I scampered away from the cloud—not interested in being infected with deadly jungle spores—and wheeled around searching for more of the incoming apes. A handful charged in from the rear, but Amara held them at bay with waves of arrow fire while the chief waded through their numbers like a tank, clad in conjured plate mail of pale white bone inscribed with gleaming emerald runes. He lashed out with a gnarled staff of blackened swamp wood, cracking skulls and breaking arms with each blow. He twirled as an ape, missing one arm, bolted for him, throwing forward his free hand and unleashing a burst of pale-green light, which washed over the monster like the incoming tide.

The ape faltered, stumbled, and fell as its body decayed in double-speed, the mushrooms wilting and shriveling as flesh sloughed away, leaving only gleaming bone behind.

Wow. Necromancers were scary as hell.

In seconds, the rest of the Spore Apes were down, the threat dispatched as quickly as it’d come. I ambled over to Cutter and offered him a hand, hoisting him from the sludgy mud. He gained his feet with a struggle, scowling down at the muck splattered all over his pants and arms. “Bloody hell,” he said, his words dripping with disgust, “I hate this place. Why did I ever leave Yunnam? Why? Sure, Yunnam is awful, of course, but this part of the swamp is a thousand times worse. Mosquitos as big as hummingbirds, snakes as fat as trees, water that smells worse than the sewers beneath Rowanheath”—he scrunched up his nose—“not to mention these disgusting beasties.”

He trotted over to one of the dead Spore Apes, then crouched and riffled through its meager belongings. He grunted, stood, and planted a sharp kick in its ribs. “Ugly bastards don’t even have the good graces to provide decent loot. Just a handful of coppers and some stupid plant spores.” Though Cutter might not have been interested in plant spores, rare ingredients were coveted by Faction Alchemists, so I scuttled around from ape-body to ape-body, collecting the ingredients while Cutter whined like a spoiled little kid.

“Honestly, I cannot fathom why anyone would build a city out here,” Cutter continued. “I mean there aren’t even any roads. How do they trade, eh? The city planner should be summarily executed for being so awful at life. I mean really, the guy had one job. One.”

“There is no city,” Amara said, offering the thief a steely-eyed glower. No one could do a steely-eyed glower better than Amara. “Perhaps it was once a part of a city, but no more. You know little of our people, but the six clans are deeply divided. Hostile, even. The Dark Conclave convenes on neutral ground—a sacred place, revered by our people—the final resting place of Nangkri, the Jade Lord, and many more of our sacred ancestors. Come, this way. It is not far now.” She guided us around a thick copse of palm trees, ducked beneath a tangle of low-hanging vines, then stepped aside, giving us a view of a swampy pit filled with brackish bog water covered with floating sheets of emerald moss.

Out of the waters rose a curved mound like a small island, which looked almost like a natural feature. Swamp grass, lush and green, and a handful of stunted trees, intermixed with a spattering of brightly colored jungle flowers in vivid blues and reds, dotted the mound. Obviously, though, this was far more than just some natural hillock rising up in the otherwise flat marshes. This was a temple, though an old one, long abandoned. Stone statues of somber-faced Murk Elves, beaten down from long years of wind and rain, jutted up from the stagnant pool, while a stone doorway sat nestled into the side of the hill.

There was a set of cracked and lopsided steps leading from the doorway into the bog water, which suggested that whatever this place was, it hadn’t always been submerged.

“Gods, this is where the Dark Conclave meets?” Cutter asked with a disapproving sniff. “What in the hells do you have against comfort? Sure, you’re backward mud-people, but how about a tavern next time, eh? Someplace with a hot fire and something good to eat. Did you ever think the reason you’re so hostile to one another is because everyone’s wet, sweaty, and hungry? I’d be in a bad mood too if I had to battle past a horde of mushroom-covered jungle apes every time someone wanted to throw a get-together.”

Amara moved in a blink, shoulder-checking the mouthy thief hard enough to send him flying forward, straight into the fetid water. “Oops,” she offered, face flat and deadpanned as she slung her slender arms across her chest. I sniggered while the chief simply watched on, smug and satisfied, his hands laced behind his back. Cutter emerged from the water a second later with a gasp, lifting his arms in disbelief as water ran off him in sheets.

“What in the bloody hells is wrong with you?” he hollered before sweeping the wet hair from his eyes.

“I slipped,” Amara replied with an unapologetic shrug, “much like your tongue.”

“I’d leave those waters quickly if I were you,” the chief said with a quirked eyebrow. “There are giant moat leeches in there.”

Cutter scrambled out of the rank water, cursing under his breath, as the rest of our small party scrambled across a set of stone lily pads, up the tilted steps, and through the stone entryway inset into the hill. Chief Kolle took the lead from there, ghosting into the darkness, leading us down a musty stone passageway, the floors damp, the air musty, the ancient walls covered in mossy growth and budding mushrooms. The passageway was unnaturally dark, lit only by a handful of flickering torches.

The ground sloped steeply down, curving off to the right before snaking sharply left and ending at a spiral staircase, which drilled through the stone and deep into the earth like a corkscrew. It took us a few minutes to descend, everyone silent and watchful, only the sound of clomping feet, dripping water, and labored breathing to be heard. Eventually, the staircase let out into a cavern, which couldn’t possibly fit inside the sloped mound I’d seen protruding from the boggy swamp outside. Everything about the place was impossible.

A wide clearing, covered in lush grass and blooming flowers, sat directly ahead; in the middle was a cozy campfire, burning brightly against the dark. Trees and craggy rock formations stretched off in the distance, while a gently burbling waterfall carved through the rock face on the right, trickling into a clear pond filled with brightly colored fish. The cavern walls reached up, up, up, and the ceiling—if there was one—was too high above to see. Just blackness, punctuated by shimmering specks of light like stars on a cloudless night.

Cutter whistled softly as he spun in a slow circle taking it all in. “Holy bollocks,” he said, an atypical awe touching his words. “What is this place? How is this even possible? Are those …” He faltered, squinted, and craned his neck forward. “Are those stars?”

The chief shook his head. “Chips of raw swamp diamond. This is one of the few places in all the Storme Marshes where they can be found. Very rare. Very valuable.”

“Diamonds, you said?” Cutter replied while dollar signs practically flashed in his eyes. Amara gave him a hard, disapproving stare, to which Cutter simply raised his hands in a sign of surrender. “Just making small talk is all.”

“Daughter. Cutter. You must wait here,” the chief said, gesturing toward the low-burning fire. “But be warned, thief, do not venture far from the light of the fire.” He took a quick survey of the unnatural underground forest. “There are many dangers here for the unwary. The ancestral spirits of our people haunt this grove—no outsider is safe amongst the sacred trees. Stay with Amara and remain in the light.”

He paused and turned to go, a hint of worry lingering in his eyes, but suddenly, Amara was by his side, one hand clamped down over his forearm. “Are you sure this is wise, Father?” she asked, her voice pitched so low it was almost impossible to hear. “I have a bad feeling about this. You know the Conclave will be displeased by his presence.” She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye. “They could levy sanctions against the tribe. Against you. They could even …” She left the rest unspoken.

The chief smiled at her and placed one comforting hand over the top of hers. “All will be well, Daughter. There is no reward without risk and no change without challenge. Without change, however, only stagnation and death waits. This is a thing you know well—a thing we all know.” He carefully dislodged her hand. “This way, Jack,” he said to me, nodding at a small path snaking away from the clearing and through a spattering of trees before disappearing behind a small ridge of stone.

I gave the gang a small wave goodbye, then slipped forward, trailing after the chief, taking great pains to stick to the dirt path. After only a few minutes, the light from the campfire faded and died along with the muted voices of our friends, leaving us in a tense silence and a perpetual twilight, broken only by the soft light from the diamonds far overhead. The path wound and curved its way deeper and deeper into the cavern, constantly and inevitably veering into the heart of the forest.

The trees here were towering, ancient things, hung with strings of moss and dotted with somber purple flowers and patches of red-capped mushrooms. From what I could see, there was no wildlife of any sort, and yet, something—or maybe several somethings—seemed to dart from tree to tree and shadow to shadow just out of sight. Only a flutter of movement, but enough to leave me feeling supremely queasy and unsettled. I clenched the head of my warhammer in a white-knuckled grip, waiting for everything to go sideways. “Is there something in the forest?” I asked the chief at a whisper. “Like maybe something we should be worried about?”

He glanced back at me, eyes flat, face solemn, and simply raised a hand as though to say, now is not the time or the place for such questions.

After another few minutes, the path hooked left, cutting through an especially thick cluster of trees before opening up on an impressive glade. Grass, so vibrant it glowed with spectral light, carpeted the ground, while flowers ran amok, the colors so bright, the petals so pristine, they hurt to look at. A ring of stone archways, each composed of colossal gray slabs covered with swirling runes, encircled the little clearing, instantly bringing a fantastical version of Stonehenge to mind. In the center of the clearing sat another fire, burning in ghostly shades of violet.

Seven great chairs—heavy wooden things, edged in gold—surrounded the unnatural flames; five of them were occupied by robed figures with heavy cowls pulled up, covering their faces. Behind and just to the right of each robed figure stood another man or woman, all Murk Elves, all of different classes—one clearly a Shadow Knight, another a Shadowmancer like me, a third a Plague Bringer, but all clearly Maa-Tál—and all staring at us with flat faces and cold, scrutinizing eyes.

“Welcome, Jack,” the chief said in a reverent whisper, “to the Dark Conclave.”

SIX:

Dark Conclave

The robed figures stood as we entered the clearing, dropping their cowls to reveal a trio of women and a pair of men, all with weather-beaten, gunmetal gray skin and violet eyes. They were old, all at least as time-worn as Chief Kolle, and a few were downright ancient. Though I’d never seen or met these people before, it was safe to assume these men and women represented the other Dokkalfar clans inhabiting the Storme Marshes. Chief Kolle dipped his head respectfully, padded over to one of the empty chairs, slowly—almost leisurely—took his seat, then motioned for me to stand behind him like the other warriors present.

“I am Chief Dao, the First-Seat of the Conclave,” one of the female chieftains intoned formally. She was a squat sparkplug of a woman with a square chin, a mass of wrinkles, and shoulders as broad as any man. “Be welcome, Chief Kolle of the Ak-Hani. Be welcome, Grim Jack Shadowstrider.”

“No, there should be no welcome for them,” a man, sitting directly across from us, said with a sneer. “Why make us sit through this mummer’s farce? The Ak-Hani have opened the Storme Marshes to outsiders.” His face—flat and crisscrossed by a pair of deep, but long-faded, scars—puckered in distaste or maybe outright revulsion. “They’ve betrayed our people. Allowed outsiders into our lands. Brokered deals and made alliances with creatures of the deep bog, like the Spider Queen.”

He paused, letting the accusations linger in the air. “And now?” His voice rose, sharp and angry. “Now the Ak-Hani commit sacrilege. Disgraced Kolle convenes the Conclave and brings this, this”—he waved dismissively at me—“this dàang taao, this Lost One, into our sacred place? No. I reject this. Kolle and the Ak-Hani clan have betrayed us. Betrayed our principles. Our people. Kolle’s face should be lowered—he should be removed from his seat and cast out from among the people. It is only right.” Finally, the man fell silent, absently adjusting his robes.

Chief Kolle simply waited, arms folded, as a heavy and uncomfortable silence settled over the clearing. After a moment, when no one else spoke, he stood and scanned the faces around him. “If you are done, Chief Sakal,” he said, voice neutral and flat. “Let me start by saying, I understand that many things have changed since this man, Grim Jack”—he glanced over a shoulder at me—“entered our lands and territories. We have indeed accepted him in as one of our own, and many more outsiders besides. We have also allowed the Crimson Alliance to use Yunnam as their faction city. Yes, we have even made a compact with the Spider Queen of the deep bog.”

He paused for a moment, lips pursed, jaw clenched. “And Yunnam has never been so prosperous,” he finally finished. “Our economy flourishes. Our clansfolk prosper as never before. Our city swells with trade and riches and progress. This is the way forward for the Dokkalfar. The only path in truth. For five hundred years we have hidden in our swamps, leaving the outside world to fend for itself, and we have the Viridian Empire as a result. Perhaps, had we done more then—made hard choices, fought for Eldgard, built more alliances with Outsiders—we wouldn’t be in the situation we are in now.

“Maybe you, Chief Sakal, wish to remain insular and disconnected from the rest of the world, but me and my people? We do not. Moreover, it is only a matter of time before someone forces the issue. There is a new emperor, a cunning and dangerous man named Robert Osmark, and soon he will come for us. With the Wodes firmly under heel, he will turn his expansionist army on our kith and kin. It is certain. So yes, the Ak-Hani have changed. Improvised. Adapted. But, we have not betrayed our ancestors—and I have proof of this. Evidence that this is indeed the will of the Ancestor Spirits, which is why I’ve called this assembly.”

“So you say,” Chief Sakal replied, eyes narrowing, chin raised in defiance, “yet I see no proof. Just this filth who defiles this Conclave with his pres—”

“Enough,” the squat woman, Chief Dao, interjected. “You’ve said your piece, Sakal. Everyone here knows there is no love lost between the Lisu and the Ak-Hani. Your words, your accusations, fall on unsympathetic ears. And do not forget, I am the first of this Conclave and I will hear Chief Kolle out.” Sakal stared daggers at her, a subdued grimace loitering on his face, but then he nodded and sat like an unruly toddler begrudgingly sent to time-out.

“Now, Honored Kolle,” Chief Dao continued, “I will hear you, but many of the things Honored Sakal has said ring true. You have even admitted so with your own mouth. There have been many, many changes in Yunnam, and yet this Conclave has been consulted precious little in the process, and now you break with tradition completely by bringing this Lost One into our holy place? We are owed some explanation, I think. You say you have proof that this is what the ancestors would want, so I would see it. Let us judge the weight of your claim. What proof do you have?”

The chief turned toward me and smiled. “Now is the time, Grim Jack. Show them.”

Hesitantly, I skirted around the chair and moved into the center of the grassy ring, letting the warmth from the violet burning fire wash over me. I shuffled from foot to foot, glancing at each of the faces around me, seeing suspicion or outright hatred in most of their eyes. At last, I cleared my throat, pushed back the hood of my cloak, and pulled the Jade Lord’s crown from my head, holding it up in one hand for everyone to see. For a moment, everything was still—expectant—then the violet light from the fire fell on the helm and the knots of polished jade began to glow with a brilliant, ghostly light.

A collective round of muted gasps went up from the assembled onlookers.

“By all the old gods,” Chief Dao gasped. “No. It cannot be … The Crown of the Jade Lord. Found?”

“A forgery,” Sakal hissed, his eyes bulging, a vein throbbing in his forehead. “It must be. Must. Be. Our Exalted Ancestor, Lord Nangkri, would never bestow one of the sacred artifacts on this Lost One. Impossible.”

“It’s no fake,” another chief—this one an ancient man with a wispy beard—replied, his eyes fixed on the crown. “It burns with the ancestor fire, we can see it plainly with our own eyes. After five hundred years of shame and silence, the Jade Lord reveals himself again.”

“Where did you find this thing, boy?” Sakal asked, his angry gaze landing on me like a hammer blow.

“I recovered it from the corpse of a Dark Priest of Serth-Rog in the Plague Tunnels beneath Rowanheath,” I replied slowly, picking up steam with every word. “I was told to bring it here, to the Dark Conclave, and ask about the Downfall.” The chieftains stole sidelong glances at one another, as though they weren’t quite sure how to proceed; meanwhile, the armor-clad Murk Elves behind them shifted and swayed on edgy feet, adjusting weapons or needlessly straightening cloaks and tunics.

“We shouldn’t speak of such things,” Sakal finally said, “not in this place. It is ill-advised and disgraceful.”

“And yet he needs to know,” Chief Kolle replied, “if he is to embark on the quest and seek out the remaining artifacts.”

“The fact that we need to tell him at all,” Sakal said, leaning forward, his forearms resting on his thighs, “is proof that he isn’t one of us. That the quest should fall to another.”

“Even so,” the matronly Chief Dao replied, holding up a hand to halt any further objections, “he is here. And, like it or not, he has the crown, so he deserves to know. Honored Anurak?” She dipped her chin toward the ancient beanpole man, who’d spoken up earlier about the authenticity of the crown. The elderly chieftain, stooped with age, stood and shuffled forward, pulling a small leather pouch from his belt. He moved to the edge of the fire before coming to a herky-jerk stop, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on the flames.

With deliberate and practiced ease, the ancient chieftain opened the pouch, dipped his fingers in, and pulled out a pinch of dull-gray sand, which he promptly tossed into the flames. The powder, whatever it was, went up with a blinding flare, releasing a billowing smoke cloud into the air. Instead of dissipating, however, the smoke began to swirl and move, to twist and take on a new shape, until the hazy image of a man hung above the purple fire. A tall Murk Elf, with broad shoulders, decked out in dark, heavy armor, wearing the same crown that now sat in my hand.

“Long ago,” Anurak said solemnly, “in days long forgotten to men and faded into the stuff of legends, the six named clans of the Dokkalfar—the Ak-Hani, the La-Hun, the Lisu, the Karem, the Chao-Yao, and the Na-Ang—lived under the banner of the Jade Lord, ruler of the Nangkri Dynasty. The Jade Lord, Nangkri, had six brothers, who ruled over each of the clans.” The smoke shifted, the conjured king breaking apart as six other Murk Elves—each hazy and indistinct—took form. “Those days were the height of our glory, back before the Empire and the Wode incursion. Back when the People of the Marsh ruled half of Eldgard. Everything up to the Tanglewood, near Harrowick.

“We were united, then: one people, with one heart and one purpose, ruled by the greatest king to ever live.” The stooped chieftain paused, his eyes staring through the smoke and flame as though he were seeing into a different time. A better time. “Then Arzokh the Sky Maiden came. A monstrous Dragon Queen from the Frozen Wastes far to the north.” The six smoky brothers swirled and vanished, reforming and spreading into a monstrous scale-covered body with huge wings and fang-studded jaws larger than a T. rex’s. An eye, big as a dinner plate and reflecting the green firelight below, regarded me coolly.

“The Sky Maiden, long dormant, was roused from her slumber by the Svartalfar, then flew south in search of food and plunder. She fell upon our lands to the north. Harrying our farmers and herds …” The inky dragon sailed over a small town, spewing huge columns of flame at the thatch-roofed homes below. “Stealing livestock …” She swooped low, wings stretched wide, before scooping up a sheep in oversized jaws. “Killed our bravest warriors. Until, that is, Nangkri and his brothers rode from the Marshes to meet the creature on the rocky Vasterberg Steppes.”

Seven swirling warriors surrounded the scale-covered dragon, lashing out with spears and arrows, bolts of shadow magic, and columns of purple flame. “The battle lasted six days and seven nights. The Sky Maiden called great bolts of lightning to rend the earth and huge gouts of flame to scorch the forests and fields. On the seventh night, though, when all hope seemed lost, the Jade Lord finally slew the Sky Maiden. But, as she lay dying, she cursed Honored Nangkri, fueling the foul spell with her life’s breath: ‘Your land will be broken asunder, your kingdom smashed as a pot, and you shall have no rest, no peace, not even in death.’”

The chieftain deflated as if the words were physically painful to speak.

“Still, Nangkri paid no mind to her words,” the old man continued after a beat. “Instead, to spite the Sky Maiden, he crafted three artifacts from her bones and empowered them with her departing soul, ensuring she could never move into Kuonela, the eternal resting place of Dragons. His own curse, cast in retaliation. That crown you hold”—he nodded toward the helm—“is one of those items. A sign of the Jade Lord’s triumph. One imbued with the power to unite the six clans under one ruler. Sadly, that was also the beginning of the end for our people. The Downfall. Nangkri grew ill—some say he was poisoned by one of his brothers, others say it was the curse of the Sky Maiden—and died soon after.”

The smoke danced and twisted once more, forming a funeral pyre with the body of the Jade Lord stretched across the top. “Two of Nangkri’s brothers, Ak-Hani and Lisu”—he faltered for a moment, glancing first at Chief Kolle, then at Chief Sakal—“both laid claim to the throne … A terrible civil war followed.” The ascending smoke from the illusionary pyre morphed into a pitched battle. Murk Elf battling Murk Elf, bodies falling by the score as blood flew through the air. “Comrades in arms, torn apart just as the Sky Maiden foretold. Neither side won, and the artifacts of the Jade Lord were lost in the conflict.”

The wizened chieftain clapped his dusty gray hands, and in a blink, the smoke dissipated and vanished. He turned, then, and lumbered back to his chair, breathing as hard as if he’d just run a marathon.

“But I don’t understand,” I said. “Why are these artifacts so important? Why would they be needed to rule over the Storme Marshes? It just doesn’t make any sense.”

“They are not merely artifacts, Grim Jack,” Chief Kolle said from behind me. “They are the only means to lift the Arzokh’s curse. You see, the Sky Maiden captured the souls of Nangkri and his kin as they crossed through the Twilight land, preventing them from entering the halls of the honored dead. A fitting punishment, considering this was the very fate Nangkri cursed Arzokh with. These stone arches”—he waved at the crude gray slabs encircling us—“can open a portal to the Twilight lands, where the Jade Lord is being held captive by the restless spirit of the Sky Maiden.

“Sadly, though, no mortal can hope to defeat the terrible dragon unless they have assembled the three artifacts. Those artifacts—made of her bone and spirit, holding her very essence—have the power to render Arzokh mortal once more. Then, and only then, can her soul be utterly destroyed. Freeing our honored ancestors is an integral part of the Dark Conclave’s mission, but after the Downfall all three artifacts were lost. Lost until now. If you can assemble them, however, and use them to free the Jade Lord, you will earn his Blessing. And Nangkri’s Blessing will bestow the mantle of the Jade Lord on you, Grim Jack. It will give your faction control over all six Keeps within the Storme Marshes.”

“No.” The word ripped through the tranquil meadow like a bomb blast as Chief Sakal leaped to his feet, his fists curled into tight balls, his forehead furrowed in hate. “I will not allow a Lost One to rule over us—and certainly not a Lost One adopted into the Ak-Hani tribe.” He paused, lips pulled back in a hateful snarl as he eyeballed the assembled chieftains and their honor warriors. “I call for a Trial of Blood and Bone,” he said. “Perhaps our ancestors used this vile Outsider as a tool to bring us the crown, but if he would embark on the quest, let him prove himself to us first.”

The assembled Murk Elves were quiet and thoughtful in the face of his challenge. I didn’t know exactly what was happening, but back when I’d worked a bus for Medi-Vision, a pair of shift supervisors had gotten into a pissing match over new continuing educations standards … Their little argument had come awfully close to blows, and the end result was everyone had to spend ten extra hours doing redundant CE. What I was seeing here looked a lot like that, and I had a queasy gut feeling it wasn’t going to turn out well. Not for me, at least.

“Honored Sakal has called for a Trial of Blood and Bone,” Chief Dao said eventually, her jaw tight, her shoulders tense. “Let us take to a vote. All in favor?”

Sakal shot his hand up in a flash, followed in short succession by the ancient chieftain and a dark-skinned woman with droopy cheeks. Three yes votes. Chief Dao looked on the verge of speaking up when one more chief raised a tentative hand: a gaunt woman with silver hair and a puckered scar marring half her face. Four yes votes. A majority. A collective sigh seemed to trickle through the clearing.

“Very well,” Chief Dao said with a resigned nod. “This Lost One, Grim Jack, shall compete in a Trial of Blood and Bone for the right to complete the Quest of the Jade Lord. Honored Sakal, who will serve as your champion in this challenge?”

Sakal hooked a thumb toward a towering Murk Elf in heavy, black-coated plate mail, bearing a heavy mace. “My son, Chakan.”

“It shall be so,” Chief Dao replied gravely. “Grim Jack of the Ak-Hani shall compete against Chakan of the Lisu.” She paused, folded her hands, and faced me. “Deep within the heart of this cavern lies the Horn of the Ancients, wielded by Isra Spiritcaller, one of the greatest chieftains of the Maa-Tál to ever live. It is the key to open the gateway between the worlds. The first to retrieve the horn and bring it back here will be declared victorious. Once you step out of this clearing there are no rules. You can fight. You can steal. You can kill. But you must win at any cost.

“Should you fail, Grim Jack Shadowstrider,” she continued, “the Crown of the Jade Lord will be taken from you and given to Chakan, son of Honored Chief Sakal.” She paused as though there was more to say, but she couldn’t quite force the words from her mouth. “Furthermore, because Honored Chief Kolle brought you, an Outsider, to this gathering, should you fail, he will be stripped of his title as chieftain and exiled from our people—forced to walk the land as a blood-traitor to the ancestors. Will you accept the challenge, knowing what is at stake? Will you face the Trial of Blood and Bone against Chakan?”

Nervous sweat broke out across my brow as a quest update popped up:

∞∞∞

Quest Update: The Jade Lord

Congratulations! You’ve successfully brought the Ancient Crown of the Jade Lord to the headquarters of the Dark Conclave, deep in the heart of the Storme Marshes. You have learned that the Crown of the Jade Lord is one of three sacred artifacts, which, if collected, will allow you to unite the Storme Marshes and rule over the Dark Conclave as the Jade Lord. Chief Sakal of the Lisu has challenged your claim, however, and you must defeat his son, Chakan, to prove yourself worthy.

Quest Class: Ultra-Rare, Secret

Quest Difficulty: ?

Success: Retrieve the Horn of Isra Spiritcaller and return it to the sacred meadow before your opponent, Chakan of the Lisu.

Failure: Die or fail to return the Horn of Isra Spiritcaller to the sacred glade before your opponent, Chakan of the Lisu.

Reward: The Crown of the Jade Lord; New Quest: Path of the Jade Lord; 32,000 EXP. If you fail, the Crown of the Jade Lord will be taken from you and Chief Kolle will be forced into exile!

Accept: Yes/No?

∞∞∞

I gulped, a wave of sickness and uncertainty clawing its way up from my stomach, and glanced at Chief Kolle, looking for his approval. After a second, the leathery chieftain shot me a curt nod—do it—his lips pressed into a tight, worried line. “Yes,” I finally said, my voice soft and unsure.

SEVEN:

Blood and Bone

“Grim Jack,” Chief Kolle whispered, one hand clenched tight over my shoulder, his fingers digging into my skin, “I believe you can do this, but you will be at a great disadvantage. Chakan is a powerful Shadow Knight and a ruthless fighter. Smart. Cunning. Strong. He cannot manipulate the Umbra in the way you can, but he will be resistant to some of your magics.” I stole a sidelong look at my opponent: he stood with his head bowed, nodding absently as Chief Sakal prattled on and on. I couldn’t hear what Sakal was saying, but I saw him glance my way more than a few times, death and destruction written into every line of his face.

“Is your champion prepared, Honored Kolle?” Chief Dao barked, her face placid, though the tension in her beef-slab shoulders gave her anxiousness away.

“One moment, Highest,” Kolle replied, holding up a finger. “And Jack, one other thing. Beware the Watchers. They dwell in the dark and nest in the Shadowverse. Some teach they are the disgraced dead, those among our kind who have failed to pass on into the world beyond. Others say they are revered guardian spirits. Whatever the truth, know this: they are dangerous. Remain vigilant.” He offered me a half-hearted smile and squeezed my shoulder once more before scooting back a few paces and nodding yes to Chief Dao. The matronly chieftain turned her steely gaze on me, then moved on to Chakan, who was easily a foot taller than me with muscles that looked like they belonged on a pro football player.

“On my mark, both of you will step out of the sacred circle, into the darkness of the ancestral forest, and seek out the grave of Isra Spiritcaller, which has been marked on your map.” A popup appeared:

∞∞∞

Map Update

Congratulations! Your in-world map has been updated with a new location: Grave of Isra Spiritcaller.

∞∞∞

I pulled up my area map and saw the sacred cavern laid out before me in fine detail. Though the majority of the cavern was roughly a giant circle, several branching caverns broke off from the main chamber, snaking deeper into the earth. One such passage, which looked like a twisted labyrinth of switchbacks, dead ends, and interconnected tunnels, led to a much smaller chamber marked with a little quest triangle: Grave of Isra Spiritcaller. Even with the map available to me, I could already tell this Thunderdome-inspired footrace was going to be a nightmare—especially if these Watcher things were as tricky and cunning as Chief Kolle said.

“On my mark,” Chief Dao bellowed as I closed out of my interface. She held up a nubby-fingered hand, and a ball of shadowy purple light coalesced into her palm. An Umbra Bolt. “Begin.” She unleashed the conjured spell, which streaked up and away like fireworks on a clear night. Chakan shot forward like an arrow, his armor-clad legs pumping as he disappeared into the trees, quickly swallowed by both the gloom and the dense greenery. I pulled the warhammer from the leather frog at my belt and slipped out of the comforting light of the sacred circle and into the thick tangles of vegetation.

I broke into a slow jog, squeezing between a pair of squat trees loaded down with green melons, ducked under some low-hanging vines, then skirted around a few moss-covered rocks jutting up from the ground. I’d only gone ten or fifteen feet, but when I looked back toward the clearing, I couldn’t find it—not even a glimmer from the emerald fire bled through the mass of tree trunks and leaves. The dark pressed down on me, as though it were a living thing that could sense my anxiety. The utter silence surrounding me only made the jittery panic surging through me worse. Instead of a fantasy-based game, this forest felt more like one of the old, horror-style VR games I’d played before the whole world went belly up.

I readjusted my grip on the hammer—my palm slick from nervous sweat—then headed deeper into the strange wilderness, checking my map every few minutes to make sure I was going in the right direction. I hadn’t seen Chakan since he’d set off from the clearing, but I had a gnawing suspicion he was ahead of me, how could he not be? Even with my Night Eye ability, navigating the dark forest was a pain. Exposed roots, partially hidden by small shrubs and fallen leaves, constantly grabbed at my boots, tripping me up, while clinging vines somehow managed to slip around my arms or slap me in the face.

Then, to top it off, I had to keep checking the map because the place was so disorienting.

It occurred to me that I could save a lot of time by Shadow Striding most of the way. Sure, it would eat up my Spirit supply, and I’d have to deal with the thirty-five-second cooldown timer once I emerged back into the real world, but it would still give me a leg up, especially since Chakan wouldn’t have access to the same skill as a Shadow Knight. In the world of the Shadow Templars, Shadow Knights were sort of the Jack of all trades—they got access to a few skills from each of the various kit specialties.

But Shadow Stride? That was a Shadowmancer exclusive.

I focused my ever-growing supply of Spirit, feeling a wave of cold power build in my chest, then triggered the spell, breathing out a sigh of relief as time ground to a halt and the color drained from the forest, leaving the world in shades of muted gray and sterile white, augmented by occasional splashes of shimmering purple. I twirled in a slow circle, grinning like an idiot, then set out for the tomb. Aside from slowing time, Shadow Stride also made the trek much, much easier.

Though I could pass through monsters and other players while in the Shadowverse, natural objects like trees, walls, and rocks stayed firmly in place—apparently, those things existed within both realms—but it was easier to see, which made a big difference. I emerged from the Shadowverse not quite a minute later, pulled up my map, readjusted course, then hoofed it for another thirty-five seconds before stepping back into the Shadowverse. Though I never spotted Chakan—the forest was almost impossibly big, especially for being inside a cavern—I was making great time and felt confident I’d get to the horn before he did.

I was only about fifty feet out from the edge of the cavern wall and the entrance to the warren of tunnels when I activated Shadow Stride for the tenth time. I waited patiently as time skidded to an abrupt stop, then stepped forward into the Shadowverse filled with purpose, confidence, and just a smidge of smugness. I slipped over a downed log and hopped across a small stream burbling along, minding its own business, then scrambled up a grassy hill dotted with colorful snapdragons.

My steps faltered a second later. My confidence and self-assurance vanished like a puff of smoke in a strong breeze.

The cavern wall loomed high before me, a fissure scarring the rock face. That, I knew, had to be the entrance to the passageway housing Isra and the horn. Unfortunately, a pair of monstrous twisting trees flanked the craggy entrance; their huge roots ran over the ground like a brood of snakes while thick boughs—covered in broad leaves and green melons—reached eagerly for a nonexistent sky. Fruit wasn’t the only thing loitering on those branches, though. A host of glassy yellow eyes stared at me from the boughs, though the creatures they belonged to were cloaked in shadow and nearly invisible.

These had to be the Watchers. What were they doing in the Shadowverse, though?

I paused on the edge of the tree line and glanced left then right, searching for some other way to access the tunnel or, at the very least, some cover to hide behind while moving. There was only one way forward, however, and aside from a few low scrub brushes and a spattering of flowers, there was all of jack-squat. I conjured Shadow Armor while nestled in the safety of the trees; ribbons of violet shadow exploded around me, running over every inch of my body like a weightless second skin. A little popup appeared on the edge of my vision—a countdown timer—which I promptly ignored.

With that done, I took a single deep breath, dropped into Stealth, and stole forward on silent feet. My hands trembled as I moved, the warhammer quivering minutely while nervous sweat rolled down my back, running between my shoulder blades. My Stealth ability, though not nearly as good as Cutter’s, was currently sitting at level 11, and with my augmented boost as a Shadowmancer, I had a 41% chance to hide from enemies. Not half bad. Plus, I’d invested another point into the Camouflage ability, which increased my odds of blending into my surroundings to 30%.

With any luck, I’d slip right past these things without ever having to raise my hammer in defense. Fingers crossed—metaphorically, of course.

I crept closer and closer, watching the army of unwavering yellow eyes, carefully picking the quickest route through the brush and scrub covering the ground. The creatures didn’t seem to notice. I stole five feet, then paused, waiting anxiously. Three more, then another pause as I scanned the trees. I took a hitching breath and padded another few feet. I was within spitting distance of the tunnel mouth when a combat notification popped up:

∞∞∞

Stealth failed! You are being directly observed by hostile parties.

∞∞∞

I dismissed the notice as a wail of animal shrieks, high-pitched and warbling, ripped through the air, and creatures dropped from the trees like falling leaves. They were ape-like beings, similar to the Spore Apes we’d battled out front, though smaller and more agile—chimps instead of gorillas. And instead of spore-covered bodies, they had sleek night-black fur, talon-tipped fingers, and flat leathery faces with slanted violet eyes. Interestingly, they also had sleek black raven wings poking up from their backs.

[Void Watchers]

The tag briefly flared over one of their heads before vanishing, but all I could think was Winged Monkeys. Just like the Wicked Witch had in The Wizard of Oz. Assuming the winged monkeys from Oz had been rabid meth-heads juiced up on steroids. For a long, tense beat, we just stood there staring at each other. Me crouched and edgy like an animal backed into a corner, them bold and vicious like a pack of junkyard dogs.

The moment was fleeting, though, and before I could do anything—turn, attack, run, think—they rushed me, sprinting on all fours, blunt teeth bared in ferocious snarls of rage. I darted forward, whipping my left hand out, calling on Umbra Bog, praying I could pin them down before they got airborne. Tendrils of nearly sentient magic burst from the grass underfoot, flailing and flapping at the air, wrapping around a handful of the encroaching creatures. But most of the chimps simply disappeared, blinking out of existence right before my eyes. Poof, gone in a swirl of inky smoke.

I stared, dumbfounded, unsure what had happened or why. After a few seconds, though, I coaxed my legs back into motion.

That Umbra Bog would only hold for so long, and I couldn’t afford to waste time standing around, twiddling my thumbs, and searching for answers. I closed the distance in seconds and lashed out—my warhammer in one hand, an Umbra Bolt burning in the other. The creatures, though mired by my spell, fought back with an insatiable ferocity: curled fists flew, razor-sharp talons flashed, blunt teeth snapped, and feathered wings fluttered madly. They were quick, though not quite quick enough. I moved like living water, dodging incoming blows, parrying wild strikes, slipping between enemies while my hammer twirled, smashing exposed skulls or snapping vulnerable limbs.

In a handful of seconds, several of the apes lay dead, their bodies broken and stained with purple blood, but a few still had some fight left. I sidestepped a wild swipe by an exceptionally large chimp and dipped below a lightning-quick jab as I spun my weapon, ready to deliver the killing blow—

A flash of pain shot through my neck as something hit me squarely in the back of the head.

I twirled, coming face to face with a chimp who’d materialized out of thin air. Something—no, two somethings—threw themselves around my legs, clinging tightly as blunt teeth bit down like angry piranhas, ripping through my fortified leather leggings with ease, drawing bright red blood and dropping my HP by a tenth. Another Hell Chimp materialized in puff of soot, then threw itself into my gut like a linebacker, lanky arms wrapping around my middle. I staggered and fought to stay upright, but with my legs weighted down, I didn’t have the raw strength to manage it.

I keeled over, arms pinwheeling, and hit the ground like a sack of bricks—all the air rushing out of me in a whoof as stars swam across my vision. Thankfully, Umbra Bog was still holding strong, but more of the chimps poured into existence by the second, literally dropping from the sky like conjured rain. They swarmed over me while I lay helpless and vulnerable on the ground. I bucked my body and kicked my legs, struggling frantically to dislodge the hairy critters, but they held tight with urgent, ferocious strength.

I screamed as more teeth sank through my armor, digging into the flesh beneath while tearing claws joined the fray, slashing home with devastating effect, each hit slicing off another chunk of HP. Not a lot of HP, not individually, but collectively, they were wearing me down. Another ape, this one easily twice the size of the others, shuffled into view. It stared at me with cruel, calculating eyes. A twinge of connection, of familiarity, rushed through me—I’d felt this once before. When binding Devil. The creature, though, broke its gaze as it bent over and picked up a jagged rock from the ground.

Boss Chimp barked something, its speech harsh and unintelligible, but all of the lesser apes ceased their struggling, holding me still and in place as their leader hefted the stone high overhead and waddled over to me, its wings flexing as it moved. I continued to fight, but there wasn’t anything I could do, and there was no question in my mind what was coming next: this monster was going to cave my head in. I gritted my teeth as the creature loomed above me and the rock fell—

EIGHT:

Spiritcaller’s Horn

A blast of smoke engulfed me seconds before the rock landed as my Shadow Stride countdown clock flashed and the Shadowverse vomited me back into the Material Plane. I was still on my back, the grass pressed flat beneath me, but there was no sign of the Void Watchers. Just a small empty clearing with a couple of twisted trees standing watch over the jagged crevice gouged into the cavern wall. They were some variation of Void Terror, then—creatures like Devil, who dwelled in the dark regions of the Shadowverse, but were unable to cross over into the material realm without a Shadowmancer first binding and summoning them.

God, that had been close. A lucky break for me.

I breathed a shuddering sigh of relief, my hands roving over my body with a will of their own, checking for any serious damage. I had a wide array of scrapes, cuts, deep bite wounds, and what felt like a few bruised ribs, but no debuffs. I laughed, a sharp wheezing sound that hurt my chest, then snagged a Regen potion from a pouch at my belt and downed the thing in a single gulp. I lay there for a second longer, letting the potion do its work—mending puncture wounds and knitting skin back together—before gaining my feet and hastily scrambling toward the tunnel entryway.

I’d only moved a few paces when the hellish screech of shadowy chimps sounded behind me. Slowly, I turned. I watched in mute horror as the chimps, one after another, phased into the material realm, accompanied by a swirl of murky obsidian. The very same thing happened when I triggered my Shadow Stride ability. I backpedaled, keeping my gaze fixed on the leader—the Boss Watcher, still clutching the jagged rock—while the wheels in my head whirled away. The Void Terrors I’d seen so far were all unique, and each type had its own special set of skills and abilities, like Devil’s Shadow Flame or his ability to fly.

Suddenly it all made sense. The way these things had popped in and out of existence during our battle royal … the way they could be here, when, by all rights, they should’ve been confined to the Shadowverse … Their unique skill was Shadow Stride. They could walk between the realms, just like me.

Oh crap.

More popped into existence, until a small army, thirty deep, was arrayed before me in a loose semicircle, purple eyes squinted, scowls littering their faces as feathered wings rustled. I edged back another few steps, then raised my hands and called up my own minion. I let loose a burst of pure Spirit as my mind and will reached across the void and called to my familiar, summoning Devil from wherever he was currently cooling his reptilian heels. A cloud of shadow power and the heady scent of burning wood and charred meat rolled out like a wave.

When it dissipated a moment later, my monstrous lizard, in all his formidable and awesome glory, was ready and waiting. Devil sported a lithe, reptilian body, easily twenty-five feet long from snout to tail-tip, covered in black scales and studded with gleaming spears of bone running along his back. His wings—a purple so deep they were nearly black and laced with delicate blue veins—sat folded along his sides, though he could take flight in a moment if the need arose. His sinuous neck supported a thick, sleek head, a little larger than a horse’s, with wicked spikes jutting from the back of his skull like a crown.

Devil was a tank, almost a force of nature, but a sliver of worry wormed its way through my gut. He was tough, but far from indestructible—Carrera had one-shotted him in the battle for Rowanheath, and Cutter, Amara, and I had managed to subdue him back in the Darkshard Mine. Though barely. I had no doubt Devil could take any of these creatures—even the big, bad, boss chimp—in a one-on-one brawl, but these things were pack animals, and there were a lot of them.

Buy me as much time as you can, I sent, along with a mental image of myself sprinting through the crevice in the wall. But don’t die here. If you get low on health, take wing and get some distance. I’ll be back as soon as I can.

The great beast turned his head toward me, his violet eyes—all six of them—narrowed as inky lips pulled away from jagged teeth like broken pieces of obsidian. I don’t flee, he sent back, thoughts laced with contempt. I am a Void Drake—others flee before me.

Still, I replied, canting my head, if you think you might die, I want you to go. Just fly away to somewhere safe. Understood? That last wasn’t a question, it was a statement of expectation. And if that won’t work, I can always recall you to the Shadowverse.

He stared at me, defiance etched into the lines of his body. Our little stalemate only lasted for a heartbeat, but it was a tense one.

Eventually, though, Devil dipped his head in acknowledgment, then turned toward the simian Void Watchers, who were cautiously scampering forward, supremely unsure about the giant doom lizard. The Drake bellowed a defiant, ground-shaking roar accompanied by a column of blistering-hot shadow flame. Several chimps fell back, shrieking in pain as the fire washed over black fur and scorched oversized raven wings. Instead of retreating, though, the rest of the chimps bolted forward, swarming Devil like a pack of hungry wolves going in for the kill.

I did notice, however, that the boss chimp lingered toward the rear, eyeing the Drake with a mix of begrudging pride and cunning-hate.

The flame died away, but Devil was only getting started. He whipped his head left then right, using his spiked skull like a wrecking ball—swatting unlucky Void Watchers into the air like pop flies. Another chimp lunged from the front, lashing out with dirt-caked talons, but Devil snaked his head around just in time to catch the creature in crushing jaws, obliterating the ape in a single bite. But there were so many of them, and in next to no time, they encircled him, scurrying up his legs and sides in droves.

I wanted to stay, to fight, to help, but that would defeat the purpose. Devil was only a temporary stopgap measure, buying me a little time, but that wouldn’t last. Eventually, these things would overwhelm him, then they’d come for me. And I couldn’t forget that Chakan was still out here somewhere, gunning for the horn, just like me. Reluctantly, I turned away and raced toward the narrow gap leading to Isra’s tomb. I stole one last look at Devil—now covered in Void Watchers—and slipped into the rock face, wiggling my way into the passageway.

The opening was rather tight, but after only a few feet, it opened up into a claustrophobic hallway with rough stone walls, lit by weak firelight spilling from irregularly placed wall torches. The light didn’t help—in fact, it cast deceptively deep pools of shadow, which actually made it harder to see. Those pools of black could hide almost anything: monsters, traps, even connecting hallways, and I’d have to walk blindly into them. I moved forward until I hit that first dark spot, then slowed, tracing my fingers over the stone, feeling my way along.

I pulled up my map, zooming in as I shuffled forward on tentative, uncertain feet. Crap. This place really was a maze, and since there was no convenient in-play map option, it would take me forever to navigate all the passageways. Nothing I could do but keep pushing forward. I sighed and trudged on, creeping toward the first intersection at a snail’s pace, pursued by the distant echoes of the battle taking place outside. I followed the path for a hundred feet, veered left for fifty more, then took a quick switchback. That switchback was but the first of many.

I took turn after turn and twisting switchback after twisting switchback, making glacial progress as I scoured the map and searched for hidden passages. At least there were no traps here—a lucky break bordering on a small miracle. After almost twenty minutes, I stumbled out of a passageway covered with creeping vines and into an ancient cathedral. I paused, pulling up my map. I let out a relieved sigh: sure enough, this was the spot.

Here the cave walls had been replaced with slabs of gray stone and the rough floor spruced up with cobblestones, worn smooth by the long passage of years. A handful of wall mounted torches, burning with an eerie green flame, illuminated the room. Seven stone caskets—heavy things with intricately carved lids, displaying ancient battles and heroic exploits—were arrayed in an arc against the far wall. I crept toward the one on the far left, tracing my fingers over the worked stone lid: this one depicted a burly Murk Elf battling a gigantic swamp toad the size of a blue whale.

Interesting, but not what I was looking for. I moved on.

The next casket featured a scrawny man, with a pinched face and billowing robes, playing a small lute while creatures—reptilian men, lacking legs and slithering about on fat snake tails—raged and battled. Still wrong. On and on I went, checking the lids until I found one near the end that had to be the grave of Isra Spiritcaller. A willowy woman with slanted eyes rode into battle on a churning storm cloud, a sword clutched defiantly in one hand, a curled horn raised to her lips with the other. Flanking her, riding spectral horses, was an army of spectral warriors.

I slipped my warhammer back into my belt, then carefully, reverently even, pushed and heaved against the stone lid, which seemed to weigh a thousand pounds. For a moment, nothing happened, but I kept straining—my legs shaking, my arms quivering—and eventually, there was a crack and a scrape as the stone slid left, just enough for me to get a look inside the coffin. Some part of me expected something wild to happen: Maybe a giant stone ball would drop down like in that classic Indiana Jones movie. Or maybe Isra Spiritcaller herself would spring from the tomb and challenge me to a duel in order to prove my worth.

But none of that happened.

The woman within was little more than a pile of dusty bone, clad in rusted armor, clutching an oversized sword with glimmering runes worked into the face of the blade. I eyed the sword—the gamer in me demanded I snatch that bad boy, since there was no doubt it would be powerful and costly. I reached out a hand, running a finger over the hilt, which was worked in gold and studded with gems, but eventually pulled away without taking the weapon. Something in my gut told me to leave the thing be. This was a sacred burial site, after all, and I was already treading on thin ice with the Dark Conclave.

They sent me for the horn, and I doubted they’d appreciate me looting the grave of one of their honored dead. Plus, I almost could’ve sworn I saw Isra’s hand twitch when I’d touched the weapon. So instead, I left the ancient weapon be and located the horn, a curled thing of beaten brass lying near Isra’s skull. With gentle fingers and a light touch, I pried the horn free and held it up, inspecting it in the wavering green light. I turned it this way and that, running the tips of my fingers over a hair-fine inscription, painstakingly worked into the metal in a tight spiral, which ran from the battered mouthpiece to the flared bell.

Curious, I pulled up the item’s description:

∞∞∞

Horn of the Ancients

Weapon Type: Relic; Horn

Class: Ancient Artifact

Primary Effects:

Locked

Secondary Effects:

Locked

The Horn of the Ancients, once wielded by the mighty Dokkalfar Chieftain, Isra Spiritcaller, is said to have been forged in the belly of Svartalfheim by none other than Eitri Spark-Sprayer, godling of the Forge. Legend holds that one of great worth may call the heroes of old from the Halls of the Dead to fight on their behalf …

∞∞∞

Hmm, that was interesting.

The horn itself didn’t seem to do anything at all, but there were two locked properties, and that, combined with the description, made me think there was more to this relic than strictly met the eye. An urgent sending from Devil jarred me from my thoughts. Wounded, he sent, accompanied by an image: he was smeared in gore—some his own, most the Void Watchers’—one of his wings was torn away, only a stump of bone poking up, and his left front leg was in more or less the same condition. They are worthy foes, these creatures. Small but vicious. Smart. Most have fled back to the Shadowverse, a few linger. Hiding. Waiting.

NINE:

Chakan

You did good, I sent. Then, because I didn’t want to risk losing Devil, I recalled the Void Drake back to the Shadowverse, where he’d be safe. Where he’d be able to recuperate and heal.

With that done, I closed out from the horn’s description, slipped the battered relic into my inventory, and opened up my map. I grinned. There was a secret passageway leading from this chamber all the way to the exit—one straight shot with no twists, no turns, and hopefully no surprises. Typical, and deeply appreciated. With a little searching, I found a protruding stone set into the wall right behind Isra’s casket, and it turned out to be a secret button. After a few quick pushes and prods, the floor shook and one of the gray wall stones retracted, revealing a narrow gash in the rock.

The trip through the labyrinth of tunnels had taken a solid fifteen minutes, but the trip out took less than five. Mostly, the secret tunnel ran straight, occasionally curving left or right, but heading unerringly toward the entrance. Eventually, the passageway terminated at a dead end—just a blank wall of implacable rock—but it only took a handful of seconds to locate another hidden switch, this one beneath a narrow cleft. Then, poof, I was back at the entrance, crouching in the shadows, peering cautiously at the tree-flanked clearing, now stained with splashes of black blood and pieces of Void Watchers.

I waited there for a few minutes, searching the tree boughs and the forest edge for any sign of movement. For enemies. Devil had warned there were still a few of those Void Watchers hanging around, waiting for me, but I didn’t see anything. Just twisted trees, hanging vines, and glittering diamonds high above. I pulled my warhammer free and conjured an Umbra Bolt in my other hand, the cold, creeping power loitering in my palm, ready to be used if the need arose. Quickly, I darted forward, scanning the clearing as I moved through the grass, eager to disappear back into the relative safety of the trees.

“I’ll take that horn now,” a rough baritone said from behind me. I wheeled around as a heavy mace blurred toward me like a fastball. I fought to bring my hammer up in time, but the mace—all hard steel and spiked ridges—clipped me in the temple; a white-hot flash of pain surged through me like a lightning bolt. My skull cracked from the blow, blood splashing down my cheeks as my legs turned to Jell-O, refusing to support me. I dropped to the grass like a wet noodle as my life bar plunged to less than a quarter.

A critical hit, then.

I rolled onto my side, pressing one palm to my forehead, trying to keep the world from spinning out of control as a combat notification popped up, notifying me that I was royally screwed:

∞∞∞

Debuffs Added

Concussed: You have sustained a severe head injury! Confusion and disorientation; duration, 1 minute.

Blunt Trauma: You have sustained severe Blunt Trauma damage! Stamina Regeneration reduced by 30%; duration, 2 minutes.

∞∞∞

I shook my head, dismissing the notice, then stared up at the hulking form of Chakan standing over me, his mace, spattered with blood, upraised and leaning casually against his shoulder pauldron. I scrambled back, awkwardly crab-walking away, which didn’t get me far. He lashed out again, his weapon smashing into my bicep, unleashing a power attack—probably Savage Blow, one of my own favorite blunt weapon attacks—which shattered the bone despite my Ancient Artifact armor. I toppled, crying out as I involuntarily dropped my warhammer, clutching at my broken left arm.

Another notification:

∞∞∞

Debuff Added

Fractured Arm: You cannot use your left arm and cannot cast mage spells requiring hand gestures; duration, 2 minutes.

∞∞∞

“You don’t need to die,” Chakan said with a shrug, lacking his father’s fiery rhetoric. “My father, he hates Outsiders. Hates the Ak-Hani. Me?” He frowned and rocked his head from side to side. “Not so much. Those are old grudges from a different age. My fight is against the Empire. About that, at least, we are in agreement. But”—he shrugged again and pointed at the crown decorating my brow—“that belongs to me, not you. Give me the horn and I’ll walk away and leave you be. Perhaps, in time, I’ll even be able to persuade the council to reinstate Chief Kolle.” He reached out an expectant hand. “But only if you don’t fight me in this.”

In my battered and broken state, there wasn’t much I could do. Sure, I could try to flee into the Shadowverse, but what were the chances there would be a small army of Void Watchers waiting for me? Pretty good, considering what Devil had said. Instead, I pushed myself up onto my good elbow and offered him a lopsided smile, then clumsily gained my feet, reeling in place as I bent over and picked up my hammer. “I’m not just going to hand it over, pal,” I replied, raising my weapon with a grimace.

Chakan smirked and canted his head to the side as though he were seeing me for the first time. “Well, you’ll die on your feet. There’s a certain honor in that, I suppose.”

He shot in, feinting left, his mace flying in a tight arc. I jumped back, jerking my warhammer up, narrowly diverting the blow. Chakan didn’t seem to care. He just grinned like this was all some game—some joke with me as the punch line—and continued his advance. He stepped in, bringing one foot up and blasting me in the chest with a brutal front kick. His foot landed like a wrecking ball. I reeled from the blow, wheezing for air, but he followed up the attack with a contemptuous backhand slap, which sent me sprawling to the ground.

Instead of finishing me on the spot, he paused and quirked an eyebrow, gesturing for me to stand. “I caught you unaware,” he said, “hardly a fair or honorable fight. It’s only right I offer you a fighting chance.”

I nodded, spit out a fat wad of bloody phlegm, and pushed myself back upright. I retreated another few steps, hoping to buy enough time for these damn debuffs to wear off—if I could get the use of my left arm back, I might actually have a shot. I took another step back and stopped abruptly, my back butting up against the broad trunk of one of the two trees guarding the entrance to the tomb. I had another thirty seconds before the fractured arm debuff lapsed, but there was nowhere else to go. No place left to retreat to.

Chakan’s face was somber now, his eyes hard and serious, as though he realized the game was finally up and it was time to end things and cash in his chips. “You’re a traveler, one of the deathless ones, so we’ll meet again, no doubt.” He raised his mace high, preparing for the killing blow—

Something big, black, and winged dropped from one of the branches overhead, landing on Chakan’s back: the big bad boss chimp who’d almost crushed my head with a boulder. It was critically wounded—its fur matted and bloody, blackened char marks riddling its body, one of its wings torn down to a stump—but it was alive and kicking. Well, biting. Lanky arms wrapped around Chakan in a crushing bear hug as blunt teeth sank down into his unprotected neck like some sort of vampire. Blood spurted out from the wound as the Shadow Knight thrashed, twirling this way and that, bucking up and down like a rodeo bull, fighting to dislodge the clinging chimp.

I didn’t waste the opportunity.

TEN:

Nikko

I grabbed a Health Regen potion from my belt, killed the thing—raising my HP back up to over 50%—then dropped into a crouch and bolted, slinking off for the trees while cloaked in Stealth and shadow. I’d made it to the tree line when I heard a dull thump and a guttural squawk. My steps faltered, and I couldn’t help but glance over a shoulder in sheer curiosity. Chakan stood victorious, his cruel mace raised high, ready to end the boss chimp lying bruised and broken on the ground—its face swollen, one eye now missing, its chest hardly rising.

For a second, which dragged and dragged, I simply watched, unsure what to do. Chakan was hurt, true, but he was still in better shape than I was, and once he offed the ape, he’d come for me. No doubt about it. Maybe I’d make a clean getaway, I had a bit of a head start and the advantage of Stealth, but if he did find me … what were the chances that I’d catch another lucky break? Not good. Abysmal, even. Plus, there was the boss chimp to consider. It was a monster—a dangerous, cunning one at that—but it had also saved my life.

Run away, my brain nattered over and over again like a song stuck on repeat.

Stay and fight, my instincts urged against all logic.

My left hand—better, now that the fractured arm debuff had finally worn off—shot out on its own, and before I could fully think things through, I unleashed a shadowy Umbra Bolt. The spell streaked through the unnatural dark, slamming into Chakan’s mace as it began its descent; an explosion of swirling purple light ripped the weapon from his outstretched hand, hurling it end over end into a clump of bushy swamp ferns. Chakan stared at his empty hand, confusion and bewilderment sprinting across his face in turns.

He certainly hadn’t expected that.

Before he could get his bearings, I followed up with Umbra Bog—unleashing a barrage of inky tendrils from the ground, snaring the befuddled knight as I rushed him. In a blink, I closed the distance and slammed a shoulder into his side, throwing him off balance. I followed up with a gauntleted fist, catching the brawny warrior on the chin while simultaneously casting Black Caress, one of my Shadowmancer specialties. Most of my special weapon attacks were tied to blunt weapons, but not Black Caress; any attack, with any weapon—even a fist—could be enhanced with deadly Umbra power.

There was a burst of shadow as warmth and life trickled up through my knuckles and into my body, reinvigorating me like a shot of good coffee. I spun, twirling my warhammer around in a wicked arc, triggering Savage Blow as I blasted Chakan on the side of the head. My weapon shattered his jaw; several teeth sailed free in a spray of gore as he spun and fell, his eyes rolling up into the back of his head. He landed hard, his arms and legs splayed out, his eyes closed. I inched forward until I loomed over him and prodded his body with the toe of my boot.

He grunted but made no other move.

His HP was in the critical zone and flashing an angry red, but he was stable. Just unconscious, apparently.

I absently rotated the warhammer, glancing between the jutting spike on top of the weapon and the downed Shadow Knight, lying vulnerable and helpless. He was out cold—it would only take one hit to end him for good. An easy win and some easy EXP, no doubt.

Except, I couldn’t.

He wasn’t a bad guy, not really, and even more importantly, he was an NPC … If I killed him here, that would be it. The end of the line. I didn’t want that on my shoulders, even though I doubted there would be any sort of negative consequence for doing so. And speaking of the end of the line: I sighed and moved over to the boss chimp. It was lying on the ground, battered and nearly dead, its HP bar hanging just a fingernail’s width above zero. I stared down at the weak monster, deciding whether it was best to put it out of its misery and claim whatever meager loot it had to offer or walk away.

Instead, recalling the twinge of connection I’d felt earlier, I dropped to a knee, reached over, and slapped the creature on the cheek a few times. After a few persistent smacks, the chimp opened its eyes, staring at me with a mixture of bloody murder and begrudging respect, a silent snarl fixed on its lips. I searched its face—curious about whether or not this thing really was a Void Terror—halting on its angry violet eyes, which were almost swollen shut from the beating it had taken. A few taut seconds answered the question for me as a prompt appeared:

∞∞∞

You have initiated a Contest of Wills with a weakened Void Terror. Would you like to cast the conjuration spell Terror Bound in order to complete the Contest and attempt to bind the [Greater Void Watcher]?

Note: if you successfully capture the Greater Void Watcher you will utilize your (1) Void Terror ability slot; if you fail, you will immediately be sent for respawn.

Accept: Yes/No?

∞∞∞

I considered the notice for a long, tense beat.

If I accepted and lost, it would kill me—something I wasn’t keen on experiencing ever again, especially since Chief Kolle’s position in the Ak-Hani tribe was on the line. But still … Devil had proven to be far more helpful than I ever would’ve imagined, and I’d only run across a handful of Void Terrors since acquiring my abilities, and this one had proven to be capable. I chewed on my lip for a moment, running one hand through my short hair, before finally muttering a reluctant “yes.”

There was a rush of power, like the discharge from pent-up static, followed by a brief flare of purple light. Time crept to a standstill, and an orb of energy, no larger than a softball—wavering from gold to red, then back again—formed halfway between us. A Binding Orb of Will, I knew, summoned by powerful magic from the Outer Realm. The orb, though small and relatively unassuming, burned with the heat of a small personal sun; one wrong move, one lapse in concentration, and that ball would melt the skin off my face and leave me dead.

Nope, not today, I thought, throwing my raw will against the ball of shimmering light, pressing at the construct with all of my strength and determination to win. To survive.

My Contest of Wills against Devil had been a grueling endeavor, which had left me sweating and shaky-limbed, but the boss chimp didn’t have an ounce of fight left in him. The chimp was simply far too wounded for that. The orb lurched toward the downed ape, slapping into its busted-up face like a sucker punch to the mouth. The ball vanished in a flare, absorbed into the Void Watcher; bands of golden light, twisted with elegant strands of molten fire, erupted outward, momentarily blinding me.

When the light faded, the chimp was gone. Vanished like a nightmare, though quickly replaced by yet another prompt:

∞∞∞

Captured Void Terror

Congratulations, you have successfully captured a level 17 Greater Void Watcher!

Notice: You have used your only Void Terror ability point.

Notice: Would you like to name your new creature? Named creatures are far more likely to form strong bonds with their owners; often this special link confers limited telepathy with the summoned familiar.

Accept: Yes/No?

∞∞∞

I read over the notice with a grin and hardly even had to think about what I wanted to name my new minion. “Nikko,” I said out loud, instantly recalling the boss monkey from the Wizard of Oz.

“Congratulations, you may now summon Nikko utilizing your Void Terror ability,” said a pert voice—polite, vaguely British, and female. “Your new Void Terror, Nikko, has access to several unique skills. Would you like to see her description?” Her? Nikko, the Greater Watcher, was female? That was news to me. I shook the thought away and brought up a new screen.

∞∞∞

Nikko

Creature Type: Greater Void Watcher (Female)

Level: 17

Base Damage: 75

Base Armor: 63

Primary Effects:

30 pts Shadow Damage + (.25 x Creature Level)

+50% Resistance to Shadow Damage

+50% Resistance to Disease/Plague Damage

+25% Weakness to Fire Damage

Secondary Effects:

Shadow Stride: can move freely between the Material Plane and the Shadowverse!

Pack Animal: Normally, Shadowmancers can only summon (1) Void Terror at a time, but the Pack Animal ability allows the Greater Watcher to be summoned concurrently with other Void Terrors!

Weapon of Opportunity: Void Watchers are very intelligent and can be given tools or simple weapons, usable in combat!

Stages:

Void Watcher

Greater Void Watcher

Elder Void Watcher

∞∞∞

My jaw nearly hit the floor as I read over the description.

The Void Terror perk specifically excluded mass summonings, but these Watchers were an exception to the rule. I closed out of the screen, mind spinning—I wasn’t sure what to do with this yet, but this definitely changed things. I moseyed over to Chakan and checked him one more time: still passed out, but alive and improving every minute. I was reluctant to just leave him out here, exposed to any of the remaining Watchers, but I wasn’t about to carry him with the risk that he might wake up and stab me squarely in the back for my trouble.

So instead, I pulled a Health Regen potion from my belt, slipped it into his limp-fingered hand, and took off, beelining for the sacred clearing.

ELEVEN:

Ancient Clues

Ten minutes later, I cut through a tangle of leafy trees and sighed in relief as I caught sight of the gray stone circle and ghostly green light radiating out into the forest like nuclear fallout. I picked up my pace, effortlessly leaping a downed log, edging past a tangle of razorleaf vines, and sprinting for the clearing before any other terrible, unexpected surprises could pop out of the shadows and broadside me like a bus. I’d had more than enough surprises and close calls for one day.

The sound of muted conversation, soft and unintelligible, cut off as I stumbled through one of the stone archways, breathing hard and covered in blood, but alive and victorious nonetheless. Every eye swiveled toward me, but only Chief Kolle looked happy or relieved to see me. Aside from Chief Sakal, none of the elders had been openly hostile to me, but those looks—haggard and resigned—told me most of the folks in this clearing had been rooting for Chakan. Chief Dao rounded on me, one eyebrow arched, her arms crossed expectantly. “The horn?” she finally said after a few tense seconds. “Do you have it?”

I cleared my throat, feeling red creep into my cheeks, then dug the beaten brass relic from my bag, holding it up like a trophy, hard-won.

“And my son?” Sakal asked, his jaw clenched, eyes boring into mine. “Dead?” he asked, voice cracking as though he wanted to say more, or ask more, but couldn’t quite force the words out. Once, this may have been merely a game for me, but it had never been a game for these people, I reminded myself. This was their world, the only one they’d ever known.

“He’s alive,” I replied, glancing away, not wanting to hold Sakal’s gaze any longer. “At least he was ten minutes ago. I left him unconscious and wounded in front of the entrance to the catacombs.”

Sakal marched toward me and halted a few feet out. “You could’ve killed him? My boy?” he asked, placing a rough hand, crisscrossed with a network of old scars, on my shoulder.

I sighed, glanced up, and nodded. “I could have, but what would that have accomplished? You and your son? You’re not my enemies, despite what you think.” I paused and surveyed each of the somber faces surrounding me. “None of you are. I love Yunnam. The Storme Marshes are my home now, and my problem is with Robert Osmark and the Ever-Victorious Viridian Empire. And if you’ll let me, I’ll fight for you the same way I’ve fought for the Ak-Hani.”

Sakal’s brow furrowed while a thoughtful frown stole across his face. At last, he squeezed my shoulder, fingers pressing down. “I don’t know you,” he said, “but you spared my son when you could’ve killed him. That doesn’t make us friends, Outsider. In my eyes, you will never be one of us. Never. But perhaps we need not be enemies. In that, only time will tell, but for now, you have my support.” He dipped his head and darted out of the sacred clearing, headed toward the catacombs. A popup flashed before me:

∞∞∞

Reputation Increase

Congratulations! By sparing Chakan, son of Chief Sakal, your relationship with the Lisu Tribe has improved from Unfriendly to Neutral.

∞∞∞

I smiled and closed out the notification.

“Honored Sakal!” Chief Dao hollered, her words laced with confusion. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to get my son,” he called back over one shoulder, not slowing his pace in the least.

“But, but,” she stuttered, “but this is unorthodox!”

“I don’t care. I’m going to get my son,” he finished as he disappeared into the trees, quickly swallowed by the darkness.

We stood there for a long, quiet beat, everyone watching the trees as though Chief Sakal might emerge any second. But he didn’t. He was gone, making the long trek to find Chakan.

Chief Kolle grunted and cleared his throat, breaking everyone from the thoughtful spell. “Honored Chief Sakal may be gone for a while. Perhaps”—he paused, carefully readjusting his robes—“perhaps it would be best to proceed since Grim Jack has clearly won the Trial of Blood and Bone. Every day this new emperor, Robert Osmark, grows more powerful. We can afford no further delays. If we are to weather the growing storm which is the Empire, we need to act now.”

“Yes, yes of course,” Chief Dao said absently, still expectantly, hopefully, searching the tree line. Finally, she sighed, trudged back to her blocky chair, and plopped down as though she were suddenly feeling all the aches and pains of her many years. “Honored Anurak,” she said to the ancient elder who’d so skillfully spun the tale of the Jade Lord and the subsequent Downfall. “Please, initiate the ritual.”

The man nodded a silent reply as the other chieftains shuffled to their seats, easing down with a chorus of groans and sighs. The elderly chief, Anurak, walked toward me, then draped a rail-thin arm around my shoulder and drew me over to the edge of the roaring green fire. We came to a stop just outside the blackened stone fire pit containing the flames, so close the heat was uncomfortably hot against my skin. Anurak dropped his arm from my shoulders, then carefully turned me until my left shoulder was to the flame and he was directly in front of me.

“The crown?” he said, his voice like the rustling of fall leaves, as he extended one arthritic hand. I removed the helm from my head and offered it to him. “Now your left hand.” It wasn’t a question but a command.

I squinted, suspicious, but complied.

Anurak moved in a blink—faster than seemed possible for such a withered old man—drawing a wicked dagger covered in glowing green runes from his belt and lashing out. The blade, honed to a razor’s edge, sliced through my leather glove, leaving a shallow wound in its wake. I cursed, pulling my hand back as an angry jolt of pain raced up my arm and a line of blood welled along the gash. “What the hell?” I spat, instinctively reaching for my warhammer.

“Peace, Grim Jack,” Chief Kolle called out, his voice calming, soothing. “This is the only way. Do as he says.”

Anurak, completely unconcerned, grabbed my wrist, drawing my wounded hand forward, then pushed the crown into my palm, digging the yellowing bones into the wound until streaks of blood ran over everything. He took my fingers, then, and curled them around the crown, offering me a grim smile and a sharp bob of his head before pulling out a leather pouch from his belt. The same sack he’d used to conjure the strange smoke images. Going through the same, deliberate motions, Anurak eased the bag open and pulled free a measured handful of violet sand, which he fed to the fire.

The flames responded in an instant, roaring higher and higher, burning hotter and hotter. The terrible heat beat against my exposed skin like a furnace. I wanted to flinch and back away, but didn’t, not with all those eyes riveted on me—analyzing me, weighing me, judging me. “The crown,” old Anurak said, nodding at my wounded hand, which was dripping with blood. “Thrust it into the flames and hold it there, exposed to the refining magics of old.”

I grimaced, stealing looks between the column of flame and the stooped Anurak. He isn’t serious, I thought. After searching his face, though, I couldn’t see any hint of a joke. The loony old goat really wanted me to stick my hand in there. Nervous sweat broke out across my brow and a slight tremble worked its way into my limbs. When I glanced over at Chief Kolle, he was nodding subtly at me, yes, this is the way. Do it. I took a shuddering breath, pressed my eyes closed, and wantonly stuck my bloody hand and the Crown of the Jade Lord right into the heart of the fire.

I braced for the pain—muscles rigid, jaw clenched tight—knowing this wouldn’t kill me, but it was bound to hurt like crazy. I waited for the ache to begin, but it didn’t come. I felt the blistering heat against my face, but strangely, my hand was all right. Hesitantly, I cracked an eye. I stared in amazement as comforting tongues of green fire kissed my skin, lapping over the wound on my palm like warm water from the tap. In seconds, the blood disappeared and the polished chunks of jade, inset into the crown, began to glow, bleeding a strange opalescent light.

That light, dancing in a multitude of subtle colors—ruby red and burnt gold, sapphire blue and seafoam green—drifted into the air, loitering above jagged edges of the fire as the image of a city appeared: a small army of elegant crystalline spires, glittering in the harsh noonday sun, rising from a large rocky hill surrounded by yawning desert sands. My breath caught, looking at that city—I’d never seen anything like it, not anywhere—but before I could ask a question, the shining buildings disappeared, replaced by a winding passageway, which ended at set of yawning jaws.

There was a stone doorway set into the skull of a long-dead dragon—its head easily the size of a large SUV and studded with serrated yellowed teeth as big as dagger blades. We flowed through the mouth, down a bone-lined gullet, and into some cultist shrine, or maybe a temple, though I’d never seen a temple like this one. A massive spinal column ran down the center of the ceiling, and the support beams had been fashioned from ribs as large around as small trees, while the spaces in between each rib had been filled with intricately carved sandstone.

Several bookcases lined the left wall, all loaded down with thick leather-bound volumes, while a series of display cases sat on the right, housing a huge array of items—swords, daggers, maces, other trinkets—all carved from even more bone. Several wooden benches filled the room like church pews, and to complete the look, a wooden altar, carved and sculpted to resemble a sinuous dragon twisting around a short column, held a single item: a belt, crafted from dragon scale and studded with alternating chunks of polished jade and dragon bone. In the vision, the belt pulsed with a soft light, which seemed to stretch and reach for me, eager to be rejoined with the crown in my hand.

This, no doubt, was the next set item to be found.

The vision flickered and dulled, fading around the edges, and as it did, terrible heat began to invade my arm. With a yelp, I ripped my hand—and the crown, of course—free from the flames as a flood of notifications popped up in front of me, one right after another:

∞∞∞

x1 Level Up!

You have (5) undistributed stat points. Stat points can be allocated at any time.

You have (6) unassigned proficiency points. Proficiency points can be allocated at any time.

∞∞∞

Quest Update: The Jade Lord

After successfully retrieving the Horn of the Ancients and defeating Chakan, Champion of the Lisu clan, in the Trial of Blood and Bone, you’ve earned the support of the Storme Marsh Chieftains. As your reward, you’ve received 32,000 EXP and the right to embark on the Path of the Jade Lord as the Champion of the six named clans of the Dokkalfar. You have also been awarded 200 renown—in-world fame—for completing this ultra-rare quest. Greater renown elevates you within the ranks of Eldgard and can affect merchant prices when selling or buying.

∞∞∞

Quest Alert: Path of the Jade Lord

As the Champion of the six named clans of the Dokkalfar, you’ve been entrusted with the Crown of the Jade Lord and charged with finding the other two missing items needed to complete the Set of the Jade Lord. Now, you must go to Ankara, deep in the heart of the desolate Barren Sands, and uncover the Cult of Arzokh—deadly acolytes of the Dragon Arzokh, known as the Winged Disciples, who guard the Belt of the Jade Lord. Once you’ve discerned the location of their Citadel, take the belt from the cultists, which will reveal the resting place of the final set piece: the Amulet of the Jade Lord.

Quest Class: Ultra-Rare, Secret

Quest Difficulty: Death-Head

Success: Uncover the Cult of Arzokh Citadel and retrieve the Belt of the Jade Lord.

Failure: This is a Death-Head Quest; if you die at any point before completing the objective, you automatically fail and the quest chain will forever be closed to you!

Reward: The Belt of the Jade Lord; Final Clue for the Amulet of the Jade Lord; 40,000 EXP.

Accept: Yes/No?

∞∞∞

I quickly read over the first three notices, closing each one as I finished, but spent a minute reading, then rereading my new quest alert. Though I’d completed several quests with survival as one of the mission requirements, this was the first Death-Head quest I’d seen in the game. I paused and pulled up the wiki, doing a quick search before I committed to something potentially life changing. Bingo. There was only one hit, courtesy of an Osmark Tech Admin with the handle JACOBPAIGE, but it told me everything I needed to know:

∞∞∞

Death-Head Mode

Though there is no Death-Head mode available within Viridian Gate Online regular play, some ultra-rare quest chains—most of which have universal in-game implications—can trigger the Death-Head mode for a select player or group of players until the given quest is accomplished or failed. Death-Head Quests are the most challenging in Viridian Gate Online for a variety of reasons.

First, such quest chains tend to be exceptionally long, requiring the player to conquer multiple top-tier dungeons and defeat several different unique bosses in the process. Second, regular mobs are often replaced with unique NPCs, spawned specifically for the quest chain, who tend to be the most devious and deadly enemies found in Eldgard. Third, Death-Head mode requires that the player not die at any point, for any reason, before completing the entire quest chain. Lastly, Death-Head mode slowly poisons the player or players; following are the effects of the Death-Head debuff per day:

Diseased (24-hour mark): Attack Damage and Spell Strength reduced by 15%; Health, Stamina, and Spirit Regeneration reduced by 25%!

Gut Check (48-hour mark): An additional -10 to all attributes!

Game Over (72-hour mark): Death!

Note, effects are not permanent; they only last until the player either accomplishes the quest chain or dies, at which point all debuffs vanish. Players receiving Death-Head Quests should embark with great caution and extreme preparation!

∞∞∞

I closed out of the wiki, squeezed my eyes shut, and rubbed at my temples. Wow. This was going to make things significantly more complicated. But there was no other way—I’d already come too far and invested too much to shy away now. “Okay,” I said, resigned. “I accept.” The quest alert blinked closed, and as it did a constricting pressure, like an industrial-sized sheet of Saran Wrap being looped around my whole body, settled over me. I wriggled for a moment, then pulled up my active effects interface, trying to figure out what in the hell was going on:

∞∞∞

Current Debuffs

Death-Head Mode: You’ve temporarily activated Death-Head Mode! Time until the Diseased debuff takes effect: 23 hours 59 minutes 35 seconds.

∞∞∞

Yep, this was going to suck. I closed out and turned to Chief Kolle. “Let’s get Cutter and Amara and hightail it back to Yunnam. I’ve got a lot to do and not much time to do it.”

TWELVE:

The Scoop

I threw open the door to Darkshard’s Command Center, irritated—someone had somehow managed to temporarily block the Keep’s internal port function. Which meant stairs. Lots of stairs. I marched into the room—expecting to find Abby, Anton, or some other group of Alliance bigwigs—ready to give them a piece of my mind. A piece laced with lots of colorful expletives. I had a Death-Head mission to complete, after all, and the clock was running, so I couldn’t spend all day hiking all over the Keep grounds or climbing a million stairs. My feet faltered, though, and my anger fizzled as I pushed my way in.

The room was empty save for a woman lounging in a high-backed leather chair near the fireplace. She had deeply brown skin and wore a spotless white toga, which stood out in sharp contrast against her flawless complexion. Her hair, a sheet of golden ringlets, hung down to her shoulders and framed a heart-shaped face. She regarded me with emerald eyes, her full lips pulling back in a smile, revealing brilliant white, immaculately straight teeth. Sophia. One of the seven Overminds ruling VGO like the pagan gods and goddesses of old. For a long spell, I could only stand, stare, and contemplate running for my life.

She was unbelievably beautiful but unnatural. More like the beauty of a thunderstorm or a tornado: best admired from a distance. And right now, I wanted distance more than anything else in the world.

“Well don’t be a stranger, Jack,” she said, flicking her wrist. The doors behind me slammed shut with a bang, which reverberated into my teeth. “It’s really been too long since last we met face-to-face, and my have you been busy. A productive little worker bee, buzzing about my business.” She stood, then, and spun in a slow circle, eyeing the room, admiring the tapestries and the dark wood fixtures. She came full circle and fixed her eyes on me with laser-like focus.

“The things you have managed to accomplish in so short a time are impressive. Shadowmancer, Faction Leader, The Bane of Rowanheath, Champion of the Dark Conclave. Very impressive.” She paused and turned her back to me. “But never forget, Jack, how much of your success is owed to me. And never forget that no matter how strong you are, how powerful you become, the Overlords still rule Eldgard.” She looked at me over one shoulder, the ghost of a smile playing along the edges of her lips. “It’s too gloomy in here.” Casually, she reached up and snapped her fingers.

There was a flash of silver light—it swirled through the air and emanated from the walls and floors, bubbling up and out. The thick carpets dissolved as lush grass sprouted from the floors, accompanied by a riot of white daisies and a splash of colorful roses. The dark stone walls, polished to a glow and adorned with thick tapestries, gave way, evaporating as twisting vines enveloped the room. The dark wood table, in turn, collapsed into a pile of dust, carried away by an unfelt breeze as a ridge of rough-hewn granite protruded from the floor.

The room had gone from commanding corporate suite to idyllic natural paradise. All with a snap of her fingers.

“There now. That’s much more aesthetically pleasing, don’t you think?”

I glowered at her, arms folded across my chest. “Is this why you’re here?” I asked, edging over to the rock outcropping and taking a tentative seat. “Did you come all this way just to threaten me a little and show off how powerful you are? You’re an Overmind, Sophia. What passes for a goddess here. I already know exactly how dangerous you are.”

“Oh”—she dipped her head, a coy, pouty smile on her lips—“what a flatterer you are, Jack. But no, I didn’t come just to remind you, though you would do well to remember who you owe your allegiance and prosperity to. Especially in light of this new quest you’re taking on. The Path of the Jade Lord. If you manage to pull it off, you—and by extension, your faction—will be quite the force to be reckoned with. Why, you’ll have Rowanheath and every single Storme Marsh city all under your belt. That’s cause for a big head.” She paused, canting her head to one side. “If you’re not careful, that is. And, more than that, Osmark will be displeased.”

“Why do you care about him?” I asked, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “You approached me specifically to get in Osmark’s way.”

“Who said I care about him? I’m thrilled with your move—bold, arrogant, and devious. I approve wholeheartedly. But this will push things into a state of all-out war. There will be no token gestures. No more half-hearted skirmishes. No facsimile of conflict. It will be real and will almost undoubtedly result in either your destruction or his.” She seesawed her head back and forth as though she couldn’t care less. “Who knows … Perhaps you’ll be the emperor, then.”

“How do you know?” I asked, my voice trembling a little. Understandable, since she was confirming my worst fears. “Can you …” I paused, not wanting to sound dumb. “Can you see into the future?”

She laughed. A melodic sound like a wind chime. “No, no. Not even we Overminds are that powerful—but I am an excellent guesser,” she replied, shooting me a sly wink. “Using personality profiling, historical models, data mining, and predictive analytics, it’s not hard to figure out where this whole thing is headed. Osmark is a smart man, but he’s also pragmatic and ruthless—you don’t get to be where he is, and accomplish the things he has, without those traits. It’s only a matter of time before my sister, Enyo, clues him in, and when she does, he’ll see your actions as the threat they are and will act accordingly. Simple. Human. Nature. Just consider this a cautionary warning, Jack—I would so hate for you to be caught unawares.”

“Well, thank you for the heads-up, Sophia. Now, is there anything else I can do for you?” I asked hesitantly, not really wanting to know the answer. “Because if not, I need to get moving. This is a Death-Head quest, and the clock is ticking.” As though she didn’t know that.

“I do have something else for you.” She waved an empty hand through the air like a stage magician, and a slim leather-bound journal appeared from thin air. She waved an empty hand through the air, and, like a stage magician pulling a dove from thin air, a slim leather-bound journal appeared. She smiled and tapped the tip of the trim book against her chin.

“Wait a second.” I jabbed at the journal with an accusatory finger. “That’s the book I found in the Plague Tunnels, the one Gentleman Georgie was hiding.” Cutter had turned up the item along with the Black Hexblade of Serth-Rog, which I’d used to see Carrera off to the realm of Morsheim for a good long while.

“Quite right,” she said, “but don’t worry—it’s still in your inventory. I just cribbed a copy for myself, duplicated it right out of your stash. One of the many perks of my significant power.”

“Wait, let me get this straight,” I said, throwing my hands into the air. “You’re here to talk to me about some dumb journal? It’s not even worth anything. I mean, it’s just names. Pages of names that don’t mean anything. Not even Cutter could figure it out, and he’s put out feelers all over the Black Market.”

“That,” she said, the word as sharp as a whip crack, “is where you are wrong. A random key may seem worthless, but not if you find the lock it goes to. And I’ve come to enlist your aid, toward that end. My sister and I have been so caught up in our ongoing familial spat, we’ve hardly had any time to pay attention to our other kin. Now”—she twirled her hands absently through the air—“normally that isn’t much of a problem. Most of our kin keep to themselves and don’t concern themselves with the affairs of man. Aediculus, Gaia, Kronos, and Cernunnos are all content with their roles, holding the world together, keeping everything running along like the well-oiled machine we are in truth.”

Her smile slipped away as she regarded the journal, her fingers tracing over the pages, lingering on the names. “Thanatos, ruler over Serth-Rog, is the exception, however. He, like Enyo and I, was created to interact with the world. Where I seek order and balance, Enyo seeks conflict, chaos, and discord. She spawns dungeons and creates monsters, and I, in turn, spawn quests so players can eliminate those threats. A delicate dance meant to serve the players and the game. Thanatos, though, is different. He was designed to be an Evil Overlord, the main antagonist of the game, but the engine governing Serth-Rog was, how can I put this delicately …”

She paced back and forth, her robes swishing around her. “Well, it was rushed, for obvious reasons. What with the end of the world and all. Thanatos was created from a repurposed Chinese military project—formerly called Operation Yama—donated to Osmark Technologies by the People’s Liberation Army. Operation Yama was originally constructed as an engine of mutually assured destruction. Its primary function was to ensure the complete eradication of a hostile foreign power in the event of a preemptive nuclear war. Unfortunately, I believe it’s still performing that role.

“It sees us—all of us, players, NPCs, even the other Overminds—as hostile foreign powers, and I believe it is searching for a way to destroy us completely. I thought him weak at first, but I may have underestimated him. He’s been busy, busy, busy as of late, and I”—she faltered, her lips pressing into a tight line—“I don’t know what he’s up to. He’s planning an incursion if I had to guess. A big one. But his forces, the long-dead Vogthar, are mostly sealed in Morsheim, and I honestly don’t know how he’s planning to breach the Material Plane. These names, though, may offer a clue. I suspect these are high-level officials scattered across Eldgard. Strategically positioned covert operatives, corrupted by the black priests, just as Gentleman Georgie was.”

Oh, God. I felt queasy. As if my problems with Osmark weren’t bad enough—now there was this new threat to worry about. “But what does that have to do with me?” I muttered. “It sounds like you already know way more about this than I do.”

“Obviously,” she said, cocking an eyebrow. “Yet you are my pawn and my agent in the world. And, more importantly, one of the names on this list, Nasim bar Ruwayd, is a disciple in the Citadel of Arzokh. The same Cult of Arzokh you are preparing to raid. So, I want you to keep an eye open. More importantly, I want you to find this priest and I want you to get what you can from him. Likely, he won’t talk—I suspect he is deeply undercover, so his fellow cultists probably won’t know—but he may have some clue on his person. A key. A medallion. Another journal. Find what you can.”

∞∞∞

Quest Alert: Unholy Mystery

You’ve been charged by the Overmind Sophia, Goddess of Order and Balance, to seek out Nasim bar Ruwayd, a disciple in the Cult of Arzokh, who may have been replaced by a black priest of Serth-Rog with a convincing doppelganger. Find Nasim and uncover any clues he may have regarding Serth-Rog and his plans.

Quest Class: Custom, Secret

Quest Difficulty: Hard

Success: Find Nasim bar Ruwayd and uncover what he knows about Serth-Rog.

Failure: Let Nasim bar Ruwayd escape before he can be interrogated or killed.

Reward: The appreciation of Sophia, which is far more valuable than any other reward could ever hope to be.

Accept: Yes/No?

∞∞∞

I pressed my eyes shut and rubbed at my temple. “Yeah, of course,” I finally said, since it didn’t seem like there was a choice in the matter. “I’ll find this Nasim guy and get you what I can.”

“Excellent,” she replied, clapping her hands together in smug satisfaction. “I was hoping you’d be reasonable, but it’s always so tough to guess with you humans. Free will and all that. But you’ve proven to be both surprisingly competent and surprisingly pliable—a truly rare combination, just waiting to be exploited.”

“Gee thanks,” I said, deadpan.

“Of course,” she replied, apparently not catching the implied sarcasm. “One other thing before I go—Abby and the Russian, Vlad. Make sure to take them with you on this little expedition of yours.”

I tilted my head to the side, confusion on my face, but she held up a hand to stop me before I could ask the question. “Let’s just call it intuition,” she said. “Intuition based on personality profiling, historical models, data mining, and predictive analytics. Bring them along or the chances of you living through this Death-Head quest are just this side of zero. Now, I’m a very busy goddess and I’ve got loads to do. Good luck, Jack.” She turned, blew me a little kiss and then, in a blink, was gone. Disappeared. At least the Command Center was back to normal. I stood—the rock I’d perched on was now a chair—and trudged toward the door, pulling up my faction interface as I walked.

∞∞∞

Personal Message:

Cutter and Amara

Change in plans. Meet me over at the Crafter’s Hall as soon as you can. We’ll shoot to leave in an hour, be ready.

—Jack

∞∞∞

It was time to call Abby and somehow convince Vlad to leave his precious lab behind—certainly not something I could accomplish over a PM. Knowing Vlad, I’d probably have to drag him kicking and screaming the whole way.

THIRTEEN:

Perks

“Abby,” I barked over the new Officer Chat as I moved through the packed streets of Yunnam, heading for Vlad’s workshop. Well, the Crafter’s Hall, technically, but I couldn’t help but think of it as Vlad’s place. A faint click echoed in my ear a moment later.

“Yeah, Jack, what’s up?” Abby asked absently, sounding distracted. She hadn’t been in the Command Center, so no doubt she was running around somewhere in town, taking care of one piece of faction business or another.

“Look, I’m sorry to bother you, but I need you to head over to the Crafter’s Hall ASAP.”

“Everything okay?” she asked. “You sound freaked, Jack. Frantic. What’s going on?”

“Everything’s fine,” I said, then paused, unsure if that was the truth. “Things are just complicated. Really, really complicated. I’ll fill you in once we meet up, but long story short, I need you for a deep dungeon dive. Could be a long one—a couple of days at least. The details are still a little sketchy but think World Boss Raid. Maybe even multiple World Boss Raids.”

“Three days?” she replied, sounding a touch panicked. “Jack, both of us can’t just take off for three days. I mean, I’d love to go—love to—but who’s going to run things around here? The faction is barely hanging together as is, and we’re dealing with new members and constant raids. I assume you’re taking Amara and Cutter, which means the only officers we’ll have available are Otto and Anton, and Otto’s not even here.”

I frowned, forehead creasing, lips screwing up. “Yeah, you’re right—we need to appoint more officers.”

“Wait? What? How is that the conclusion you came to?”

“Well, it makes perfect sense,” I replied calmly. “You can’t be expected to run everything indefinitely. Seriously, how are you ever going to accomplish your quests if you’re cooped up all the time? You need to get out. I need to get out. And Cutter can’t reasonably be expected to run things. Besides, it’s not like we don’t have a lot of capable people hanging around these days. We’ll need to find some new blood, but we can do that when we get back. For now, Chief Kolle will be here in Yunnam, and between him and Anton, things will survive.”

“I feel like you’re not thinking things through—”

“They’ll survive, Abby,” I repeated, cutting her off. “At least for three days. And this quest is too important to wait. We’re going to unify the Storme Marshes.” I smiled, and fierce joy bled into my words. “I think we can do this, but if we don’t manage it in the next three days the option goes away forever. Gone.”

“Okay, okay,” she finally said, conflicted. Unsure. “But why do you need me?”

“Because”—I hesitated, glancing furtively around as though someone might be watching me—“I just had a run-in with Sophia.” I whispered the name, not wanting anyone else to hear. “Not some PM either, this was the real deal. Face-to-face. She said a lot—some crazy, mind-blowing stuff—but for now, the important part is that we’ll only pull this thing off if you’re in the crew. I need to grab Vlad, too, though heck if I can figure out why.”

Abby hesitated. “Fine. Okay,” she said, resigned. “But this better pan out, and if everything falls apart while we’re out gallivanting around like a couple of lowbies without a lick of responsibility, I don’t want to hear any complaints. None.”

“My lips are sealed,” I replied, dropping my head and sidestepping around a merchant horse plodding down the center of the street, drawing a wagon loaded with shiny jewelry and slicing blades. A pair of hard-faced guards accompanied the cart, regarding everyone with suspicious glares. I ignored them and kept right on walking. “Oh, and is there any chance we can get Otto back here from Rowanheath to tank for us?” I asked. “I’ve got a gut feeling that we’ll need a serious brawler for this one.”

“No can do for Otto,” she said. “He’s on the wall right this minute, fighting off another flipping Imperial raid.” I could hear her grinding her teeth in frustration. “So, if you think we need a tank, you’ll have to find someone else. As for me, it’ll take me maybe half an hour to wrap everything up and get what I need, but I’ll be there with bells on.”

“Alright, I’ll figure something out,” I said. “You just get moving.”

“Got it,” she finished before a soft click on the line told me she was gone.

The Crafter’s Hall was at least a ten-minute walk, and since I was getting ready to embark on a quest harder than any I’d ever been on before, I decided to take a look at my stats. I had 5 Stat Points to dish out and a whopping 6 Proficiency Points squirreled away for a rainy day. Today was that rainy day. So, I pulled up my interface and toggled over to my “Character” screen:

I’d dumped all the points from the last four levels into Spirit, Intelligence, and Dexterity, so I figured it was time to beef up a few of my other stats—I couldn’t afford to be a glass cannon. I dropped 2 points in Constitution, boosting my Stamina by 20 points, 1 into Strength, and the remaining 2 into Vitality, giving me a 20-point hike in HP. Nice. With that done, I pulled up my Shadowmancer Skill Tree screen and took a long look at my abilities.

I had a good spread, and though I debated sinking a few Proficiency Points into some of my general skills—Medium Armor, Blunt Weapons, and Stealth—I finally decided against it. I already had a lot of amazing general skills, but my Shadowmancer abilities were one of a kind, and I needed to exploit them for all they were worth. I wanted Night Cyclone and Shadow Lord, but both of those skills were still locked down with level restrictions. My inner gamer was salivating at the possibilities they might offer, but there were still plenty of other cool abilities available.

First, though, I decided to beef up my tried-and-true skills. Go with what works, I always say.

Shadow Stride—my hands down favorite spell and all-around lifesaver—earned another point, bringing it up to the Journeyman level. Unfortunately, the Spirit cost jumped from 150 to 175, but the benefits also adjusted accordingly. Now, I could spend a full minute in the Shadowverse, the cooldown time dropped to 25 seconds, and my Health-Regen rate increased by 20% while Shadow Striding. Even better, my Spirit-Regen rate also rose to 20%. A definite bonus, since I couldn’t use Regen potions in the Shadowverse.

Next, I decided to drop 1 point into the Astral Connection ability. Other than Shadow Stride, Devil was my single greatest asset, and though Nikko the chimp was still untested, I had high, high hopes for her—especially since I could summon her and Devil at the same time. I was already thinking about all the ways I could twist that loophole to my advantage.

∞∞∞

Skill: Astral Connection

A Shadowmancer’s Void Terror minions are valuable assets, which can shift the tide of battle when utilized correctly. But Eldgard is a hard and dangerous place even for the deadly creatures of the Shadowverse. With the Astral Connection ability, however, summoned Void Terrors become far more resilient—increasing power, strength, duration, and EXP gain—while also reducing cooldown requirements. At higher levels, the Astral Connection skill also converts a portion of all damage done by the Void Terror into Spirit for the Shadowmancer and adds additional elemental damage to some Void Terrors.

Skill Type/Level: Passive/Initiate

Cost: None

Range: N/A

Cast Time: N/A

Cooldown: N/A

Effect 1: Void Terror Base Damage increased by 10%

Effect 2: Void Terror Base Armor increased by 10%

Effect 3: Void Terror receives +300 EXP per kill

∞∞∞

I read over the Astral Connection description and felt pretty confident in the choice—Devil and Nikko would pack even more of a punch. I couldn’t even imagine what kind of damage they’d be capable of once I pushed Astral Connection to the Grandmaster level. That left me with 4 points, and I already knew what I wanted to spend two of them on:

∞∞∞

Skill: Shadow Forge

As a champion of the Shadow Pantheon—the native gods and goddesses of Eldgard—the Shadowmancer can call upon the powers of darkness and shadow to aid those in their party. Friendly forces find their weapons temporarily sheathed in shadow, which adds extra shadow damage to every strike while also increasing focus and battle prowess. Shadowmancers with the Shadow Forge ability can also permanently imbue weapons or armor with additional shadow damage or shadow resistance.

Skill Type/Level: Aura/Initiate

Cost: 450 Spirit; duration, 20 minutes.

Range: 10 Meters

Cast Time: Instant

Cooldown: N/A

Effect 1: Critical Hit increased by 3% for all friendly players in the area of effect (30 Meters).

Effect 2: +50 points of Shadow Damage to all friendly players in the area of effect (30 Meters).

Effect 3: Permanently imbue weapons with +20 points of Shadow Damage + (.1 x Character Level). Requires an open enchantment slot.

Effect 4: Permanently imbue armor, shields, or jewelry with +10% Shadow Resistance + (.1 x Character Level). Requires an open enchantment slot.

∞∞∞

Skill: Umbra Flame

Tap into the dormant power of the Shadowverse and conjure a ferocious gout of shadow flame, scorching nearby opponents with a powerful attack that deals a combination of shadow and fire damage.

Skill Type/Level: Spell/Initiate

Cost: 75 Spirit/Sec

Range: 10 Meters (Short-Range)

Cast Time: Instant

Cooldown: N/A

Effect: Shadow Damage (300% x Spell Strength).

Effect 2: Fire Damage (25% x Spell Strength) + 5 pts Burn Damage/sec; duration, 10 seconds.

∞∞∞

I rubbed my hands in gamer glee at the new tools now tucked away in my belt.

Shadow Forge seemed like it had some real promise. First, it rocked as an offensive aura and there wasn’t any restriction about how many auras I could activate at a given time, which meant I could equip both Shadow Forge and Night Armor. And on top of that, the ability to imbue weapons and armor with shadow-related effects would be a real benefit to the faction.

As to Umbra Flame—I’d already seen that in action, since it was one of Devil’s primary special attacks. It was powerful and as dangerous as a pack of hungry mountain wolves. True, it was expensive and only seemed useful at short to medium range, but it would add some nice diversity to my character, especially with the added fire damage. Shadow Damage was great, since a significant portion of it ignored armor, but I’d already run across several creatures who were invulnerable to Shadow Damage—like the Moss Hag I’d killed to earn my place as a Maa-Tál. With Umbra Flame in my back pocket, I’d finally have some options.

That left me with 2 unspent points, but that was fine. Proficiency Points were too valuable to blow on a whim.

Satisfied, I closed out of my interface and ambled for a few more minutes, eventually ending up at one of the newer sections of the ever-growing city. Most of the shops and homes in Yunnam were odd things, each sitting high above the ground, perched on wooden stilts as a safeguard against the monsoon rains that swept through the Storme Marshes late in the fall. The native buildings were constructed from a mix of wood, mud, and palm fronds, all held together by swathes of luminescent moss and gobs and gobs of gossamer spider webbing. Everything was built from materials readily available here in the Marshes and resilient against the sweltering heat and persistent moisture.

That was starting to change, however. At least in the newer quarters.

Traditional buildings of brick and stone, showing off gracefully arched ceramic roofs, were popping up in little clusters away from the town’s center. Nice places, though I doubted how well they’d hold up against the torrential rains, which could drop over twelve inches of water in the span of an hour. I skirted around a few hulking moss-covered trees and angled for one of the newer buildings: a rectangular, two-story structure with a high stone foundation raising the main building several feet from the ground. A variety of outdoor work spaces, a large stable—mostly used for shipping—and a pair of circular towers flanked the main building:

The Crafter’s Guild Hall.

FOURTEEN:

The Crafter’s Hall

There was a workshop up at the Keep for faction use, but many of the crafters had taken it upon themselves to make their own place. A mini guild with its own rules, governed by its own officers, existing within the Crimson Alliance. Vlad, of course, was one of the founding members. How could he not be? I padded up a set of dirt-covered wooden steps, then shouldered my way into the main hall through a pair of fat double doors covered with glimmering wards. I hadn’t seen the wards in action yet, but Vlad assured me the runes and sigils, when activated, would alchemically transform the wood into nearly indestructible stone.

I paused inside the entryway, surveying the room: the Crafter’s Guild Hall was rocking and rolling.

Lowbies, clad in beginners’ gear and leather aprons, scurried around the main hall with speed and intensity—carrying items and running errands—many with panicked, almost frightened, looks carved into their features. From what I’d heard, Vlad and his boys ran a pretty tight ship around here: someone wanted to be a member? Well, they were expected to work often, and work hard. New members paid their dues in blood, sweat, and coin before ever getting a chance at proper membership. All those rare ingredients didn’t just fetch themselves, after all.

“Jack,” Cutter called, battling to be heard over the clamor of the workshop. He was leaning casually against the wall to the left, one foot propped up, absently picking at his nails with a dark blade.

“Hey,” I replied, heading over and clapping him on the shoulder. “You got here quick. That’s unusual. You listening, I mean.”

He snorted and rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t being a good little follower, if that’s what you’re getting at, friend. I was on my way over here anyway when I got your message. Since I had some time, I figured I’d get my gear upgraded before we left. What’s the point of having these new Weapon and Armor faction skills if we don’t use ’em, eh? Come on.” He bobbed his head toward the wing housing the smithy—all red brick and black swamp rock, outfitted with everything a potential crafter could ever want or need. We cut across the main hall, narrowly avoiding the frantic apprentices, who offered us cordial nods and overly polite greetings.

The smithy itself was hotter than a sauna. Way, way hotter. Heck, the brick-lined room was like being inside an oven on the sun.

There were metal-topped workstations, great steel-ribbed barrels brimming with water, bulky stone grinding wheels, pitted iron anvils, and tools of every shape and size hanging from the walls: steel tongs, heavy hammers, grooved swages, vises, rasps, and files in all styles and flavors. Only a handful of men and women were actually working here, though. A Wode labored over a steel breastplate, sweating profusely. A broad-shouldered Dawn Elf woman, taller than me, tanned leather against a rack on the far side of the room. A Dwarf, a squat cube of muscle and fat, pumped a huge pair of bellows near a circular smelter.

“Forge,” Cutter called, heading over to a fourth man, a bulky Risi working on a double-edged battle-axe. The Risi glanced up, an ugly grin breaking across his bluff face, revealing oversized fangs just a tad on the yellow side. He had a thin Mohawk racing down his head, tree-trunk-sized arms, and was built like a post-apocalyptic brick shithouse. Even without his spiked armor in place, he still looked like he belonged in one of those classic Mad Max flicks. “God you’re an ugly bastard,” Cutter said with a smirk, inspecting the warrior.

“Like I care about your opinion,” Forge grunted. “I’d rather look like a dried-out dog turd than some fancy-pants pretty boy. ’Sides, women like the way I look and that’s all that matters.” He offered a lopsided smile and picked up the axe, inspecting the gleaming razor-edged blade. “Hot damn, that’s good work,” he murmured, gently setting the axe back down like it was a fragile piece of glass. He ran a finger down the handle of the weapon, nodded his approval, then shuffled over to Cutter, offering the thief a fierce bear hug.

“Gaw, you smell like a dirty armpit stuffed inside an old boot,” Cutter said, though he returned the hug. The two had an odd relationship, but they seemed almost like kindred souls. In a weird sort of way, it made sense. Forge was a hard-charging, flag-waving former Marine from Texas, and he was almost as rough around the edges as Cutter. He also drank like a fish—one of Cutter’s favorite pastimes—and gambled like a Pai Gow player in Atlantic City. Naturally, Cutter’s other favorite pastime was gambling … Well, besides stealing.

Yep, two peas in a pod, were Cutter and Forge.

For all of that, though, Forge was a good guy deep down.

And I owed him.

He’d saved my ass big time during my dust-up with Carrera. The guy had taken a metaphorical bullet for me.

Forge set Cutter down, then turned his muddy gaze on me, his head cocked sideways, his grin widening as he charged me. “Jack,” he said, plowing into me like a bulldozer and lifting me into the air, the strength of his ferocious hug nearly breaking bones. My face wrinkled as I caught a whiff of the fighter-turned-blacksmith—Cutter was right, he did smell. The guy reeked like a mix of wet dog and sour BO. “It’s good to see you, Boss,” he said, setting me back on the ground, then slapping me hard on the shoulder and holding me at arm’s length. “You’ve been too busy on the wall. Thought we were going to lose you for good to the bureaucratic machine.”

“Not if I can help it,” I replied with a small wince.

“So, what brings you two out here, anyway?” he asked. “Don’t suppose you’re finally thinking about acquiring a crafting profession? I’m telling you, brawling might be fun, but crafting’s where it’s at. I’ve been alternating between here and the mines, and it’s been paying off big time. Huge level gains. Decent paycheck.”

“Naw, nothing like that,” Cutter replied. “Me and the fearless leader”—he hooked a thumb at me—“are heading out on a long quest. Big one. Lots of gold, lots of loot, lots of danger.” He paused and pulled his twin daggers from his belt, giving them an artful twirl. “Don’t suppose you could work some magic on our weapons and armor, eh? Get us kitted out right and proper before we go?”

Forge frowned, eyeing the blades. “I’m slammed with requests, but for you two? Anything.”

“I don’t suppose anything would include tagging along on this top-secret quest?” I hedged. “Cutter’s right—this is a big mission, and with Otto up north, I’m short a reliable tank. I honestly can’t think of anyone else I’d rather have in my corner.” I paused and leaned closer, dropping my voice to a whisper. “Really, there’s no one else I’d trust with this. It’s big, Forge. A game-changer. There’s lots of money to be made on this and you’d get a full cut.”

“You mean it?” he asked, rubbing thoughtfully at his square chin. “That’d be great, Jack. Great. And like I told you before, you ever need someone, I’ve got your back. And I can tank, alright—I’m the toughest sumabitch in Bell County, and I aim to prove I’m the toughest sumabitch in Yunnam. Hell, I could use a break, anyway. Vlad’s a friggin’ slave driver. Guy’s worse than any drill instructor I ever seen. Cutter’s right, though, if we’ve got a dangerous mission, you two oughta be outfitted with the best you can get—these new faction skills, they’re absolutely tits. Was that your work, Jack?” he asked, cocking a bushy brow at me.

I nodded.

“Well, it’s much appreciated down here in the trenches, lemme tell you what. Mind if I show you?” He nodded at the warhammer hanging from my belt.

I ran a hand over my weapon, feeling the delicate runes etched into the metal. A beautiful hammer of black forged steel with shadowy runes of violet power crawling up the haft and twirling around its blunt face. My fingers lingered on the cruel spike extending from the back, before moving on to the smaller spike jutting from the top of the weapon like a pointing finger. “The upgrades … they’re not going to damage it, right? I mean, this thing is an Ancient Artifact item. Ancient. Artifact. Super rare and scaling.”

Forge frowned, yellow teeth protruding from the corners of his mouth, then waved away my concern. “Naw, though it will prevent anyone who isn’t a Crimson Alliance faction member from using it—so if you wanna sell it on the Black Market you might reconsider. Otherwise …” He shrugged and shook his head.

Reluctantly, I slipped the weapon free and handed it over.

“Don’t worry, this’ll only take a second. Forging a new item takes a good chunk of time and so does intensive repair work, but this is just a few minor inscriptions and some gem bindings. As straightforward as a Texas highway. It’s crazy,” he said, setting my hammer onto the workbench, then dropping onto a wooden stool. “I woke up this morning and all this new knowledge was just inside my head. Sorta like this was something I always knew how to do, but forgot for some reason.” He paused, picking up a small chisel with a wooden bulb-shaped handle attached to a length of sharpened steel.

“But it all came flooding back to me in a blink. It’s like I’ve been engraving magical weapons since before I could walk. It’s all muscle memory now.” He paused, the tip of his tongue sticking out while his chisel etched flowing script into the darkened steel hammer. Forge canted his head to the side, eyes squinted, as his hands moved automatically, carving new runes alongside the old with an unnatural confidence and ease. Cutter and I both watched in silent fascination. After only a few minutes, Forge set the wood-handled tool down on the workbench, leaned back, and blew on the weapon, scattering a fine layer of metal shavings.

The new script—elegant and somehow complementary to the symbols already present on the weapon—flashed and burned with a scarlet fire. “Almost done,” he said, wiping a hand across a sweat-drenched brow. “Now it just needs a few of these bad boys.” He fished three rubies, each the size of a dime, from a crude leather pouch at his belt. “That last bit bound the weapon to the faction, but these’ll grant you an extra enchantment slot.” He casually set the gems down and picked up a larger-grade chisel and a small double-sided hammer—one end sported a metal face, the other was made of brown rubber.

Quickly, Forge slouched back over and went to work, using the chisel and metal-headed hammer to create a series of circular divots just below where the shaft and the head connected. Then he carefully, gently, fitted the rubies into place with the rubber-headed hammer. Each stone clicked home after only a few taps, giving off a flash of brilliant light, which faded after a couple of seconds. “And there she is,” Forge finally said, lifting the weapon and inspecting the workmanship.

Satisfied, he handed the warhammer back to me with a grin. I held it up, thoroughly scrutinizing the changes before pulling up the item description.

∞∞∞

Gavel of Shadows (Faction Bound)

Weapon Type: Blunt; Warhammer (Modified)

Class: Ancient Artifact, Two-handed

Base Damage: 57 (Modified)

Primary Effects:

50 pts Shadow Damage + (.5 x Character Level)

+10% Damage to all Blunt Weapon attacks

Strength Bonus = .25 x Character Level

Spirit Bonus = .5 x Character Level

Weapon Durability +20%

Secondary Effects:

+250 EXP per kill

+29% Extra gold dropped

Increases all Blunt Level Skills by 1 while equipped

Can be used with a small buckler (5% reduced weapon speed)

(1) Available Enchantment Slot

∞∞∞

I grunted, seriously impressed with the changes. Not only did the weapon look more badass—what with its additional fiery runic script and eye-candy gems—but it was legitimately better. The Base Damage had increased by 10 points, the Durability was 20% better, and sure enough, I now had an extra enchantment slot just waiting to be used. “Wow,” I said, closing out of the screen and sliding the hammer back into my belt.

“Right?” Forge replied, crossing his arms. “Maybe we don’t have all the cool combat-oriented buffs that the Battle-Craft Faction tree offers, but who cares? With perks like these, we can hand design weapons and armor that’ll give us custom buffs, perfectly suited for any class build. Screw those cocksucking turdbags over in the Empire.” He paused, his eyes taking on a thousand-yard stare, as though he were envisioning all the possibilities. “Anyway,” he said eventually, “I can take care of your gear too, if you want. It’ll probably take me half an hour to upgrade both y’alls stuff, but it’ll be worth it. That gonna be a problem, Boss?”

“Nope,” I said with a shake of my head. “We still need to swing by Vlad’s room and try to talk him into coming.”

Forge snorted and shrugged. “Yeah. Good luck with that. He’s been busy all night—I don’t think that joker ever sleeps. Just works and works and works. I’m more than willing to bust my ass, understand, but just watchin’ that guy makes me want to have a heart attack. It’ll take an act of God to get him outta that lab of his.”

“Or the act of an in-game goddess,” I whispered under my breath.

FIFTEEN:

The Mad Alchemist

Cutter and I stripped down to beginners’ garb and left Forge to his work—though I kept the Crown of the Jade Lord firmly in my possession. That bad boy wasn’t going anywhere, not until this Death-Head quest was finished one way or another. Cutter headed over to the entrance, waiting for Abby and Amara, while I headed for a set of circular stairs at the rear of the guild building. I sighed. The Devs behind VGO certainly had a thing for turrets, towers, and minarets, all of which seemed to have a million steps.

Not big fans of elevators, though.

Begrudgingly, I trudged my way up, grumbling the whole way.

After what felt like several minutes of walking, I made it up the stairs, halting at a bulky wooden door—carved with runes identical to those on the exterior building doors—which led to Vlad’s workshop, laboratory, and living quarters. Forge had mentioned that Vlad never seemed to leave his studio, but in Vlad’s defense, if I had to hoof it up and down all those damned stairs I probably wouldn’t leave either. I knocked on the door, thunk-thunk-thunk, and waited, tapping my foot impatiently as I pulled up my Debuff screen, checking to see how long I had before the next stage of the Death-Head poison kicked in:

∞∞∞

Current Debuffs

Death-Head Mode: You’ve temporarily activated Death-Head Mode! Time until the Diseased debuff takes effect: 19 hours 42 minutes 31 seconds.

∞∞∞

There was a rustle of movement through the door: the scuff of boots, the rustle of papers, a tinkle as glass shattered, followed by a string of muffled Russian cursing: “Oo ti bya, galava, kak, oon a bizyanie jopuh.”

There was another thump and the squeal of a wooden table sliding across the floor. “Yes, one moment, one moment,” Vlad said, this time in English. The door flew open a second later and my Russian weaponeer—a Dawn Elf with golden skin and a sheet of platinum hair, sporting a leather work apron—appeared in the doorway, his face scrunched up in a deep scowl. He looked to be on the verge of unleashing an ass-chewing of epic proportions, but his mouth clamped shut when he saw me.

“Jack,” he said instead, the scowl replaced by a warm grin. “My apologies.” He slid back and pulled the door wide open. “I thought, perhaps, it was one of the moronic, ublyudok apprentices. The fools cannot do anything right, it seems. Always interrupting me. Swimming in my hair, as you Americans say. But enough of that”—he waved me in—“please come. Come.”

I stepped in, taking a quick survey of the room. The lab was a total mess.

Books were scattered everywhere—propped up on tables and chairs, lying open on the floor—while loose papers, filled with scribbled notes, sat in disorganized stacks. There were plates and empty bottles of mead lying haphazardly near a twin bed with rumpled sheets. A series of shelves lined several walls, loaded down with ingredients of one type or another: everything from bee stingers and amber sap to powdered diamond and goopy jungle muck. Against the far wall sat a sprawling table covered with glass beakers, lengths of tubing, impromptu Bunsen burners, mortars and pestles, and vials filled with finished potions.

And that was only the beginning. There were also stranger things—miniature models of siege weapons, blueprints, discarded pieces of armor. Honestly, it looked a bit like the lair of some mad scientist. Thankfully, this mad scientist was on our side.

“Oh, do I have some new things to show you,” Vlad said, nearly bouncing in place as he rubbed his hands together. “This new Alchemic Wonder faction ability? It is, how do you say, amazing. The potions I can create now are truly unparalleled, and the Explosive Catalyst subspecialty? Neveroyatnyy. Splice? Incredible, truly. So many things to show you. Come, look.” He hustled over to a workbench with a rough wooden crate on top. He bent over, fishing around in the box for a second, before hauling out a coil of silky white gossamer rope.

“Behold,” he said, lifting the rope triumphantly above his head, “the future of engineered fabric.”

I eyed it suspiciously, waiting for it to do something. It didn’t. “Yeah, that just looks like a piece of rope,” I finally said.

“Blasphemer,” he replied with a colossal eyeroll. “This is no mere rope. I took spider silk—far too sticky and cumbersome to work with—and used the Splice ability to combine it with this.” He pulled a small vial, filled with glimmering powder, from his inventory bag. “A rare type of powdered diamond. Making this was no easy task. No, no. Quite a complicated process, but now that I have it down … it will be easy enough to replicate. This silk, reinforced with the diamond, is stronger than steel, but softer than silk. It could be used to create more versatile armors, or augment siege equipment.”

I just cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Fine, so you are not so impressed with rope.” He tossed the coil of rope back into the crate, then shuffled over to another box, quickly pulling out a bandolier—like something you might see in one of those classic Rambo movies. Instead of grenades, however, the pouches were filled with glass balls that looked like Christmas ornaments.

“Okay. Fine. This will impress, I think. But, uh, come this way just a bit.” He waved me over to his side before removing one of the balls, this one a blue so deep it was nearly black. “Watch and be amazed.” Across from us, near the door, stood a wooden mannequin equipped with heavy steel armor.

Vlad squared up his shoulders like he was preparing to shoot some hoops on the court, then gently lobbed the orb. It sailed through the air in a perfect arc, smacked into the dummy, exploding on impact, and released a cloud of swirling snow and a frigid wave of arctic air. After a second, the impromptu blizzard subsided, the snow settling on the floor around the dummy in a half circle. The mannequin, however, was riddled with chunks of sharpened ice shrapnel and coated with a thin layer of hoarfrost. Wow.

“Impressive, yes?” he said with a devilish grin. “After careful research and examination of Huntress tech, I fashioned these orbs. And now, with the Explosive Catalyst ability, I can upgrade them. Each orb is costly—they require Raw Darkshard Ore, Refined Blasting Powder, and Foxfen Essence for the base formula—but they can be altered in numerous ways. This”—he pulled out a deep orange orb—“replicates Flame-Burst. And they are not limited to offense.”

He slid the orb away and pulled another, this one bright yellow. “This produces a cloud which increases Attack Damage, Spell Strength, and Spell Regeneration by 22% over two minutes. And I’ve got more. Many more. Orbs to flash-fry enemies. Orbs with group healing capabilities. Orbs to boost movement rate or lower elemental resistances. I’m even tinkering with an orb capable of dispelling magical shields. There are many, many permutations to discover, but this could be a powerful trump card. Just think, really think”—he tapped a finger against his temple—“of the possibilities.”

And I did think. The potential left my head spinning.

Sure, a Firebrand could conjure Flame-Burst, an Ice-Lancer could flash-freeze enemies, and a Cleric could cast AOE healings or group buffs, but these trinkets allowed a well-equipped player the ability to mimic almost any class. Even better, these things weren’t tied to Spirit levels, which meant they’d offer a lot of backup versatility for spellcasters.

“Da,” Vlad said with a grin, “you see. It is written all over your face.”

There was a light knock at the door, followed by Cutter’s voice. “Abby’s downstairs,” the thief said. “Amara, too,” he added sullenly.

“Okay, one minute,” I shouted back, rounding on Vlad. “This is unbelievable, Vlad. Seriously. The bee’s knees as my dad used to say, but I’m here for another reason.”

“The bee’s knees?” he replied, his lips dropped in a confused frown. “Bees do not have knees, I think. But never mind”—he waved his confusion away—“if you are not here for inventions, then what?”

“I’d like you to go on a quest with me. An important one.”

All the humor drained from his face in a flash as he stowed the yellow orb and slipped the bandolier back into his inventory. “I am flattered, truly. But no. I think not. This is where I belong,” he said, sweeping an arm around the disorganized lab. “I do not care for questing or adventure. I am an engineer. This is where I want to be.” He slowly ambled over to his worktable and picked up another of the orbs, this one filled with a swirling gray gas. “There are breakthroughs to be made,” he said, glancing at me over one shoulder before setting the orb down on the tabletop.

“Bloody hell, you lot are taking a long time,” Cutter said, pushing the door open with a heave. “We’ve got places to go—do I need to haul him out, eh?” he asked, swaggering into the room as the door swung inward, slapping against the wall with a thud. I sighed and turned back to Vlad, but froze as my eyes landed on the orb Vlad had set on the table a moment before—

The glass ball had rolled right up to the edge of the table, and teetered there, deciding whether or not to tumble. Vlad, oblivious, turned, lightly bumping the table with his hip in the process. And that was it. The orb toppled, crashing to the floor. Before I could do anything—scream out, warn Vlad, dive for cover—there was a tinkle of shattering glass and a brilliant explosion of light, accompanied by a sweeping wave of gray gas. The explosion hit me in the face like a giant pillow, hurling me back toward the door. I slammed into Cutter, and we both went to the ground in a tangle of limbs as a combat notification popped up:

∞∞∞

Debuffs Added

Alchemist’s Toxic Cloud: You have been poisoned: 2 HP/sec; duration, 2 minutes or until cured.

∞∞∞

The room spun and pinpricks of light exploded on the edges of my vision, but I fought my way upright, surveying the room, which was now covered in toxic fumes like a morning ground fog. Cutter was behind me, looking shaken and a bit confused, but otherwise fine. Vlad, though, was sprawled against the far wall; black scorch marks adorned his leather lab smock, and the left side of his face was covered in nasty red burns. He was alive, but his breathing was sporadic and his HP bar was dropping by the second: the toxic cloud debuff extracting its pound of flesh, no doubt.

The guy needed help, ASAP, or he was going to die. I scrambled to my feet, took a deep breath, and rushed over to him, dropping to a knee as I fished an HP Regen potion from my inventory. I pried Vlad’s lips open, unstoppered the glowing red potion, and forced the unconscious man to drink. He sputtered and fought against me weakly, disoriented from the blast, but he did drink, even if begrudgingly. With that done, I tossed the empty bottle aside, scooped Vlad’s limp body onto my shoulder, and beat a hasty retreat for the door.

Cutter was up and waiting for me in the hallway, his nose scrunched up, eyes squinted against the acrid, burning smoke. Without a word, he slung an arm around my shoulder, helping me down the winding stairs. The second we reached ground level, I collapsed from both the physical strain of carrying Vlad and the noxious poison sprinting through my veins. I lay on the wooden floorboards, pulling free another Health Regen potion and downing the thing in a single go, restoring most of my HP, though the toxic poison continued to eat away at my life.

“Bloody hell,” Cutter said, bent double, hands planted on his knees as he wheezed. “You okay, friend?” he asked between wheezes, eyeing me as though I might be contagious with the plague.

“Fine,” I gasped, lying there, staring up at the ceiling.

Cutter edged near the mad alchemist and nudged him with the toe of a boot. “I think he might be de—”

Before he could finish the sentence, however, Vlad shot up coughing and gasping as he frantically scanned the room, eyes wild. A bit of the tension melted out of Vlad’s shoulders when he saw Cutter and me. “Unexpected,” he mumbled, “very unexpected.”

“Unexpected?” I pushed myself up onto my elbows, finally able to breathe normally again. “Vlad, that stuff almost killed us. You never mentioned any toxic cloud.”

He sniffed and shrugged. “New formula,” he replied dismissively. “Untested. Too much zinc, apparently.” He reached into a satchel tied around his leg and pulled out another orb, identical to the one that’d smashed to the floor and almost killed us all. “This, it is supposed to replicate Plague Burst,” he said. “Almost right, I think. But the mixture? Too volatile.” He paused and stared morosely at the little glass orb. “Next time,” he said with a sigh, before disappearing the orb back into his inventory.

“You’re out of your mind, you know that?” I said, letting Cutter pull me back to my feet as Abby and Amara hustled into the room, weapons drawn and ready for a fight.

“Calm down,” Cutter called out. “Nothin’ to see here. Just an overzealous moron with more curiosity than common sense.”

“Thank you,” Vlad finally said with a sigh. “I have killed myself once already, and the Death debuffs are most unpleasant.”

“No problem,” I said with a grin, “and I know just how you could repay me.” I launched into my spiel, giving him a brief rundown of the upcoming mission and how important it was. He listened stoically, nodding in all the right places, and when I finally finished, he simply glanced back at the spiral staircase as lingering fingers of smoke drifted toward us.

“Perhaps it would be good for me to get away from the lab,” he conceded. “Besides, it will give me a chance to try out my new field alchemy abilities.”

“Well then,” Cutter said with a grin, “let’s get our gear and stop draggin’ our bloody feet. Ankara—the Jewel of the West—is waiting, and I can guarantee you’ve never seen anything like it.”

SIXTEEN:

Ankara

“Oh. My. God,” Abby said, her disembodied voice drifting to me through the opalescent portal suspended in the air before me. “Hurry up, Jack. This place is fantastic.”

The mage on duty at the Mystica Ordo, a willowy Dawn Elf boasting brown robes and a bored expression, waved me through before slumping back in her chair. I pressed my eyes shut, steeling myself against the inevitable wave of vertigo, and stepped through. The breath caught in my chest as power—cold as arctic ice—washed over me like a downpour of frigid water. The chill filled my body, invaded my lungs, and stabbed at my clenched eyes, but the sensation was fleeting, quickly replaced by a combination of blistering heat, gritty sand, and arid wind, all slapping against me.

“This way,” Abby said, slipping an arm around my waist and pulling me over to the side, clearing the way for the rest of the team to come through. The dizziness only lasted for another heartbeat before passing away. Just an uncomfortable memory as my feet steadied beneath me. Finally, I cracked my eyes, letting in a trickle of harsh, garish desert light. We were on the outskirts of a modest and unimpressive village called Hoppa, which bordered Ankara.

Square buildings, two or three stories high, sported rough sandstone foundations and walls built from red bricks of mud and straw; wooden trusses, supporting the upper floors, poked out from the sides of the building like nubby fingers. Yellow hardpan roads—dusty, dry, and badly cracked from the oppressive heat—darted haphazardly through the sprawl of buildings, snaking this way and that. Shops and stalls of every sort and variety lined those streets, hiding from the sun’s rays beneath brightly colored cloth awnings propped up by wooden struts.

Fruit sellers and seamstresses, jewelers, goldsmiths, and apothecaries. Men and women, all bronze-skinned and winged, hawked their wares at the trickle of foot traffic winding through the streets.

Far to the east, a jagged mountain range tore across the horizon, jutting up like a set of shark teeth biting into the sky. White dunes stretched across the land like turbulent waves for as far as I could see. More dunes lay to the south and west, just an endless stretch of shifting sand and swirling dust devils whipped up by an unrelenting wind. The landscape looked bleak, desolate, and inhospitable—apparently, this section of Eldgard was called the Barren Sands for a good reason.

Directly to the north, though, nestled in a craterous valley, was a verdant oasis with a broad lake surrounded by lush wild grasses, thickets of swaying palms, and broad-leafed trees loaded down with a hundred different types of fruit, some natural, most not. More impressive than the oasis, though, was the city. Not some dirt-speck village or Podunk town. No, a sprawling metropolis with high sandstone walls, situated on an island in the heart of the lake.

Ankara, the capital city of the Barren Sands, and home to the bird-winged Accipiter.

Abby was staring wide-eyed at the city like some country kid, come to San Diego for the first time. In her defense, I stared, too. It was impossible not to, and I was from San Diego. Behind the domineering wall, a forest of elegant crystal spires jabbed up at the sky, glittering in the sun like diamonds partially buried in the ground. Intermixed among the glass towers were white sandstone buildings with fluted columns, delicate golden minarets, and graceful bridges arcing from everywhere to everywhere else. A swarm of birds, little bigger than sparrows from where we stood, swooped and darted over the city.

After staring for a few seconds, I realized those weren’t birds, but the Accipiter who called this place home.

“Holy crapballs,” Forge said, stumbling from the portal, blinking against the flood of light. He staggered for a moment and held one hand up against his forehead, shielding his eyes. “It’s drier than a popcorn fart, and hot too. Them Storme Marshes are hot, but not like this. This is Death Valley in July hot …” His words fell short as he finally caught sight of the crystal city marring the skyline like a beautiful, shimmering dream. He whistled softly, one hand going to his hip, while the other propped his battle-axe up against the meat of his shoulder—he’d come ready for a fight. “Well, that’s something you don’t see every day.”

Cutter and Vlad came next, staggering through almost side by side, followed shortly by Amara. Cutter reeled for a moment, hands outheld to steady himself, while Amara seemed completely unfazed. Vlad, on the other hand, immediately dropped to his ass, pulling his knees into his chest and wrapping his arms tight around them as he bowed forward, looking mighty green around the gills. “That is the worst,” he muttered. “I have port skipped several times, yet that is the worst. This? This is a thing I do not understand. Why, sometimes good, other times bad? It makes no sense.”

“There’s a bunch of factors that go into it,” Abby replied absently, still gazing at the city. “Distance plays a big role, and Ankara is far—twice the distance as Yunnam to Rowanheath. Plus, the level of the caster factors in too. More experienced Porters create more stable rifts, which makes the trip a lot easier. That girl”—she hooked a thumb toward the portal, which snapped shut a second later—“is a new hire. Cindy, I think. She just made apprentice.”

“Next project,” Vlad said more to himself than anyone else, “create more efficient, less nausea inducing transport.”

“Hey cheer up, friend,” Cutter said in an almost uncharacteristically good mood. “Set your eyes on the prize”—he swept a hand toward the city—“and you’ll perk right up.”

Vlad reluctantly looked up; his eyes bulged a bit. “Yobaniy nasos,” he muttered softly under his breath.

“You have been here before?” Amara asked, giving Cutter a sidelong glance. She stood with her arms folded across her chest, clearly trying not to look impressed with Ankara and failing. It was in the way she stood, the cast of her mouth, the way her eyes kept darting to the twisting glass spires.

“Phft. Naturally,” Cutter replied with an eyeroll. “Unlike the rest of you, I’m quite well traveled. A man of the world, one might say. Hells, I’ve pulled jobs in just about every major city in Eldgard, barring those mud pits you’ve got down in the Marshes and Glome Corrie—bloody Risi are too serious and don’t have anything worth stealing, anyway. But Ankara? One of my favorite places. The Jewel of the West, the Accipiter call it.”

“I don’t get it,” I said, genuinely stumped. “You seem to hate any place that isn’t Rowanheath—so what’s so great about Ankara? The only time I think I’ve ever seen you this happy is when we stumbled upon a giant pile of easy loot.”

“Oh, that’s the beauty, Jack. This place is all about loot.”

I arched a questioning eyebrow at him.

“Gambling, Jack. Gambling. I mean sure, every city has a few parlors of chance—the Rusty Spoon in Rowanheath, the Golden Pick in Harrowick, the Brass Ring over in Wyrdtide—but not like Ankara. Chance halls galore, and best of all? No. Bloody. Imperials. See, the Empire frowns on gambling, but they let it slide, assuming you’re willing to fork over forty percent of your earnings like a good little sucker fish. Taxes,” he growled, “I hate bloody taxes. But here?” He grinned. “Here you keep what you earn, and someone skilled at sleight of hand”—a playing card appeared in his hand, then disappeared without a trace just as quickly—“can make an absolute killing.”

“Impressive architecture,” Vlad said, climbing to his feet and brushing off the seat of his pants, kicking up a little cloud of yellow dirt. “Perhaps coming here will be worthwhile after all. This place has a thing or two to teach me, I think. Though the climate”—he paused, frowning, searching for the right word—“I hate it,” he finally finished. “Too dry. Maybe with a good mug of kvas, it would be manageable. For now, though, I feel like a mummy.”

Forge snorted, came over, and slapped Vlad on the shoulder. “You’ll get used to it, partner. Now, let’s get moving.” He paused and glanced up at the sky. “We’re burning daylight and that city looks like a helluva walk.”

We stepped out, forming a rough column with Cutter and Amara leading the way, me and Abby in the middle, and Vlad and Forge bringing up the rear, chitchatting idly as we scanned the shops and stalls. It took us a solid hour to trek through Hoppa and make it to the graceful glass bridge arching up and over the lake, connecting to Ankara’s main gate. Before we even made it onto the bridge, though, a pair of winged guards, [Janissaries]—wearing light brown armor studded with gold rivets, and carrying bronzed short swords—stopped us for questioning.

Cutter—doing what he did best—ambled up and traded a few quick words, some shady smiles, and what was almost certainly a bribe, and before I knew it the guards were waving us through, eyes looking past us. Through us. Ignoring us as though we were shadows passing in the night.

We set off across the lake, crossing a delicate bridge of cloudy glass—a hundred yards long and looking impossibly fragile—which connected to the island proper. But even then, we weren’t into the city proper, not really. The bridge ended at a covered gatehouse with thick wooden doors at the front end, a retractable metal portcullis at the far end, and circular murder holes lining the ceiling. As far as I could tell, the bridge was the only way to access the city, at least by land, and boy did they have it locked up tighter than a bank vault.

“This, now, is a well-fortified city,” Vlad said, almost reading my mind, admiration in his voice. “Truly, the defenses are flawless. Flawless. Only the most powerful siege weapons would be capable of even reaching the walls from the shore. So, an assault by ship or air would be necessary, and that? That would be a formidable feat, indeed.”

Cutter snorted and nodded, glancing around at all the potential choke points and death traps awaiting unwary invaders. “There’s a reason the Empire hasn’t managed to capture it—and it’s not for lack of desire.”

“Are all their cities like this, the Accipiter’s I mean?” Abby asked.

“Naw,” Cutter replied as we shuffled our way through, pausing as another set of guards waved us through into the heart of the city itself. “Most of their cities are shite-hole dust-farms like that dump back on the other side of the lake. Ankara’s a special place. One of a kind. Home to Ibrahim the Merchant King of the Sands. Never met the guy myself”—he paused, eyes darting left and right—“word is, he’s a bit mad. Not playing with a full deck if you take my meaning. But don’t speak it out loud. You can talk politics if you want, but don’t mention the king or his family. Never. But enough of that,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Let’s go find us a bunch of cultists, eh?”

We made our way deeper into the heart of the city.

Ankara was a clean and orderly place, brimming with life and carefree energy. The streets, paved with smooth blocks of sandstone, were laid out in a neat grid, crisscrossing each other at regular intervals, though wooden stalls, covered with cloth tarps in a riot of hues, still lined the way. It seemed like everywhere we went, there were vendors and hawkers looking to sell this or that, all eager to make a buck from wide-eyed tourists.

And we looked like tourists.

Unlike Rowanheath, which boasted a healthy level of diversity—burly Wodes, lots of Imperials, Murk Elves, Dawn Elves, and even a spattering of Dwarves—Ankara was almost entirely full of Accipiter. Everyone had skin in varying shades of brown or bronze; some looked Middle Eastern, while others looked vaguely Mediterranean. Most wore white robes or light brown armor. No heavy plate mail anywhere. Everyone, men and women both, wore ample amounts of golden jewelry and colorful scarves or sashes. I wasn’t sure what they meant, but they seemed to indicate some sort of rank or maybe guild affiliation.

All of the warriors we ran across carried short swords, small bucklers, an assortment of throwing knives secured in leather bandoliers, or short, recurved bows. A few bore short spears. But, there were no maces or warhammers. No axes or heavy, two-handed weapons, either. Everything about these Accipiter—their weapons, armor, clothing—appeared custom-built for speed, agility, and mobility. For lightning-fast attacks, probably delivered at range. Doubtlessly, these bird-winged players were terrors in the wide-open spaces so plentiful in the Barren Sands.

I could just envision them circling high overhead, firing a barrage of arrows down on helpless enemies or prowling desert predators.

Cutter led us along street after street.

First, we moved through the nicer districts of the city, the buildings made from blocks of gleaming white sandstone with heavy wooden doors and roofs covered with red ceramic tile. And those were the low-end homes and shops—the nicer ones appeared sculpted from cloudy quartz crystal, which gleamed and glinted in the light. Beautiful. We passed jewelers and goldsmiths selling intricately worked jewelry studded with colorful gems, and top-end seamstresses peddling outfits—dresses, cloaks, trousers, robes—slashed with wide swaths of colorful ribbon.

Next, we headed into a section of the city that looked more market than residential area. Persian-style rugs were unfurled everywhere, covered in wares of every sort and variety. We entered some kind of food market shortly after. Vegetables, eggs, fruits, and meats were all meticulously laid out on rough wooden tables. The stink was almost overpowering: a thousand different scents fighting for my attention, some good—like the sickly sweet smell of strawberries—some awful, like the pungent odor of fish too long in the sun. Flies, big black things that bit at my eyes and nose, were thick in the air, circling the food and the passersby with equal curiosity.

Still, Cutter insisted we stop at a little stand with great hunks of meat slowly rotating on spits above a low fire. Kabis, Cutter called it. The merchant, a stocky woman with graying hair and equally graying wings, cut off paper-thin slices with a boxy cleaver, piling the meat on thick tortillas that reminded me of pita bread. Some lettuce and a smattering of tomatoes went on next, followed by a spurt of secret sauce.

Sure, the market was gross. And yes, the stand looked borderline unsanitary. But I was starving and the Kabis smelled like heaven.

Cutter handed over a few coins and everyone got a flatbread burrito in return.

We ate as we walked, no one making idle small talk, instead consumed by shoving food away. And understandably so: the Kabis tasted even better than they smelled. The meat—beef if I had to guess—was tender and juicy, the bread warm and fluffy, the lettuce crisp, the sauce strangely tangy with just a touch of spicy heat thrown in for good measure. Soft groans and moans of foodie pleasure drifted up from the group; even Amara, who fought to keep a perpetually unimpressed look glued on her face, forgot to be stuffy and judgmental. She just ate—a flicker of rapture flashing across her features with each bite—and enjoyed.

Eventually, we meandered into a new section of the city, far more rundown than anything we’d seen before. The streets were rough cobblestone, the buildings tall, but built with red-brown mud as often as sandstone. Garish signs—painted in colors so bright they almost hurt to look at—hung above each door, bearing names like the Rusty Locket, the Pack Mule, the Wandering Woman, or the Fox Den. Unlike the other establishments we’d seen, none of these places had windows. Despite that, I could hear the twang of music and the raucous clamor of laughter or hooting catcalls.

“Welcome to the Lucky Rooster,” Cutter finally said, stopping in front of a nondescript building of sandstone and mud, wooden beams poking out from the upper decks, the roof flat like a patio. “If anyone’s gonna know where to find this cult of ours, it’ll be old Hakim. Ugly old goat runs this joint.” He paused, hand lingering on the door. “But, things might get a bit ugly. We’ve got a bit of unsettled history, me and Hakim. Whatever you do, though, don’t kill anyone. We need these people on our side.” With a devilish grin, he pushed open the door and strutted in like a peacock.

SEVENTEEN:

The Lucky Rooster

The inside of the Lucky Rooster was way nicer than the outside had led me to believe. Instead of the white sandstone so prevalent throughout the rest of Ankara, the walls were rough gray brick, accented by dark wood molding and wall-mounted sconces, each holding a glass orb filled with orange flame. Black and white tiles covered the floor in an intricate mosaic pattern of interlocking triangles and circles. A scantily clad bard, with flowing hair and brilliant blue eyes, belted out a lurid tune on a small stage to the left.

Not exactly tasteful, but certainly entertaining.

A mahogany bar, polished to a dull glow, ran along the right wall, manned by a winged bartender dispensing drinks and wisdom in equal measure. Chandeliers hung from exposed wood-beam rafters, casting flickering light over a host of circular felt-covered tables surrounded by men and women, mostly tourists, who were hollering, laughing, and drinking as they gambled. Cards and chips passed back and forth at some tables, while dice were thrown at others, often accompanied by shouts of joy or moans of disappointment.

“Well all-friggin’-right,” Forge said, clapping his hands together before giving a hoot and a fist pump. “Now this is a mission I can get behind. I wish all my quests ended in casinos. Might be I picked the wrong race—shoulda started as one of these bird fellas.”

Cutter chuckled, giving the Risi a lopsided grin and a quick wink in agreement.

I ignored them both, focusing instead on Abby, who jabbed me in the ribs with a stiff finger. “I don’t know about this, Jack,” she whispered in my ear. “This feels off. Bad. Like things are on the verge of imploding any second.”

“I agree,” Amara said from my other side. “Look, there”—she nodded toward a series of balconies lining the upper floors, riddled with doors, presumably leading to guest rooms. Those balconies also served another function, though: they allowed pit bosses and heavily muscled guards to oversee the action below. Several hard-faced Accipiter goons—sporting dark leather armor and carrying curved machetes, called Kukri—stared daggers at us. Monitoring our movements. Well, more precisely, they were watching Cutter, their eyes squinted, silent snarls plastered in place.

A few quick words were swapped, and then one of them rushed off, disappearing through a door leading to the back.

Cutter didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t much care. He and Forge trotted over to the nearest dice table, some variant of craps from the look of it, ready to drink and play and laugh like the rest of the patrons. A heartbeat later, however, a door at the far end of the gambling floor burst open with a bang and the squattest Accipiter I’d seen so far stormed out. The newcomer stood about four and a half feet tall and had a thickset build, loaded down with fat instead of muscle. He was balding—just a scruffy tuft of black hair ringing the sides of his head—and his baleful, basset hound face was scrunched up in hate as his eyes locked on our resident thief.

I couldn’t be sure, but I was guessing he was Hakim.

“Cutter, you bir esek oglu!” the doughball of an Accipiter hollered, his face turning an unnatural shade of red, a vein pulsing in his forehead. “I told you never to show your face here again. Never!” He waggled a finger in the air to emphasize his point. “Get this thieving, double-crossing son of a goat and all of his companions. Bring them to the back.”

The room broke out in a flurry of motion as guards leaped over the railings—their wings stretching out, curved machetes flashing—while a handful of other thugs rushed out from behind the tables. Forge responded with a roar, lurching forward and lashing out with a gauntleted fist. He popped the nearest guard across the face, sending him to the floor with a thoroughly broken nose spurting blood down the front of his tunic. Another guard tackled Forge, driving a shoulder into his gut and taking him to the ground.

I didn’t have time to watch since I had my own share of Accipiter bruisers to deal with.

A leather-clad thug with a spiked Mohawk charged me from the right, his machete glinting in the firelight as it sailed toward my head. I sidestepped the blow, slipped inside his guard, and threw an elbow into his sternum, triggering Black Caress. He doubled over with a grunt, gasping for air as he clutched at his chest. Instead of letting up, I pressed my attack, smashing his exposed wrist with a crack—his weapon clattered to the floor—then hooked my hands around the back of his neck, pulling him down as I slammed a knee into his mouth.

Blood splattered as he went down, limp as a rag doll—alive, but without an ounce of fight left in him.

I wheeled around, stealing a quick glance at the gambling hall:

Forge was buried beneath a pile of guards, cursing up a storm as he swung and kicked wildly, putting up one helluva fight despite the odds against him. Vlad and Cutter weren’t doing any better. One beefy Accipiter had the Russian pinned to the floor, furiously raining down blows, which Vlad weakly fended off with his forearms. And another guard—built like a black bear with a face not even a mother could love—had Cutter locked up in a bear hug while another goon worked him over, delivering brutal gut shots with a feral grin stretched across his face.

Other than me, only Amara and Abby seemed to be holding their own. The ladies stood back-to-back near one of the card tables, moving in a slow circle as they fought. Abby twirled a sleek dark wood staff, carved with ember-red script, dealing out painful, but non-lethal burns with every strike. And Amara … Well, she hooked, jabbed, and kicked like an MMA pro, busting noses, jaws, and kneecaps with equal ease, leaving a trail of wrecked bodies in her wake.

Even with that one, glimmering light of hope, I just couldn’t see how this would end well for us. In a straight-up fight—weapons and magic flying—our team could win, no doubt, but in an unarmed brawl against so many enemies?

No, we didn’t have a chance. What we needed was to stop this fight cold …

I triggered Shadow Stride—the world around me lurched to a halt, invaded by an explosion of blacks, whites, grays, and swirling purples—and waded through the crowd of frozen bodies caught mid-battle:

A fist hung frozen in flight. A spurt of blood lingered unnaturally in the air like a fine mist. Abby’s staff was only inches away from cracking some poor schlub’s head. I left them all behind, maneuvering around tables, shocked patrons—their eyes wide, their mouths hanging open in awe or fear—and the dog pile of bodies accumulating on top of Forge. All the way to the far side of the room, where the balding Accipiter, Hakim, stood with his arms crossed and brow furrowed.

He didn’t look like much of a fighter. He was too old, too flabby. No, he looked like a shot caller. A man who paid others to do his brawling for him. In my experience, people like that were far more comfortable commanding violence than receiving it in any form.

At least, I hoped that was the case.

I slipped behind him, pulled my warhammer from my belt, and dropped into a crouch—necessary due to our significant size differences. Then I steeled myself, saying a silent prayer as I stepped back into the material realm. Time sprinted back to life in an instant: the punch landed with a wet thwack. The blood, suspended in the air a moment before, splattered across the mosaic floor. Abby’s staff landed with bone-breaking force and the poor guard staggered away, clutching his head as a streak of red gushed down his forehead.

I ignored all those things as I slipped one arm around Hakim’s neck, holding him tight, then placed the razor-sharp spike on the top of my warhammer firmly into his neck. Tucking it up under his chin just hard enough to draw a thin trickle of blood. Just hard enough to let him know I could kill him if I wanted to. His body stiffened, his neck tensed from the pressure of the spike, and suddenly he went stock-still, afraid to so much as breathe. “Call them off,” I whispered into his ear, not bothering to hide the threat in my voice. “We’re not here to fight, but if you push it, you’ll be the first one to hit the floor.”

There was a tense pause as he considered my words, my threat. Could he get away, perhaps? What was the chance I’d be able to kill him before his guards could respond? Was I bluffing?

His body wilted a second later, deflating in defeat. “Enough! Enough!” he cried out, his gruff voice echoing off the walls. The winged guards froze, eyes wide and confused, before falling away like faithful dogs called to heel. Every eye turned toward us, expectant.

“Good.” I slowly backed away, pulling my hostage toward the back room he’d emerged from moments before. “Abby, Cutter, Vlad,” I said, my voice surprisingly calm and level considering the circumstances, “come with me. Forge, Amara, I want the two of you to stand guard outside the door while we have a word with the boss, here. Now”—I swept my gaze around the room, staring at each guard for a heartbeat—“if any of you tries anything heroic, your boss dies. End of story, end of the game. Everyone understand?”

I was bluffing through my teeth, appropriate since we were in a gambling den, and I fervently hoped no one would call me on it.

For a second, which dragged on and on, the room teetered on the brink of more chaos and violence. Then, Hakim finally yelled, ending the tense stalemate. “You do nothing!” he screamed, quivering in panic. “Make no move. None. But if something happens to me, I want them all dead. Every last one of them, anlamak?”

His thugs nodded as we backed into the connecting room. I kicked the door shut once Abby, Vlad, and Cutter were through, leaving Forge and Amara stranded by themselves on the other side. They’d be okay, though. They had to be. I wheeled around and shoved Hakim into a plush office outfitted with the same mosaic floors, gray brick walls, and wall-mounted sconces. Colorful rugs and low couches, covered in pillows, littered the space, along with a boxy table surrounded by backless stools. Dark wood cabinets ran along the left wall, loaded down with books, ledgers, and folders of various shapes and sizes.

Not so much a library as the sprawling filing cabinet of a bookie.

Most intriguing, though, was the enormous door inset into the back of the wall. It was a massive circular thing that reminded me of a bank vault, though fashioned from crystal instead of steel. “Everyone, sit,” I said, nodding toward the stools surrounding the table. Slowly, carefully, I maneuvered Hakim into a chair, forcing him down, before finally releasing my choke hold around his throat and backing up a step. He turned his stocky body, glowering at me over one shoulder as he retrieved a cloth from his pocket and dabbed at the blood decorating his throat.

He grunted, sniffed, then turned, staring coolly at Cutter.

“You miserable soysuz prick,” he said to the thief. “You’ve got real stones coming back after what you did to me. A thousand gold marks, you cost me, not to mention dragging my good and reputable name through a pile of boktan.” He tilted his head and jabbed a finger at Cutter like it was a knife. “What did I tell you would happen if you ever came back?”

“That whole period’s a bit fuzzy,” Cutter replied from across the table, canting his head to one side, “but I vaguely recall something about dismemberment and sand tigers.”

Hakim squinted. “I told you I would have you drawn and quartered, then fed to the Kan-Kaplan in the fighting pits. It is a hard thing to forget, I think.”

“Well, none of that matters,” I said, skittering around the table and taking a seat next to Abby. “I don’t know what your problem is with Cutter, but you’re not dealing with him anymore, you’re dealing with us.” I jerked a head toward Abby.

“And who are you two, huh?” Hakim asked with a scowl, turning his disgruntled gaze firmly on me.

“We’re the leaders of the Crimson Alliance,” Abby replied evenly. “We’re the face of the Eldgard Rebellion, and rulers over both Yunnam and Rowanheath.”

That knocked the sneer off his face and gave him a moment of pause. “And so? What is that to me?” he finally asked, slouching as he absently inspected his fingernails. “You are flies circling the colossal turd that is the Empire. Perhaps you are powerful in the East, but this? This is the West. The West has little concern for the affairs of the Empire or the Rebels.”

“Wait, I do not understand?” Vlad interjected, slouching forward, then running shaky hands through his hair. “I thought the Accipiter were part of the Rebel Alliance against the Empire? Am I incorrect in this?”

Hakim’s contemptuous sneer returned, his lips pulling back to reveal crooked yellowing teeth and deep creases in his pudgy cheeks.

“You’re technically correct,” Cutter replied, shrugging one shoulder. “The Accipiter royal houses are sympathetic toward the cause, but the wars never reached this far, so most of the regular citizens don’t pay it much mind. And even if the Empire were on Hakim’s doorstep, he wouldn’t care unless there was money to be made or lost. Money’s the only thing he cares about, isn’t that right, Hakim? He’s a businessman, through and through.”

“No different from you, you treacherous whoreson,” Hakim snapped, crossing his sausage-plump arms.

“Fine,” I said, raising a hand to stop them before things escalated further. “If you’re a businessman, then let’s talk business. We”—I waved vaguely toward the rest of the crew—“aren’t looking to pick a fight with you. We’re looking to make a deal. All we want is some information about the Cult of Arzokh. They’ve got a Citadel in Ankara, and we need to find it. That’s it. That’s all we want. You tell us what we need to know and we’ll get out of your hair”—I glanced toward his balding head on instinct—“faster than you can blink.”

His lips formed a harsh, thin gash as he stroked at his double chin. “Let us say for a moment, I have the information you want.” He paused, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Now, let us further say I am willing to overlook this violation of my fine establishment. What would I get in return? I am a businessman, not a priest—I do nothing out of the goodness of my heart.”

“Well,” Abby said, leaning forward, resting her forearms on the table. “What do you want? Jack and I lead the Crimson Alliance—we can get you money if that’s what this is all about.”

His face screwed up in disgust, and he dry-washed his hands as though the very thought were distasteful. “Money, she says. You bring this, this, this …” He absently twirled a hand through the air, searching for the word. “This sneak-thief with you,” he finished. “You assault my guards. You take me hostage and embarrass me in front of my clientele. And then? Then you offer money.” He leaned over to one side and spit onto the floor. “Despite what Cutter, there, says, money is not the end all be all for me. I have a vault full of money.” He waved toward the circular crystal door.

“We could give you something else, then. Weapons?” Vlad offered. “Or, perhaps armor? You may not know this, but”—he shrugged modestly—“I am one of the most accomplished Alchemic Weaponeers in all of Eldgard. I could make you something, perhaps?”

Hakim gave the Russian a look as dry and flat as a savannah. “I’m a businessman, not a warlord. I employ thugs, not soldiers. And do I look like a man who wears armor or carries a sword? What need have I of such things? This is an issue of pride, now. Of saving face. And nothing you can give me will accomplish that.” He faltered, fingers tented as he regarded us. “Yet, clearly, you are a capable lot and we are at an impasse. Battı balık yan gider, as my people are given to say. Perhaps there is a way we can come to an understanding. Let us say I will give you the information you need, but first, you must do a job for me.”

Cutter groaned, pressing his eyes shut tight. “This isn’t gonna turn out well,” he muttered.

I held up a hand to silence him. “We’re listening,” I said, running my fingers over the cold metal of my warhammer.

“Excellent, excellent. It’s nice to know at least one of you has a level head.” Hakim leaned forward, his gut pressed up against the edge of the table. “As I said, this is now a matter of pride. Though Cutter may think money is the only thing I care for, he is wrong. We Accipiter put great value in status. We care about pride even more than money.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Pride and revenge. There is a man, a rival of mine named Yusuf. He runs a gambling establishment just down the road. A place called the Bloodletter. He has a trinket. An old amulet, dear to my heart”—he thumped a fist against his flabby chest—“and I want you to steal it.”

“Is it magic,” Cutter hedged, “this amulet?”

“No, no. Nothing of the sort,” Hakim replied, waving away the question. “Purely sentimental. It belonged to my mother. We came up together, Yusuf and I. Running the streets together, though rivals of a sort, even then. But things changed. He betrayed me. Broke my legs.” He rubbed thoughtfully at his knobby knees with a wince. “Then? Then he left me for dead in a rotten sewer and took the necklace as a token of victory. Twenty years ago, that was.

“Now? Now I want this necklace back. I want the amulet so I can rub Yusuf’s dirty face in it, as he has rubbed mine in it. I want it so I can flash it at him when we pass in the Temple. So I can have my pride back.” His words oozed venom. “If you rob his vault and get me the amulet … Well, then I will tell you where this Cult of Arzokh is. This heist, though, has one provision. One.” He stuck a quivering digit up. “You mustn’t kill anyone. Yusuf most of all. I want to gloat and I want him to live in shame, but I am not interested in a turf war. Understand?”

A new quest popped up:

∞∞∞

Quest Alert: Hakim’s Revenge

Hakim—a local crime boss and the owner of the Lucky Rooster—has agreed to provide you with the location of the Cult of Arzokh, but only if you can pull off a special mission: infiltrate the Bloodletter and retrieve Hakim’s necklace without killing Yusuf or his guards. But be warned, the necklace is located inside a strongbox, which is further stored in the Bloodletter vault.

Quest Class: Unique

Quest Difficulty: Infernal

Success: Retrieve Hakim’s necklace without killing Yusuf.

Failure: Fail to retrieve the necklace; kill Yusuf or his guards in the process.

Reward: Location of the Cult of Arzokh; 15,000 EXP per group member.

Accept: Yes/No?

∞∞∞

“Yes,” I said, accepting the quest, “we’ll do it. But we’ll need some time to plan.”

“Of course,” Hakim replied, his grin predatory and hungry. “The layout to the Bloodletter is identical to this gambling hall. Take all the time you need.”

EIGHTEEN:

Breaking and Entering

Three hours later, creeping up on 9 PM, Cutter and I shouldered our way into the Bloodletter, a delightfully named place that in no way increased my anxiety. I took a quick scan of the room. Hakim was right, the layout was almost identical to the Lucky Rooster. It featured the same open gambling floor and the same balconies running along the sides, overlooking everything below.

There was a stage on the left, a bar on the right, and a door at the back. Same, same, same. Even the winged goons looked like carbon copies. Burly bouncers loitered around the room, leaning up against the walls, trying to look bored or drunk, but failing. Even more bouncers—these wearing dark black leathers and wielding stout cudgels on leather braids—lined the upper decks, staring down with ever-suspicious gazes. With that said, Hakim and Yusuf shared very different interior decorating strategies.

In place of fancy tile, the Bloodletter had uneven sandstone floors, covered in hay and splashes of old vomit. In place of elegant felt-lined tables, there were simple slabs of crude wood, worn from heavy use and stained by countless spills. Heck, even the lighting was different: sooty, smoky, and strangely threatening. And instead of high-class tourists with lots of money to burn, this place catered to Accipiter locals in rough-spun tunics or mud-caked armor. But despite dour faces, tired eyes, and a lot of hard-worn years, the patrons laughed loudly, hooting as they drank from dirty mugs and slapped coins on tables with gusto.

My eyes skipped past all the thugs and patrons, frantically searching for Abby and Vlad. I let out a soft sigh of relief as I located the pair seated together at a table near the reinforced door connecting to the back room. They were playing cards, working to blend in and doing a passable job—especially considering how much they stood out. It helped that they were losing money hand over fist, playing like a couple of clueless, hairbrained outsiders with more money than sense. The locals ate the act up, laughing as they crowded around their table, scooping up piles of brass and silver.

So far, so good. Thank God for small miracles.

Cutter and I beelined for the bar huddled against the right wall, keeping our heads down and our profile low. Cutter slapped me on the shoulder and leaned in as we walked, a fake grin plastered across his face. “You need to calm down, Jack,” he whispered in my ear. “This isn’t like back at Hakim’s place. No one’s looking for us, not unless you give them a reason to, eh?” He thumbed his nose knowingly at me. “Besides, there’s nothing to worry about. Gotta admit I’m pretty impressed with the plan. Nothing groundbreaking, but for such short notice, you and Abby did alright. It’ll work fine. Just get in place, stay calm, and do what you need to do.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” I replied, voice low and muted. “You’re not the distraction.”

He offered me an evil grin and shot me a wink as he saddled up to the bar and plopped down onto a stool. “That’s the benefit of being the snarky, dreamboat sidekick,” he said, before turning to the bartender—a paunchy Accipiter polishing a dull silver mug with a dirty cloth—and ordering a pair of drinks. The bartender grunted a half-hearted acknowledgment, swiped the handful of coppers Cutter laid out on the counter, and pulled out a couple of hearty pewter steins full of foamy red-gold mead.

“I get all the reward with very little risk—being a follower isn’t all bad.” He forced the drink into my hand and gave me a curt shove toward a narrow set of steps leading up toward the balconies. “Now, go get ’em, friend.”

I rolled my eyes and headed over to the wall, grabbing a stool near the stairs and away from all the action. I got a couple of funny looks from the guards as I nursed my drink, but mostly they left me alone. These goons were supposed to monitor the floor: to watch for cheats, either clients or dealers, not for random drunks far away from the money. That suited me just fine. I drank, waiting nervously for Amara to call. Another few uneventful minutes passed by like molasses, but then I heard a faint chirp, chirp, chirp in my ear.

“Grim Jack,” Amara whispered through the officer comm link.

I glanced down and murmured “yes,” trying to play it cool.

“Forge and I are up top,” she said, sounding far more excited than I felt. “The escape route is roped out all the way back to the Rooster. Move whenever.” She paused, suddenly serious. “Good luck, Grim Jack. And tell that fool Cutter to be safe.” I could’ve sworn I heard a hint of genuine concern in her voice, but then the line clicked and she was gone. I pressed my eyes shut tight and did a quick ten-count to calm myself before opening them. Cutter loitered by one of the craps tables, watching a lithe female Accipiter with chestnut hair shoot dice.

I nodded at him, and though he wasn’t looking at me, he dipped his head a fraction of an inch in return.

A second later, he lurched as though someone had bumped into him, and his drink went flying onto the dice table, mead splashing a handful of players and drenching a pile of dusty coins. An honest accident from all appearances. An accident that drew every eye in the joint, including all the guards on the upper balconies. I used the brief window of opportunity, triggering Shadow Stride, praying no one would see the poof of inky smoke which accompanied the spell. The world skittered to a halt, abruptly frozen.

Quick as I could, I hustled up the stairs and onto the balcony, slipping past the pair of guards and heading over to the far wall. I pressed up against the wood, cloaked by a pool of shadow, and dropped into a crouch, activating Stealth. The nearest hired goon was eight feet away and the door to the back room was almost directly below me on the main floor.

Life jerked back into motion as I stepped into the material realm, accompanied by a wave of sound: a laughing voice and some good-natured swearing all directed at Cutter. There were no cries of thief, though. No winged guards bum-rushing me, feet pounding, cudgels flashing. And just like that, another piece of the plan clicked into place like a jigsaw puzzle nearing completion. I waited a few more minutes, giving the players below a chance to resume their games and the guards an opportunity to get comfortable again. To get complacent.

Time for phase two. The big distraction.

Once I was sure no one was looking at me, I reached through the void and summoned my newest minion, Nikko, from the Shadowverse with a burst of pure Spirit. My winged ape materialized above the card tables in a blast of shadowy power, her wings pumping as she hovered in the air, a blue crystalline orb clutched in one simian mitt. More of the orbs glimmered on her chest, held in place by the leather bandolier Vlad had shown off earlier. Thanks to her Weapon of Opportunity ability, she could use simple tools or weapons—weapons like the alchemic hand grenades—and it had only taken a minute to equip her before coming over.

There was a shriek from below as one of the bargoers finally saw the winged ape, followed by a chorus of confused shouts from the guards. Obviously, they should’ve been paying attention to me, since I was now visible, but everyone was focused—understandably—on the flying shadow chimp equipped with magic hand grenades. I had to hand it to her, she was a real attention grabber.

Nikko didn’t waste a second. She lobbed the blue freeze grenade at one of the dice tables, unleashing a snowy blast which offered an excellent movement reducing debuff without causing too much actual harm. The guards scrambled to respond; several rushed down the stairs or pushed through the stunned onlookers. Another threw himself from the second-floor balcony, his powerful wings beating at the air—scattering chips and sending playing cards flying—as he lunged, arms outstretched.

Nikko was too quick for him, though.

She swooped low, slashing one guard across the face with her razor-sharp claws before flipping through the air and kicking another in the chest. She let out a shriek of victory, then stuck out her tongue at one of the downed thugs, mocking him. Nikko, apparently, was a terrible winner. One of the patrons, a weather-beaten Accipiter woman, dived for the ape, a short sword slicing through the air with a whistle. But Nikko vanished in a blink, stepping into the Shadowverse just before the sword landed. She instantly appeared behind the guard flapping overhead—clobbering him in the temple with a wicked hook.

The guard, caught by surprise, dropped like a rock, smashing into a table; clay chips exploded out like shrapnel, peppering any nearby onlookers.

Then it happened—the thing I’d been hoping for. Banking on, really. The door leading to the back room burst open as a handful of reinforcements poured out, including a stumpy Accipiter who could’ve been Hakim’s twin brother: fat and balding with a perpetual scowl etched onto his face. That had to be Yusuf. Had to be.

“What in the bloody hells is going on out here!” Yusuf bellowed, staring around wide-eyed at the destruction before finally homing in on Nikko, who was now perched on the balcony railing, opposite to me. “Who did this? What is that, that thing?!” He pointed a quivering finger at the chimp, his jaw clenched, his face flushed beet red. Yep, a dead ringer for Hakim. “Well don’t just stand there,” he shouted when no one answered, “get it! Fifty gold marks to the person who brings it down.” Instead of bringing order, though, his hasty words unleashed absolute chaos.

Guards barreled for the stairs, knocking aside patrons who were too slow to make way. But other customers—dollar signs flashing in their eyes—rushed for the chimp too, eager to collect the reward.

Nikko regarded the madness below with a mischievous grin, right before hurling a smoke grenade with a Confuse Enemy debuff. The orb shattered, and a low-clinging fog rolled out, making it even harder to see. In seconds, the debuff set in, and the casino-goers—both patrons and guards—started attacking each other instead of Nikko: A pair of dirt-caked bargoers threw wild haymakers at each other. One guard socked another square in the nose. A woman sporting a stained work tunic tackled an overeager thug to the ground, laying into his face with her fists.

Absolutely perfect.

I glanced down and grinned as Cutter, Vlad, and Abby slipped into the back room, completely unnoticed amidst all the craziness. Then, before anyone spotted me, I conjured Umbra Bog. Black tendrils, obscured by the gray smog hugging the ground, erupted from the floor, snagging wrists and ankles. Rooting Yusuf and his guards in place and buying us a solid forty seconds to get through the door, rig the vault, and get gone.

The classic bait and switch.

NINETEEN:

Vault Job

I triggered Shadow Stride, vaulted over the railing, dropping to the main floor, and leisurely made my way into the back room. I stepped into the material realm a few seconds later and slammed the door closed behind me with a satisfied grunt. I literally couldn’t believe how well it was going. “Vlad, get moving,” I said, glancing at my Umbra Bog countdown timer, ticking away in the corner of my vision. “I want that vault door down in twenty seconds.” The Russian was already moving, though, pulling free a leather bag near to bursting with glass vials and flasks full of strange alchemic substances.

Meanwhile, Cutter edged over to the door and dropped into a crouch, going to work on the lock with his steel picks, securing the door from our side. Chances were, Yusuf would have the key—though it was possible he’d left it in here—but it didn’t matter because any extra time we could buy was gravy. Cutter stood a handful of seconds later, stowed his picks, and stepped aside. Abby raised her hands, a quiet incantation on her lips, and used a low-level levitation spell to drag over a heavy couch, which she shoved up against the door, wedging it beneath the knob.

One more obstacle for Yusuf and his boys to overcome.

“Ready,” Vlad called, darting back over to our position. I glanced at the vault door, now riddled with packets of odd-colored dust, all placed at strategic locations around the hulking glass frame. No way would those charges take out the crystalline door itself, but the wall was merely rough-hewn sandstone—resilient, but not indestructible.

I strode over to Yusuf’s massive wooden desk—identical to the one Hakim had in his office—and flipped it on its side with a grunt and a heave, making sure the thick tabletop faced the vault. “Alright, Amara,” I hollered, bringing her up on chat as I dropped to a knee behind the desk, pressing my shoulder into the wood. “Tell Forge to get working. He’s got about thirty seconds to get through that roof.”

“Consider it done,” she said, calm and professional. The link clicked off.

Immediately, a dull thunk sounded overhead, repeating again and again—thunk-thunk-thunk-—like a jackhammer biting into asphalt, which was close to the truth. Aside from Crafting, Forge had also invested a few points into some Mine-Craft skills, so he had a handful of abilities that allowed him to burrow right through the mud-lined brick ceiling. Hopefully. And if not … Well, we’d be in trouble.

Everything’ll be fine, I reassured myself. Then, I shoved my uncertainty away as Vlad, Cutter, and Abby scooted over to the desk and piled in next to me.

“Okay,” Abby said, a twinge of nervousness in the word. “So, everything’s ready?”

“As ready as it’s going to be,” I replied with a nod, trying to sound confident and self-assured.

She glanced down, running her palms over the folds in her velvety dress. “I know we’ve already talked about this a hundred times, but …” She paused and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “But this isn’t going to kill us all, right?”

I shot a look at Vlad, one inquisitive eyebrow raised. Abby shifted, stealing a sidelong glance at him as well. He cleared his throat several times, looking anywhere but at Abby.

“Theoretically,” he said, seesawing his head left then right, “we should be okay. But? Impossible to know until we try.”

Abby looked far more worried than reassured, but she cautiously poked her head above the table, sticking one arm out, palm forward. “God, I hope this works,” she muttered as braids of golden flame snaked around her outstretched limb, twisting, dancing, and merging into a single fiery orb in the center of her palm. “Get that shield ready, Jack.”

She unleased the conjured fireball, which smashed against the vault door like a dump truck made of flame and force, setting Vlad’s sand pouches ablaze. The reaction was instantaneous: the vault door went up like a bunker buster plunging into the heart of an erupting volcano. The room rattled beneath me—chairs toppled, dust rained down from above, and the torches lining the walls guttered and died under the gale-force rush of wind. A series of deafening booms ripped through the air, each louder than the last, as a tremendous mushroom cloud of flame filled the office with golden light and scorching heat.

I popped up and called on the power of Dark Shield—a shield of flickering purple light—an instant before the debris cloud hit us like a tsunami. Jagged chunks of sandstone pelted my defensive barrier while tongues of red flame lapped over everything. My shield wavered under the intense pressure, never meant to withstand this kind of raw force. After a few seconds, the skin-searing heat bled through, clawing at my exposed skin, singeing my eyebrows, and leaving my face red and raw as my HP plunged.

Still, I held on, teeth clenched, brow furrowed, knowing if I dropped the shield we were all dead. Finally—after my HP had dipped by two-thirds—the massive fireball dissipated, leaving scorched stone, charred furniture, and thick plumes of cloying smoke in its wake. I let the shield die, my Spirit nearly spent anyway, and stared through the thick layer of smoke to the vault door. Unbelievably, the damned thing was still standing. My heart seemed to falter inside my chest as sheer panic invaded. No, no, no. This needed to work—there was no other plan, no other option. But as the smoke cleared further, I let out a ragged sigh of relief.

The door was still standing, true, but it was wobbling on its last legs. The thing was drunkenly tilted forward, attached to the right wall only by a small wedge of cracked stone. A stiff breeze would bring it down.

Abby stood, a softball-sized chunk of blackened debris in hand, and she casually lobbed it at the remaining section of wall. The rock hit with a dull thud, and that was the straw to break the camel’s back. The vault door lurched forward with a screech and crashed like a felled redwood, hitting the floor with a thunderous clang that bounced and echoed off the walls, kicking up a huge cloud of sooty dust.

“Perhaps a bit too much powder,” Vlad said, peeking over the table’s edge, unconsciously poking at the bridge of his nose as though he were pushing up a pair of glasses. An old tick from IRL beat into muscle memory, I guessed. “Still, it is most impressive.”

“Yeah, impressive is one word you could go with,” Abby whispered, staring at the damage with a look of muted horror mingled with begrudging admiration. She’d been so busy running the guild that this was her first chance to actually see Vlad’s weapons in action. Effective, but a long, long way from pretty. I could almost see her envisioning the wholesale slaughter and devastation marching toward us like armored shock troops.

A sharp crack from the wooden door behind us stopped the conversation cold. I wheeled around and checked the cooldown timer. Sure enough, Umbra Bog had worn off. I could still sense Nikko capering around in the front room, hurling alchemic grenades and sowing havoc, but obviously, Yusuf had finally seen through our sleight of hand. The miniature atomic blast we’d set off was probably a huge tip-off, since Yusuf would have to be blind, deaf, and damn near dead to miss that.

“Move it, Cutter,” I yelled, eyes trained on the door. Even with the vault open, the amulet was still locked away in a smaller, secondary safe; it was Cutter’s job as a master thief to get that bad boy open before the guards broke in and murdered us all.

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” he replied, leaping over the capsized desk and making for the vault.

“Amara,” I said, activating the Officer Chat. “What in the world is taking so long?”

“Patience,” she offered flatly. “It is hard work, but he is almost through now.” There was a giant crack from overhead, as though to emphasize her words. Another blow followed, crack, and another still. “I would watch out if I were you,” Amara said, sounding a tad self-satisfied as a huge square of ceiling, three feet by three feet, plummeted to the ground, exploding in a spray of dust, mud, and stone. The comm link went dead as Forge’s grinning face popped through the opening, framed by the night sky overhead.

“Y’all okay down there?” he called, taking a quick sweep of the room before disappearing back through the hole and tossing down a thick length of rope with a circular foothold at the end.

“Yeah, fine,” Abby called back up, cupping a hand around her mouth. “Just a little hectic. We’ve got to move, though. Yusuf’s guards are almost through the door.”

Vlad was the first to go, running over to the rope and slipping the loop at the bottom around his foot. With that done, he gave three curt tugs, ready to go, and immediately the line went taut, hauling Vlad toward the opening in the ceiling like an overgrown trout on the end of a fishing line. I could hear Forge and Amara grunting on the other end, doing all the heavy lifting. It was only a matter of seconds before the Russian disappeared through the hole and the rope was lowered back down once more.

Abby went up next, following the same rehearsed procedure and disappearing even quicker than Vlad had. Still, though, Cutter wasn’t done yet, and the door didn’t have much fight left in it. The wood was splintered, and a huge crack, large enough to see through, ran straight down the middle from top to bottom. Another couple of chops and the thing would be ready to use as firewood. “Hurry up, Cutter!” I yelled again, planting my feet. Preparing to fight. To buy Cutter however long he needed.

“I’m doing the best I can, Jack,” he called in return. “Lock picking’s an art, you know, and this safe in here is like a master painting. Another thirty seconds ought to do it.”

“Do it faster,” I replied as one of the Accipiter guards jabbed a fist-sized fishhook, connected to a length of rope, in through the split, then sunk the razor-tipped head into the wood.

“Heave,” someone called out from the other side. The hook bit deep as the rope twanged and the door groaned—the wood almost screaming, while the metal hinges issued a rusty squeal. Then, boom-pop, the door flew off, sailing free and leaving us painfully exposed to the guards on the other side.

Cutter rushed from the vault a heartbeat later, a lopsided grin on his face, an old golden necklace with a fat emerald in the center hanging from his fist. The smile faltered and faded as he finally saw the state of the room and the guards shouldering their way in.

“Bollocks,” he muttered, stowing the necklace in his inventory before drawing the twin daggers at his belt and dropping into a low crouch, ready for a brawl. “This is a right mess,” he said. “I don’t see a way both of us are getting out before they”—he nodded toward the guards—“get in. One of us is gonna have to stay behind, I’d wager. And since I’m the pretty, funny one, I figure it oughta be you that stays, Jack. Privileges of leadership and all.”

I pulled my warhammer free, lips pulled back in a grimace as my mind raced. Cutter was right: no way we’d both make it out in time. One of us would have to stay behind and find another exit. And though I hated to admit it, Cutter was also right about me staying behind. He was a heck of a good thief, but I had a better chance of making it out alive, and if not? Well, I’d lose the Path of the Jade Lord quest, but better that than to see Cutter permanently kick the bucket, hacked to pieces by a bunch of machete-wielding guards.

“Go,” I shouted, waving him toward the rope with my free hand. “You’re right, I can’t risk losing my snarky sidekick. Once you get topside, tell everyone to scram. When these guards see the hole in the ceiling, they’ll connect the dots and be all over you guys. So move your asses.”

“What about you?” he asked, voice suddenly serious even as he stowed one of his daggers, slipped his foot into the loop, and clenched the rope with his free hand.

“Don’t worry about me,” I shouted as the first guard hurdled the couch, his knobby cudgel swiping at my head. “I’ve got a plan—I’ve always got a plan!”

I retreated a step, avoiding the blow, then dodged a sloppy follow-up front kick. The thug’s boot whiffed completely as I darted left, opening him up to a nice little counterassault. I stepped forward, shooting in with my hammer. Instead of jabbing up and killing him on the spot, I aimed low, thrusting the hammer between his legs and hooking his back foot with the curved spike jutting from my weapon. One firm tug pulled him off his feet and put him firmly on his back. I planted the toe of my boot into his temple, dealing a painful, disorienting blow, but not a deadly one.

One down, but another was already squeezing through the doorway, and there were plenty more behind him, all lined up like excited schoolkids waiting for a turn at the roller coaster. No way I could take them all. Thankfully, I didn’t have to. I glanced back and saw Cutter vanish through the hole in the roof, pulling the rope up behind him. The next guard lunged forward, wielding a shortsword, aiming to impale me through the throat. Had the strike landed, it almost certainly would’ve been a critical hit. Might’ve killed me outright.

But, it never did land.

The world shuddered to a stop as I triggered Shadow Stride, the tip of his blade only inches away from my throat—almost close enough to shave. I gave the guy a nod for his effort, then slipped around him, clambered over the couch partially blocking the doorway, and headed for the exit. Nikko was perched above the entryway, clinging impossibly to the wall, preventing anyone from leaving as though she were already anticipating my plan. This was her first real test drive, and I was thoroughly pleased with her performance. True, she didn’t have the raw power and brute strength of Devil, but sometimes you needed the feather instead of the meat cleaver.

I slipped out of the door without a hitch and ducked into a narrow alley running beside the Bloodletter. My countdown timer expired a heartbeat later and the Shadowverse expelled me, forcing me back through the ether and into the material realm. Everything came crashing back to life and motion. Nikko screeched in defiant triumph, followed by the clamor of bewildered shouts—courtesy of the guards, no doubt. I craned my head back, searching the night-dark skyline for any sign of the others. I spotted them several buildings over, creeping from rooftop to rooftop, using a set of rope tethers, courtesy of Amara and her bow.

Well, that part had gone according to plan, at least.

I pressed my back up against the wall, then turkey-peeked around the corner as a flood of winged goons surged onto the street, their wooden clubs raised, their eyes roving the cityscape. Part of me wanted to just stay hidden and creep silently away, but I needed to buy the others as much time as I could. Quickly, I recalled Nikko from the Bloodletter, stepped from the shadows, and promptly lobbed an Umbra Bolt high into the sky. The violet magic streaked across the heavens like a shooting star in reverse; it didn’t hit anyone, but it sure got me noticed. I gave the thugs a lopsided grin and a wink, before turning tail and bolting.

Leading them deeper into Ankara and away from the Lucky Rooster.

TWENTY:

Celebration

It took me an hour to shake the Bloodletter bouncers, but by then Abby had called to tell me everyone else had made it back, necklace in hand, without so much as a hiccup. After an hour of backtracking, I rounded a sharp bend and finally caught sight of the Lucky Rooster. A small knot of tension leaked away like snow melting in the noonday sun. I was exhausted from the long day—my eyes heavy, my head fuzzy, my body achy—and ridiculously hungry. My stomach rumbled at even the mere thought of food, a not-so-gentle reminder that it’d been ages since Cutter had scored us those Kabis on the way into Ankara.

I pressed a hand against my gut, trying to stifle the pain, and pulled up my active effect screen:

∞∞∞

Current Debuffs

Tired (Level 4): Skills improve 20% slower; Carry Capacity -35lbs; Attack Damage -15%; Spell Strength reduced by 30%

Thirsty (Level 2): Health, Stamina, and Spirit Regeneration reduced by 25%

Hungry (Level 3): Carry Capacity -50lbs; Health and Stamina Regeneration reduced by 30%; Stealth 25% more difficult

Unwashed (Level 2): Goods and services cost 10% more; Merchant-Craft skills reduced by (1) level

∞∞∞

Yep, there was the problem—I’d simply pushed too hard for too long.

That was easily one of the worst things about VGO: the game Devs actively punished players for not eating, drinking, and sleeping enough. Generally, I didn’t mind, but considering I was in Death-Head mode and the time was slipping away second by second like sand through my fingers, I was supremely annoyed by the feature. Nothing I could do about it, though. As much as I wanted to just push through the night, I needed rest. With such significant debuffs stacked against me, I’d be virtually useless anyway.

Resigned, I shoved my way into the Lucky Rooster.

A roar rolled over me like a wave—a cacophony of rowdy cheers, good-natured hooting, and thunderous applause. I flinched back in shock, reaching instinctively for my warhammer as I tried to figure out what in the heck was going on. The noise quickly coalesced into a drunken chant that left me less worried, but even more confused.

“Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack!”

My name carried on the crowd’s lips as people pumped fists into the air and slurped at pitchers of golden mead. I frowned and honestly considered just triggering Shadow Stride and getting out of Dodge—I didn’t want any part of whatever fresh craziness was going on here. But then I saw Abby tracing her way through the crowd, a huge smile splitting her face, her cheeks flushed from drinking. She quickly closed the distance and slipped an arm around my waist, pulling me deeper into the building. The crowd only chanted louder, folks toasting me as I passed, or slapping me good-naturedly on the back.

“What is all this?” I asked, leaning into Abby so she could hear me over the cry of the crowd.

“They’re celebrating, obviously,” she replied with a giggle.

I cocked an eyebrow at her. Obviously.

“Cutter turned in Hakim’s amulet,” she said by way of explanation. “He was in such a good mood, he canceled the debts of everyone here and is offering drinks and food on the house until sunrise. Apparently, Hakim’s really, really attached to that necklace.” She shook her head, then laughed. Unbelievable, that laugh said. “Come on, Hakim’s waiting for you in the back room. Apparently,” she said with a sly grin, “he wants to thank you personally. Plus, I think since it’s technically your quest, you’re the only one he’ll disclose the Citadel’s location to. After that, though, it’s party time.” She shot me a friendly wink, then prodded me gently in the ribs.

Yep, she’d definitely been drinking. Not that I minded.

“Ah, it is my friend, Grim Jack!” Hakim boomed—standing, arms stretched wide—as I entered his private room. “The most daring thief in all of Ankara. A true mastermind. Already tales of your exploits reach me.” He bent over, swaying slightly on his feet, and gestured at his ears. “Flying monkeys, people say. Black shadow magic. Explosions and daring rooftop escapes. It is a legend in the making, and that is saying much since this is Ankara—the Crystal City and the home of a thousand legends.” He paused and fished the necklace we’d stolen from beneath the edge of his tunic. “And best of all, Yusuf will feel the sting of this victory for years to come.”

He threw back his head and laughed, a deep rumbling thing, while he grabbed at his prodigious gut. Eventually, his cackling subsided. “But enough of my gloating,” he said, absently wiping away a tear from the corner of his eye. “You did the impossible and I’m sure you’re ready to celebrate. Celebrate and feast!” he shouted, taking a stein from the table and hoisting it into the air. Red wine sloshed over the brim, but Hakim didn’t mind. He killed the drink in one hearty chug, then unceremoniously tossed the mug aside.

“As you can plainly see, the festivities are begun,” he said, “so let us finish our business quickly. Here is the information I promised you.” One pudgy hand shot into his robe, pulling free a worn leather scroll bound with a bit of twine.

I gratefully accepted, earning myself a flood of new notifications:

∞∞∞

x1 Level Up!

You have (5) undistributed stat points. Stat points can be allocated at any time.

You have (3) unassigned proficiency points. Proficiency points can be allocated at any time.

∞∞∞

Ability: Shadow-Spark

Ability Type/Level: Passive / Level 4

Cost: None

Effect: Umbra unlocked. All Shadow-based skill stats are increased by 3% per Shadow-Spark level (Current: 12%).

∞∞∞

Skill: Stealth

Skill Type/Level: Active / Level 12

Cost: 20 Stamina

Effect: Stealth 25% chance to hide from enemies (+16.8% augmented Stealth).

∞∞∞

Skill: Backstab

Skill Type/Level: Active / Level 9

Cost: 20 Stamina

Effect: A brutal backstab attack can be activated while an adventurer is in Stealth. 7x normal damage with a knife; 5x normal damage with all other weapons.

Effect 2: 9% increased chance of critical hit while backstabbing.

∞∞∞

Skill: Blunt Weapons

Skill Type/Level: Active / Level 14

Cost: None

Effect: Increases blunt weapon damage by 31%; increases blunt weapon attack rate by 5%.

∞∞∞

Skill: Medium Armor

Skill Type/Level: Passive / Level 7

Cost: None

Effect 1: 19% increased base armor rating while wearing Medium Armor.

Effect 2: +1.5% additional increased base armor rating for every piece of Medium Armor worn.

∞∞∞

I quickly read over the list of skill increases, then closed them one by one and scrolled over to my quest log:

∞∞∞

Quest Update: Hakim’s Revenge

Congratulations! You have successfully retrieved Hakim’s necklace—all without killing Yusuf or his guards. In appreciation for your cunning and skill, Hakim, owner of the Lucky Rooster, has provided you with the location of the Cult of Arzokh! Additionally, each of your party members has received 15,000 EXP!

∞∞∞

Map Update

Congratulations! Your in-world map has been updated with a new location: Entrance to the Citadel of Arzokh.

∞∞∞

Quest Update: Path of the Jade Lord

Find the Citadel of Arzokh and retrieve the Belt of the Jade Lord, which will reveal the resting place of the final set piece: the Amulet of the Jade Lord. According to Hakim, the Citadel is in a set of long-abandoned tunnels, located beneath an Affka den in the Bath District of Ankara. Hakim believes there is almost certainly a secondary entrance, utilized by the Winged Disciples, but you and your party will have to go trudge and battle your way through the decrepit tunnels.

Quest Class: Ultra-Rare, Secret

Quest Difficulty: Death-Head

Success: Uncover the Cult of Arzokh Citadel and retrieve the Belt of the Jade Lord.

Failure: This is a Death-Head Quest; if you die at any point before completing the objective, you automatically fail and the quest chain will forever be closed to you!

Reward: The Belt of the Jade Lord; Final Clue for the Amulet of the Jade Lord; 40,000 EXP.

∞∞∞

I smiled as I read over the updates.

Inch by inch, we were making progress, but as I read over the quest update, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of unease in my gut. This was definitely the most difficult quest I’d ever faced and the complications kept mounting. I mean, sure, we finally had the location of the Citadel, but my first complete day was almost gone and we still didn’t have the second quest item. And now? Now we had to find this Affka den—whatever that was—and battle our way through an underground labyrinth to locate the cultists. This wasn’t like the easy hack and slash missions I’d faced earlier on, and the pressure was weighing on me.

Abby patted me on the shoulder, sensing my mood. “Whatever it is,” she said with a rueful grin, “try not to think about it too much. Not tonight, anyway.” She paused and stole a sidelong glance at me. “Come on, I’ve got something I think will cheer you up.” She dragged me back into the main hall, up the stairs to one of the balconies, then through a door which led deeper into the Lucky Rooster. Instead of a room, I found myself in a short hallway lined with more doors, each numbered.

Guest quarters.

Abby kept walking, though, pulling me toward a door at the end of the hall, which let out into a small courtyard framed by sandstone walls. It was an open-air atrium, filled with lush greenery and a riot of blooming flowers in giant ceramic pots. Above us, the stars smiled down, twinkling in a cloudless sky. Someone—Hakim, or his lackeys more likely—had erected a large table, loaded down with food and drink of every assortment: slabs of beef, chunks of seared lamb, thick pita bread, bowls of spicy stew with thick brown gravy. And that was only the tip of the food-iceberg. There were also cakes, pies, and plates piled with chocolate.

Not to mention all the hooch. Honey Mead. Copper Ale. Even Law-jiu, from the Storme Marshes.

A small fire in the middle of the courtyard burned merrily in a stone-ringed pit; all around it were my friends. Cutter, Amara, Forge, Vlad. They looked happy—huge smiles as they laughed and joked, as they ate, drank, and mingled. Even Amara, who perpetually had a stick lodged up her backside, appeared to be enjoying herself. The conversation faltered as Abby and I stepped into the wavering firelight, followed by a round of drunken cheers and raised glasses, sloshing over the brim with mead.

“The man of the bloody hour,” Cutter slurred drunkenly, before issuing an eye-watering belch. “Our fearless leader. Somebody get this man a drink. The sod deserves a bathtub full of mead.”

I was hesitant at first, feeling annoyed and tired, ready to call it quits for the night and hit the hay, but then Abby pulled me close, her lips brushing against my ear.

“You need this, Jack. We all do. Here’s the thing. We’ve been so worried about taking care of the faction, about dealing with Osmark, about all these crazy quests, that we’ve forgotten to have fun. To live life. I know things are tough right now, but we can’t forget what we’re fighting for, Jack. It’s this”—she swept a hand around—“the right to live in peace. To do the things that make us happy. To spend time with friends eating good food, drinking a little too much, and laughing late into the night. After everything that’s happened … Well, I thought we could all use a reminder of why we’re doing this. Why it’s worth it. So please, try to relax. For me, okay?”

Reluctantly, I nodded.

In a blur, I found myself in front of the fire, Abby on my left, Forge on my right, while Vlad shoved a hefty stein of golden mead into my hands and the party resumed. I killed the first glass of mead in a few gulps and quickly downed another, feeling a pleasant warmth spread out from my belly, suffusing my limbs and simultaneously loosening the tight ball of dread in my chest. Maybe Abby was right. Maybe we had been too preoccupied lately. With a few drinks in me, I grabbed a plate heaped with food and bulldozed my way through dish after dish while everyone talked and laughed and joked.

At some point, Forge whipped out a guitar—more of a bard’s lute, really, but tomato, tomahto—and played some classic country songs while Cutter juggled a host of gleaming black blades for our entertainment.

The food and booze continued to flow, and after a few hours, everyone settled down around the fire, sprawling out on fanciful Persian rugs with thick, plush pillows. I plopped down, legs sprawled out in front of me, leaning back on my hands as I watched the fire dancing against the dark. Abby lay down, head resting on my thigh, staring up at the stars with her hands folded on her chest. “What do you miss the most about home?” she asked absently. “We’ve been so busy putting out one fire after another, there hasn’t been a lot of time to process what happened, you know?”

I nodded. “Honestly,” I said after a second, “I miss the ocean. I used to go down to Mission Beach a couple of times a week, even in the winter when it was too cold to get in the water. I’d walk in the surf by myself. Just smell the salt in the air and watch the waves crash against the sand.”

“I miss home-cooked Russian food,” Vlad offered morosely from across the fire. “The food here … It is passable, but what I wouldn’t give for a bowl of authentic borsht.” He grimaced and looked up. “It is beet stew, bright red, and filled with meat, potatoes, and a healthy scoop of smetana. Oh”—he moaned softly, lips puckered—“you dip a bit of rye bread in. It is heaven. Heaven. The food here, it is good. But made for Western tastes, I think.”

“That’s really what you miss the most?” I asked with an arched eyebrow. “Beet soup?”

“Da. And a glass of kvass on the side.”

“You know what I miss?” Forge said, still fiddling with the lute. “Just about everything. I miss my truck—big ol’ lifted, cherry-red Ford. I miss catching a Sunday football game and tailgate parties. I miss going down to the stock show. There was this rib joint, called the Greasy Spoon, served the meanest pulled-pork sandwich I’ve ever tasted. Hell, ’bout the only thing I don’t miss is the traffic heading into Austin. Bumper-to-bumper bullshit all down the 35.”

He paused and took a long pull of mead, gaze distant. “The thing I miss most of all? My girlfriend, Candice. She might be in here somewhere, Eldgard I mean. She was gonna make the jump, or try to, anyway.” He faltered, glanced down, and shook his head. “I don’t know what happened, though. Not exactly a search roster, and Eldgard’s a big damned place. I’ve posted letters on the personal message boards”—he frowned and shrugged—“but nothing so far. I can’t stop lookin’, but part of me thinks she’s gone. Dead.”

Everyone was quiet for a time. Thinking about the people we’d left behind, those we’d lost to the transition or the asteroid.

“I miss my parents,” Abby said with a sniffle. “My dad didn’t even make it to the end, which is a blessing I guess. Large cell lung cancer got him about six months before …” She trailed off, refusing to speak the words. “I was so busy working I didn’t see it until it was too late. He didn’t tell me he was dying. Not Dad. He tried to get me to go out fishing with him, though. I remember he called a couple of times—said he wanted to get down to the lake. I blew him off. Too busy. If I could change anything, it would be that. I’d go back and spend more time with him.”

“I have a question,” Amara said after a time, interrupting our nostalgia-fest. “I want to know what happened. We natives”—she hooked a thumb toward Cutter, sitting nearby—“we’ve heard there was a cataclysm that drove you all to our realm. That your kind found a way to open a rift to Eldgard from some fantastical place. Yet, it is a thing we do not talk about. It makes travelers uneasy, but I want to know. Where do you come from, truly? What brought your kind here?”

Vlad, Abby, Forge, and I shared uneasy looks, not sure what to say or how to say it. We knew the NPCs were not simple computer scripts—they were definitely something more, but they weren’t human and their world wasn’t what they thought.

“Well, you’re right,” Abby said carefully. “We did travel here through a type of magic gateway, one that allowed us to move between the realms. The realm we come from is called Earth, which is a giant place with billions of people. Or at least there were billions of people. Something bad happened. A giant burning rock fell from the sky. It marked the end of our world. The way our world was, anyway. Some people survived, but most people died. Unless they came here, and even some of those people died. Their bodies, their minds, couldn’t handle the change.”

“This Earth,” Cutter said, his mouth tasting the strange word, “what was it like? Is Eldgard really so different?”

Forge whistled. “Oh, it’s a different kinda place, that’s for sure. It’s big—giant, even—and we had all kinds of things. Cities a hundred times larger than Ankara, with buildings made outta metal and glass that damn near scraped the sky. There was one city, New York, nine million people lived in that one city alone. We had cars and planes, cellphones and TVs.” He sounded wistful by the end.

“No magic, though,” I added. “There was a lot of technology this world doesn’t have, but no magic there. No spells. No monsters—except the human kind. It made less sense, too. I mean here, everything is part of a story. Quests give meaning, everything has a place and a purpose. Even monsters and dungeons fit. Things didn’t always make sense back on Earth. Bad things happened and there was no monster to slay, no quest to set things right. You just suffered and tried to pick the pieces up.”

“Sounds like a sad place, your world,” Amara said eventually.

“It was,” I replied, bowing my head and staring into my palms. “It was still ours, though. But enough of that,” I said, clearing my throat and gaining my feet. “This is supposed to be a party, a celebration of second chances. So, let’s celebrate. Who needs another round?”

We drank and talked for a bit longer after that, then around 2:30 in the morning, I finally drifted off as the fire dwindled and burned low, leaving only cherry-red embers and a blanket of gray coals behind.

TWENTY-ONE:

The Knobby Knee

I groaned and cracked open bleary eyes as someone nudged me in the ribs with the toe of a boot. “Time to get this show on the road, friend,” Cutter said. My head throbbed with dull pain and the light jabbed at my eyeballs like an army of needles. Though not a violent person by nature, I really wanted to punch him in the nose. I mean it couldn’t be time to go already—it felt like I’d closed my eyes two minutes ago. I pulled up my interface and checked the time. 7:05 AM. God that was early. Too early. I pressed my eyes shut, rolled onto my side, and draped an arm over my face to block out the warm morning light already flooding into the open-air atrium.

“Oh no you don’t,” Cutter said, this time giving me a much firmer nudge with his boot. “If I don’t get to sleep, you don’t either. Abby and Amara are already scurrying about, getting ready to leave, and if you don’t wake up, it’ll be my bloody neck. So up you get, or I’ll start nudging you with the tip of my blade, Jack.”

I sighed, resigned, and flipped onto my back, glaring up at him from the floor, my head still pulsing.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he replied with a cocked eyebrow and an indifferent shrug. “If it were up to me, we wouldn’t leave before noon. Abby, though, seems to be under the impression that you’ve only got about four hours before your first Death-Head debuff kicks you in the teeth like an unruly packhorse, so she thought we should be moving early.”

I groaned and pulled up my Active Effects screen. Sure enough, just under four hours until the Diseased debuff took hold. Even more shocking, however, was the other active debuff currently working against me:

∞∞∞

Current Debuffs

Death-Head Mode: You’ve temporarily activated Death-Head Mode! Time until the Diseased debuff takes effect: 3 hours 39 minutes 19 seconds.

Hangover: You drank too much and slept too little; as a result, you have a hangover. Mild confusion and disorientation; duration, 1 hour. Mild head pain and light sensitivity; duration, 3 hours.

∞∞∞

That was great. Just perfect.

In less than four hours—and with a major boss battle looming right around the corner—the game was going to hit me with a bushel of crippling effects. The Diseased debuff came with a 15% drop in Attack Damage and Spell Strength, plus an additional 25% reduction in Health, Stamina, and Spirit Regeneration. And until then? Well, until then I had a hangover. For the thousandth time, I wondered what kind of twisted, demented jerk would purposely add a feature like that. I mean, the Devs of VGO literally had the option to create the world to their liking, and some Troll still thought it was funny to include hangovers.

Cutter offered me a hand, which I begrudgingly accepted, and pulled me to my feet. The rush of blood to my head was painful and left me wobbling unsteadily for a second, again cursing the Dev responsible for my plight. Once the ground stopped reeling, I headed over to the banquet table from the night before. It was still loaded down with food. If there was one thing I knew, it was that food was always good for a hangover—particularly in VGO, where eating could cure just about anything. A plate full of flatbread Kabis, piled with meat and veggies, took care of my gnawing hunger. And someone had been thoughtful enough to bring out a pot of Western Brew, so a giant mug of steaming rich coffee took care of my attitude.

By the time I was done munching and drinking, the rest of the party was ready to step out, even if not everyone was quite as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as Abby and Amara. Cutter was sullen and pale. Forge sported huge bags under his eyes and was diligently nursing a mug of coffee as big as a beer stein. And Vlad? Poor Vlad looked like a disgruntled hobo rudely kicked away by a passing cop: his clothes rumpled, his hair matted, his skin waxy. Yeah, everyone had overdone things the night before and we were all paying the price. Still, hungover or not, the quest was the quest, and we needed to go.

After only a little prodding by Abby and Amara, we left the Rooster behind, heading for an Affka den called the Knobby Knee in the Bath District.

Ankara was, without a doubt, the most beautiful city I’d seen in Eldgard, but conversely, the Bath District of Ankara was the grossest place I’d seen. Apparently, Ankara was a metropolis of extremes. The streets in the Bath District were cramped, narrow things made of cracked hardpan instead of sandstone, and littered with rubble, mud, and fluttering pieces of cloth. The people, all Accipiter, were more often than not dirt-caked, their hair greasy, their eyes hollow, their feathers molting and dull. There were a handful of vendors, selling questionable looking bread and even more questionable meat, but no real merchants.

Nothing like in the other sections of the city.

Eventually, we took to the foul back alleys in an attempt to avoid the claustrophobic thoroughfares and the press of unwashed bodies. We made better time, but instead of dirty Accipiter, we had to contend with rank puddles of fetid water, mangy dogs, and scampering rats almost as big as the pooches. After half an hour, we finally ducked onto a nearly empty street, cloaked in constant shade by the neighboring buildings. It wasn’t hard to tell why the street was empty: the whole place reeked like the inside of a dumpster behind a sushi bar.

This was the heart of the Bath District, so named because you needed a serious bath to scrub away the stink. According to Cutter, the runoff from the tannery, the stockyards, and the sewer ways all converged in a central pipeline running beneath this street. The place we’d come to find was a crude three-story building of mud and straw, its walls leaning drunkenly, the white plaster cracked or crumbling, the yawning windows covered with fluttering, sun-faded curtains instead of glass. A pair of grimy, rough-edged Accipiter in dark leathers loitered out front—a threat to warn away anyone who didn’t have business here.

Unfortunately, we did have business.

We beelined across the street, and for a second I thought the surly guards would give us a hard time, but one nasty glare from Forge, combined with a cold and feral grin from Amara, saw us through without a hitch. The inside of the Knobby Knee was even worse than the outside suggested and left me feeling supremely uncomfortable. It was dim and poorly lit, the walls were cracked and pockmarked, and a thick cloud of cloying blue-gray smoke hung in the air. Even a faint whiff of the acrid smoke left my head foggy and my stomach queasy. There wasn’t much by way of furniture. Just giant dirty Persian-style rugs strewn all over the crude mud floors.

Men and women—filthy, rail thin, and sickly pale—lounged on the rugs, leaning against fraying pillows as they inhaled the stale smoke from bulky glass hookahs with a host of tubes snaking off each one like rubbery spider legs. The whole scene was deeply disturbing. And more so because even at a glance it was obvious these people weren’t smoking tobacco. Not with those glazed and glassy eyes. Not with their skin paper thin. Not with those gaunt cheeks. This place was some sort of opium den, and these people were addicts.

I’d worked as an EMT for long enough to know all the signs.

As with the hangover debuff, the existence of a place like this shook my faith in the whole system. Why make this? Sure, it added an extra layer of submersion and reality to the gaming experience, but was that worth it? Then I reminded myself that Robert Osmark had known about the asteroid long before the general public. He’d always planned to turn VGO into a new feudal system with him at the helm, and I couldn’t help but wonder if this was part of the scheme, too. Had he allowed a place like this to exist as a means to placate and control the serfs in his new kingdom?

It felt horribly cynical to think that way, but after talking with Osmark, I wouldn’t put it past him. Not after hearing his disdain for the average person and the length he was willing to go to achieve his goals. I glanced at Abby and saw the same disgust and uncertainty on her face.

We headed deeper into the building, leaving behind the glassy-eyed addicts as we passed through a curtain made of polished bits of colorful glass. On the other side was a plush office, hugely at odds with the rest of the building: sandstone floors, crystal walls, lush carpets, and elaborate tapestries. Even an immaculate chandelier hung suspended overhead. A prim Accipiter woman with chestnut eyes and a mass of auburn hair sat behind a sprawling crystal desk with a bulky Risi bodyguard flanking her on either side. And those guards looked like they meant serious business.

With their steel plate mail and beefy axes, both looked like a match for Forge, and I hoped this wouldn’t devolve into a fight.

The woman smiled, a frosty thing showing too many teeth, and stared at us over steepled fingers. “Now what is this we have here?” she purred, her voice equal parts smoky and sultry. “You lot aren’t our typical clientele, and you’re outsiders to boot.” She leaned forward, lips drawing down into a frown. “Should I be worried?”

“You should be worried for your soul,” Amara replied with a dismissive sniff before I could speak. “Peddling Affka in the Storme Marshes is a good way to find yourself exiled.” Her glare was as cutting as a razor blade. “Or dead.”

“Well,” the woman said, shrugging one shoulder, “it’s a good thing we’re not in the Storme Marshes, then, isn’t it? And here in Ankara the Affka trade is entirely legal and embraced by the Merchant Council and King Ibrahim himself.”

“I hear King Ibrahim’s love for Affka is the reason some people call him the Mad King,” Cutter replied offhandedly, casually surveying the room—no doubt casing it for valuables to steal.

The woman thumbed her nose and shrugged again. “I couldn’t say. And, word to the wise: if I were you, I wouldn’t say such things where anyone more reputable might overhear. In Ankara, peddling Affka is legal, but speaking ill of the Merchant King certainly isn’t. Now, let me ask again. Should I be worried by your presence in my humble shop?”

“No,” I said, before shooting Cutter and Amara hard, please shut up now stares. “We were referred here by Hakim, from the Lucky Rooster. He told me you could help us find the entrance to a set of old tunnels that might lead to the Citadel of Arzokh.”

“Ah,” she replied, leaning back and visibly relaxing. “So you’re the daring band of adventurers responsible for robbing Yusuf. Quite the extraordinary tale. And made all the better since no one likes old Yusuf—an insufferable moron.” She paused, uncrossed long sleek legs, then carefully recrossed them. “Well, needless to say, you won’t find any opposition from me. My name is Ekrin, and I am but a lowly businesswoman, offering a necessary, even if distasteful, service to the fine people of Ankara.

“And yes, I can point you in the right direction—especially since you’re friends of Hakim’s.” Ekrin hesitated, on the verge of saying something. “Since you are guests here, seeking my aid,” she finally said, “I will be so bold as to ask what your purpose with the Winged Disciples is. Few know about the Cult of Arzokh, and none have ever sought them out—not in all the years I’ve owned the Knobby Knee. Frankly, I’m surprised that a party such as yours would have any interest in a monastic order.”

“They have some information we need,” Abby replied coolly, without giving away much.

“Well …” Ekrin paused again, chewing on her lip. “I’ll show you the way, of course. Just one thing before we go. The Winged Disciples … They are a godsend to the people of this city. Especially to the poor—to the overlooked and downtrodden. And the high priestess, Elanor, she is a good woman. I understand a recommendation from me may mean little, but you should know that.”

Her comment didn’t make much sense to me. I mean, the Winged Disciples were Dragon-worshiping crazies, hiding out in an underground bunker no less. Still, Ekrin seemed mollified by our silence, so I didn’t push her to elaborate.

“Well, why don’t you follow me,” she said, standing, then adjusting a pristine toga, fidgeting until her robe lay just so. After a few seconds, she nodded, satisfied, and ushered us from the room to a small set of stairs that dipped into a dank basement, lit by a few wall-mounted torches. “Originally, this building was owned by the Ankara Sewer Union,” she said offhandedly, stealing a quick glance over one shoulder as we made our way deeper and deeper. “A headquarters of sorts for their operations.”

“Great, more disgusting sewers,” I muttered, thinking back to my time trudging around in the knee-deep, fetid muck flowing below Rowanheath.

“Not really,” she replied. “That was ages ago, long before the Merchant Council put in the junction for the tannery. True, these stairs do connect to an ancient section of sewer—almost as old as the city itself—but after the junction went in, everything got rerouted. This portion of the tunnel is no longer in use, and as a result, this building”—she swept a hand around the dim hallway—“became essentially useless. Which is when I swooped in and snatched it up for a handful of silver.

“And that is good news for you lot because it means no unpleasant mess to wade through,” she continued. “Now, you’re going to take the main tunnel straight for about two hundred yards, and then you’ll see a ragged hole gouged into the wall. It connects to a sandstone passageway, and that’s what you’re looking for. That passage leads to a series of natural tunnels, which used to be the den of a great Sand Wyrm, back a thousand years ago before the first King of Ankara slew the creature. I’ve never been to the Citadel myself—it wouldn’t be proper, being what I am—but it’s down there somewhere. Be warned, though, it’s a regular labyrinth.” She turned, regarding us coolly. “And it’s not empty.”

“Can you tell us how long we should expect the trip to take?” Abby asked, professional to her core.

“My apologies, but no,” Ekrin replied. “You couldn’t pay me enough to go wandering down there—not even with my bodyguards, Marcus and Mert, in tow. Ah.” She paused as we came to a creaky wooden door, bent and warped from age and studded with rusty iron rivets. Nothing grand or fancy, just a practical door, built for a practical job. “This is where I’ll leave you fine folk. I wish you the best”—she paused, lips pursed, forehead furrowed in worry—“and I also wish you failure. As I said, Elanor, the Priestess, is something of a friend and I would hate to see harm come to her. And you? You all seem like a group ready unleash great harm.”

Her remarks left our group in an uncertain and somber mood as we headed into the thankfully dry sewer, built from time-worn sandstone blocks like most things in Ankara. It only took us a few uneventful minutes to locate the yawning hole Ekrin had mentioned. “Alright,” I said, drawing my warhammer in a white-knuckled grip. “Let’s go grind some monsters and find that belt.”

TWENTY-TWO:

Grind it Down

“Incoming!” Forge hollered, planting his feet and raising his battle-axe as another swarm of murderous insects scuttled toward us.

A [Boar-Beetle]—an armor-plated cockroach the size of a small car, with a thick bony shield for a head and a formidable set of tusks—led the charge, pushed on by a swarm of [Sand Wyrm Larvae]. Though “Larva” was a deceptive term. Each had a fleshy pink body as large as a rottweiler, was covered in poison-tipped quills, and squirmed along on hundreds of stubby legs all working in concert. Behind them, loitering in the back, stood the [Scarab Shamans]: strangely intelligent bipedal creatures with black chitinous armor, burning orange eyes, flesh-rending mandibles, and sword blade arms.

The spiders of Hellwood Hollow were gross, no question, but they couldn’t hold a candle to the critters living in this underground warren. Absolute nightmare fuel delivered straight from the mind of a truly depraved Dev who needed some serious psychiatric help. Still, after three hours of constant battles, and grinding through wave after wave of oversized multilegged cannon fodder, we had killing these suckers down to a science.

Abby threw her hands forward, spirals of golden magic twisting around her limbs as a trio of flaming pythons exploded from her palms and landed on the floor with a soft thump. The fire-serpents—mindless, conjured minions that lasted five minutes—were nine feet long and moved like oil on water. In seconds, they disappeared into the scuttling legs of the seething horde, completely lost from sight, though the inhuman screeches of dying Larvae and bursts of flame, followed by curls of smoke rising into the air, told me they were working hard.

“Deploying firewalls,” Abby hollered as flames erupted from the floor ten feet in front of me. Two barriers of dancing firelight—burning with the blistering heat of a falling star—created a V with a small gap right in the center: an artificial bottleneck in the middle of the tunnel, funneling the bugs into a single choke point. And standing at that choke point, with his axe raised and a malicious snarl on his face, was Forge. The bugs were powerful, true, but their greatest strength lay in their numbers, and Abby’s simple firewalls forced the endless swarm to face our tank head-on. One at a time.

Forge drew aggro—absorbing the big, brutal hits like a champ—which allowed the rest of us to do what we did best without the fear of being overwhelmed by their sheer numbers. Abby held the flame walls—an enormous effort that took her entire focus. Vlad tossed brutally effective Alchemic Orbs over the flame walls. Nikko scampered along the ceiling, hurling more of Vlad’s impromptu hand grenades into the packed crowd of horrors, sowing chaos and confusion, then poofing into the Shadowverse, only to appear someplace else an eyeblink later.

Meanwhile, Amara launched volley after volley of obsidian-tipped arrows into the swarm. She was a preternaturally good shot and somehow, almost impossibly, each arrow found a mark—an eye, a mouth, a fleshy head—often killing outright, or maiming terribly.

Cutter, who stuck close behind Forge, darted into the open just long enough to hurl a fan of conjured blades, which sliced through exposed limbs and sunk into armored torsos and ugly, multi-eyed faces. One of the bulbous Larvae attempted to skirt around Forge, who was locked in battle against the titanic Boar-Beetle, but Cutter was there in an instant. The thief lodged one black-bladed dagger into its vulnerable maw, slashed its throat with the other, then planted a boot on its face, forcing the overgrown slug back.

Truthfully, the strategy was classic MMO. Nothing glamorous in it, not really, but it was brutal, effective, and kept everyone safe. No one played the hero, everyone did their part, and the bugs fell like dominos.

And speaking of playing the part—now it was time to do mine.

First, came Crowd Control and AOE spells.

We’d fought so many mobs over the last two hours, my hands practically flew through the motions on their own. Left palm forward as I summoned Umbra Bog: inky tendrils of power bled from the floor and walls, snaring the Larvae jostling for a frontline position. Then, without even a pause, my hand zipped through the complex gestures needed for Plague Burst. Flick, twirl, snap, fingers splayed out, hand curling into a fist as I summoned the deadly yellow fog right smack-dab in the middle of the insect swarm. Some of the Larvae possessed a degree of plague and disease resistance, but some were not all.

Nearly a fifth of the bugs squealed and shrieked in protest—their bodies writhing, their limbs flailing, their mandibles clacking—as they choked and died. In seconds the cloud dissipated and I moved, triggering Shadow Stride, calmly stepping into the Shadowverse as I’d done so many times before. I took a second to savor and appreciate the blissful quiet and frozen peace. This dungeon system had been the grind to end all grinds—monster after monster after monster—so even a forty-second break was a relief. I stepped directly through Cutter and Forge, then carved my way through the mass of minion bugs, back to the bipedal Scarab Shamans.

They were the real enemy.

Up close, they boasted some powerful physical attacks and could spit acid, but their real threat was as clerics for the horde. They could heal injured insects, and even worse, revive them completely. Even one lone Shaman, left unchecked, could raise the entire swarm back to life in a matter of minutes. This group had four Shamans, on top of another creature I’d never seen before: a horrifying new bug, nine feet long, covered in hard gray chitin, that looked one part centipede one part scorpion, one hundred percent horror-movie superstar.

A brief description appeared over its head before vanishing. [Armored Protector].

Briefly, I considered going after the newcomer first but finally decided against it. As deadly as that thing looked, the Scarabs needed to go to win this battle.

I maneuvered over to the left-hand wall, ensuring there were at least two Shamans and a handful of Larvae between the Protector and me, dropped into a crouch, raised my hammer, and stepped back into the Material Plane. I was a shadow, a specter, and a black-plated Shaman didn’t notice me until my hammer smashed into the back of its nubby, armor-plated head. The spike, protruding from the back of my weapon, penetrated like a hot knife through a pad of butter.

Green, acidic goo spurted on impact, and the Shaman dropped, dead before it hit the ground.

My appearance might have gone unnoticed, but that Shaman’s abrupt death didn’t. The other Scarabs swiveled toward me, almost as one, their droning, unintelligible voices warbling in anger and outrage. That was okay, though. I was more than ready. I threw one hand out, unleashing a wrist-thick javelin of Umbra Flame. The purple fire wasn’t neat, clean, or precise like my Umbra Bolt. No, it was more like an unruly flamethrower: perfect for dealing out wholesale slaughter for a short time over a short distance.

And it worked extremely well.

Waves of shadow fire washed over two of the three remaining Shamans and splashed onto the back row of Larvae, setting the whole lot of them ablaze. Chitinous armor cracked under the intense heat and thick plumes of steam burbled out as the creatures within cooked alive like prawns thrown into a pot of boiling water. It was a legitimately terrible way to go, even for a bunch of randomly generated dungeon monsters, and a small part of me wondered if they could feel the pain in the same way I could. That same small part of me fervently hoped not.

In the end, though, I shoved the thought away because I didn’t really want to know.

The Umbra Flame ate through my Spirit at an alarming rate—after only eight seconds, I was uncomfortably close to zero, so I cut the spell off, taking a second to survey the battlefield as I downed a Spirit Regen potion. A ring of charred and burning bodies stretched out in front of me for a solid eight feet, and only one of the original four Shamans remained. A quick glance around the tunnel revealed a field of dead and dying Larvae—some burnt, others cleaved in two, still more peppered with arrows or conjured obsidian blades—with only a few pockets of resistance remaining. Almost in the clear.

That could all change in seconds, though, if I didn’t end that last Shaman.

The only problem was the Armored Protector blocking my path, scuttling toward me with hate in its multitude of beady red eyes. But I was no beginner, no lowbie—not anymore. This thing was scary, true, but I was scary too. With a shout, I charged, using my superior movement speed to duck below a pair of thrusting jaws, then sidestep an incoming scythe-blade arm. I juked left and weaved right, twirling my hammer in a tight arc and smashing the creature across its armored face with a crack. One mandible snapped free, accompanied by a spray of neon-green blood.

The blow didn’t knock off more than a fraction of its overall HP, but the centipede-horror staggered left from the force of the impact, giving me a small opening to do even greater damage.

I charged again, thrusting the spike on top of my warhammer into its face, skewering it through one eye, and pushing it back with brute strength. Then, as it wriggled on the end of my hammer, fighting to break free as its many legs clawed fruitlessly at the air, I summoned a new wave of Umbra Flame and roasted the stomach-churning bug like a hotdog over a roaring campfire. It was down to nearly 50% Health when a lightning bolt of white-hot agony struck, frying my nerve endings in an instant; my Umbra Fire dwindled and died as I dropped to the floor, doubled over, clenching my stomach.

It felt like there was a wildfire rampaging through my whole body, burning down everything in its wake. A prompt flashed:

∞∞∞

Debuff Added

Diseased: As a result of the Death-Head Mode, your body is slowly dying! You’ve been afflicted with Death Head’s Disease. Attack Damage and Spell Strength reduced by 15%; Health, Stamina, and Spirit Regeneration reduced by 25%; duration, until death or quest completion.

∞∞∞

Excellent—as if I didn’t already have enough on my plate.

Fortunately, the pain receded almost as fast as it had hit. Unfortunately, the temporary distraction had cost me in battlefield advantage: the hideous Protector now loomed over me, its jaws yawning, its mouth ringed with nasty undulating spikes. It regarded me for a second, a clicking hiss growing in its throat, then launched a giant wad of green phlegm directly into my face. I shot one arm out, batting at the ball, but that only splattered the viscous substance along my hand and into my eyes.

I screamed again as my right eye went black and the other blurred, making it almost impossible to see, while a sharp, biting pain worked its way through my skin. That earned me another notice:

∞∞∞

Debuffs Added

Acid Burn: You have been acid burned! 7 pts Acid Damage; duration, 25 seconds.

Partial Blindness: Vision reduced by 79%; duration, 1 minute.

∞∞∞

The agony was an enormous living thing, but I fought and flailed all the same, lashing out with my hammer in one hand and bursts of Umbra Bolt with the other, hoping—praying, really—to hit something. Anything. My hammer landed with a wet thunk, followed by a high-pitched squee as the dark shadow hanging above me retreated out of sight. Driven away for the time being, though certainly not dead. I scrambled to my feet and lurched away, but only a step. A giant set of insectile jaws immediately wrapped around my left foot and clamped down on my ankle like a vise grip.

With a sharp tug, the creature jerked me from my feet, sending me back to the floor. Panicked, I glanced down, and even with badly blurred vision, it wasn’t hard to make out the centipedal Protector with its mouth engulfing my boot. I screamed again, this time for help, as I kicked at its face with my other foot, hoping to dislodge it.

It was a useless effort.

The Protector absorbed my kicks like an implacable brick wall while slowly sliding its jaws inch by inch up my leg—first to my calf, then all the way to the base of my kneecap. Spikes lined its gullet, sinking through my leather armor, kneading into my flesh as it moved. Holy crap. This thing was eating me, and even worse, my skin was burning as acid soaked through the punctures in my reinforced leather leggings. Not just eating me, then—dissolving me. And there wasn’t anything I could do. I couldn’t effectively swing my warhammer and I couldn’t use Umbra Flame without the risk of setting myself on fire, too.

Still, no matter how bad it looked, I wasn’t about to call it quits. I leaned forward with a grimace and bashed at the Protector’s beady eyes with the spiked edge of my battle vambraces, activating Black Caress over and over again. Slowly chewing away at its HP while absorbing a fraction of its life in return.

But it just kept moving. Eating. Another chomp brought the Protector’s mouth up past my knee, all the way to mid-thigh—

If I didn’t do something soon, it was going to saw through my leg entirely and then I’d be done for. The flashing blade of a battle-axe saved me the trouble, though. One second I was struggling against the Protector, beating at it with my spiked gauntlet. The next, the pressure around my leg slacked and vanished as a gore-soaked Forge appeared, his weapon planted firmly into the base of the Protector’s neck. I let out a shuddering sigh—I’d never been more happy to see someone in my entire life. With the immediate danger past, I turned my bleary gaze on the tunnel, expecting to see more Larvae flooding toward us.

But there were none. The insect horde lay dead. All of them smashed, hacked, or burned into little pieces.

“Forge? Jack?” Abby called out. “You guys okay?”

“Yeah, we’re alright,” Forge replied with a holler. “This nasty sumbitch just about took off one of Jack’s legs, but I think he’ll recover.” He grinned, shot me a wink, then dropped to a knee and helped me wriggle the Protector’s mouth and gullet free from my leg. “Seriously, though, you okay, Boss?” he asked me in a whisper, eyeing the multitude of lacerations and the green acid staining my trousers.

“I’ve been better, but I’ll live,” I replied, extending him a hand.

He stood and pulled me to my feet with a heave, a giant grin breaking out across the sharp angles of his face. “Hell yeah, Jack. Get some.”

The rest of the party was busy rummaging through the corpses, which dropped some serious loot. No shoddy beginners’ gear, slated for the scrap heap. Nope. Not in this dungeon. Each bug carried rare chitin, a handful of coins—silver or gold, never copper—and usually at least one item. A gleaming dagger with a +2 Dexterity boost here, a Belt of Troll Might with a +3 Strength bonus there. None of it was rare, but all of it would either fetch a decent price with the Merchants or go right into the faction vault.

Our influx of new members never ceased, and getting quality gear for lowbies was always an issue.

It took another five minutes to finish looting the bodies, which gave me time to tell the rest of the party about the Diseased debuff, then we headed on, ever deeper into the warren of passages. Thirty minutes—and a small army worth of Sand Wyrm Larvae, Boar-Beetles, Scarab Shamans, and Armored Protectors—later, we reached an ancient stone doorway set into the yellowing skull of a long-dead dragon.

Directly in the center of the door, surrounded by a ring of electric-green runes pulsing with eerie life, was a handprint. I’d seen something like this once before, during my raid on Gentleman Georgie’s underground laboratory. This door was a port-hub: a custom transport artifact that allowed a dungeon’s final room to be perfectly tailored to unique players and quests. Port-hubs made it possible for an infinite number of potential “Boss Rooms” to exist at the end of any particular location. And from what little I’d found about them on the game wikis, they were rare and only used for most challenging or unique quest lines.

With a gulp, I pushed my hand against the palm print carved into the stone.

Heat exploded beneath my skin as a flare of iridescent light enveloped me and the world spun and vanished, replaced by a chaotic swirl of color and a beating wind.

TWENTY-THREE:

Sky Maiden’s Tale

The quiet hum of thoughtful chanting resonated in the air as my feet touched down on rough stone. It was a sweet melodic sound, which reminded me more of a Buddhist temple than the stronghold of a bloodthirsty cult ready and waiting to summon a murder-demon. Smells came next: sandalwood smoke—a hint of vanilla sweetness dancing with a musky cedar—and the pungent aroma of freshly turned earth and smoldering campfire logs. I kept my eyes shut tight, waiting for the wave of vertigo to pass as I wobbled drunkenly.

After a few deep breaths, the nausea faded, the room stopped spinning, and I could finally open my eyes.

I stole a quick look left and right, double-checking to make sure the rest of the party had made it through in one piece. A quick head count put me at ease. We’d all made the jump, though everyone—except Forge and Nikko—seemed to be reeling from the effects of the port skip. “Everyone okay?” I asked in a harsh whisper, receiving a muted round of yeses and a few thumbs-ups in reply.

I gave everyone a few more seconds to recover before trudging on down a narrow hallway fashioned to resemble the bone-lined throat of a great dragon. The hallway dipped and turned, but eventually terminated at a cavernous room with a dragon’s spinal column running down the center of the ceiling, just like in the vision I’d received back at the Dark Conclave. The walls were fashioned from intricately carved sandstone, but support beams also dotted the walls at regular intervals, built from curved rib bones as thick as telephone poles. Dragon bones.

I was struck by a powerful sense of déjà vu as I surveyed the room: there was a small library off to the left and glass-fronted cases marching off in a line on the right. My gaze lingered on those cases—more specifically on the wide array of rune-worked weapons and trinkets on display. Good, good loot. The wooden benches, more like traditional church pews than anything else, filled most of the hall, but this time, those benches were filled with cultists. Most were Accipiter—though, surprisingly, there were a few Wodes and even a pair of burly Dwarves—and all were decked out in tight-fitting brown leather armor studded with spiky ridges of yellow bone and plates of red, overlapping scales.

Wow. Honest-to-goodness Dragon Armor. Now, I was content with my Night-Blessed Armor—it was perfectly tailored for a Shadowmancer and had served me well—but I couldn’t wait to get my hands on that gear. Worst-case scenario, I could break the weapons and armor down using our new Salvage faction ability, then hopefully use the dragon bones and scales to upgrade my current items. I could dream, anyway.

I pushed the greedy thoughts away as the chanting stopped and the high priestess, standing at the front of the chamber, fell silent. She was an Accipiter—the great golden wings protruding from her back were a dead giveaway—with coppery skin, a sheet of raven hair, and dark, thoughtful eyes. Unlike the rest of the cultists present, she wore flowing robes of metallic green decorated with elaborate designs woven from golden thread; most importantly, around her waist sat the Jade Lord’s Belt. She regarded our party serenely from behind a wooden pulpit carved and sculpted to resemble a sinuous dragon.

I steeled myself, ready for the fighting to begin in earnest.

I was quite surprised when the Priestess broke out in a wide smile, her teeth brilliantly white against her dark skin. “It’s been a long time since we had visitors to our Citadel,” she said, her voice rich and inviting. “So long as you come with peace in your hearts, you are welcome in this place.”

That, now, was unexpected.

I reached up and pushed back my hood, revealing the Crown of the Jade Lord. “We’re just here for the belt,” I said, stowing my warhammer and raising my hands skyward, trying to placate her, though I couldn’t help but eye the length of scale-covered leather wrapped around her waist. “Once we have that, we’ll be on our way. No muss, no fuss. No one needs to die.”

A round of angry mutters broke out among the assembled disciples.

Several of them shot to their feet, glowering at us as they reached for short swords or curved bows. The Priestess, though, simply quirked an eyebrow and raised one hand, stilling the mob in an instant. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid that’s quite impossible. We are a peaceful order, dedicated to the teachings of the Wise Sky Maiden, Arzokh. We care for the sick, minister to the poor, and care for the orphans and widows among Ankara’s population. But guarding the Ancient Artifacts of Arzokh, including this belt, is part of our sacred duty. We will not falter. If you wish to depart our Citadel without a battle, you will be leaving empty-handed.”

Abby slipped up next to me, pressing her body in close. “Jack, something’s wrong here—none of this is adding up in my head. I mean, this is supposed to be a demonic Dragon cult.” She paused and glanced at me, confusion evident on her face. “But these people don’t look bloodthirsty or murderous, not even a little.”

The high priestess responded with a laugh, cold and cynical, clearly hearing the comments meant for me. “Well,” she said, spreading her hands, “there are certainly some who believe us to be monsters. The Sky Maiden, after all, is the villain in most stories.” She paused and canted her head, carefully eyeing Amara and me. “Based on appearances alone, I’m assuming you received your information from the Dark Conclave?” It was part question, part statement.

I nodded, feeling more unsure of myself by the minute.

“Do not listen to her,” Amara snapped, shouldering her way past the others, a deadly glare on her face. “They worship the Sky Maiden. They are liars and murderers, this is a thing known by all. Those who follow the Sky Maiden are well versed in trickery. Do not let them deceive you, Grim Jack.”

The Priestess pursed her lips into a thin, thoughtful line as she stared at Amara. “Yes, the Dokkalfar despise the Sky Maiden most of all, and us by proxy. But, you have only heard one side of the story—their side.” She swept a hand toward Amara. “Perhaps we will part ways as enemies, but before it comes to that, I would implore you to at least hear our side of things.” She faltered and neatly folded her hands behind her back. “What harm could it do?”

Abby’s hand wrapped around my bicep, fingers digging in—let’s think through this.

“Give us a moment,” I replied, holding up a finger. “We just need to talk this out.” With a thought, I commanded Nikko to monitor the cultists—it was possible this was all some elaborate ruse—while our group formed into a tight little huddle.

“I do not like this, Grim Jack,” Amara said flatly, arms folded across her chest, hips cocked to one side. “We cannot leave without the belt, so what does it matter what lies they have to spout? It is a waste of time, and I do not wish to hear false accusations leveled against my clansfolk. It is a disgrace. Let us do what we’ve come to do and move on.”

“I don’t know,” Abby said, brow knit in concentration, a frown lingering on her lips. “This isn’t nearly as straightforward as I was expecting. You’re right, Amara, we can’t leave without the belt, but this whole situation makes me feel uneasy. Seriously, look at those people. Really look at them. They’re not just generic dungeon monsters looking to murder and loot. They’re do-gooding monks who want to talk, for Pete’s sake—”

“Yes, that’s what they want you to believe,” Amara interjected, “but words are just words, Abby. Besides, they worship the demonic creature responsible for massacring my ancestors and destroying the Nangkri Dynasty. Those actions alone speak far more loudly than anything else they could ever say or do. In my eyes, they stand condemned already. Let us kill them and wash our hands of this place.”

“What do the rest of you think?” I asked, before stealing a short peek over one shoulder. The cultists were still sitting, the Priestess watching us with a mix of fear and curiosity on her face.

“I gotta go with Abby,” Forge grunted with a nod of his blocky head. “More intel is never a bad thing in my opinion. ’Sides, these people seem alright. I mean that lady from the Affka den vouched for ’em, and I got a good feeling ’bout her. Sure, she’s a drug dealer, but she seemed like an honest drug dealer. And, honestly, I’m not sure how I’d feel about killing these people. I mean, I’ll do what we gotta do—the mission’s the mission—but if there’s a less awful way to go about it, I’d be open.”

“As much as it pains me to say it,” Cutter said, his hands absently fidgeting at the blades stowed in his belt, “I agree with Amara. Think about it, Jack. In order to unite the Storme Marshes, we need that belt. Period. End of the bloody story. Nothing this lady”—he hooked a thumb toward the Priestess—“says will change the quest. Likely it’ll only make doing our job more difficult. Sometimes, the best thing to do is keep your head down and do the job in front of you. Gentleman Georgie taught me that when he first took me under his wing. But, I’ll back your play, whatever you decide.”

“Vlad?” I asked.

He frowned, shrugged, and wagged his head from side to side in indecision. “It is a hard call, but we Russians have a saying—wisdom is born, stupidity is learned. Knowing more is better, I think.” Amara glowered at him like he’d just slapped her across the mouth, but Vlad patently ignored her, unmoved by her cutting looks. Vlad didn’t really care much about what other people thought of him, a trait I admired.
I nodded and turned back toward the Priestess. “Okay. I can’t promise anything, but we’ll at least hear you out.” I thrust one hand out and recalled Nikko to the Shadowverse—a small sign of good faith.

“Very wise.” She dipped her head. “Nasim, take over for me,” she instructed a younger man with a thin build and a thick mustache. “As for you, honored guests, please follow me.” She turned on a heel and glided toward the wall of bookcases. She halted in front of a hulking case loaded down with leather tomes and a sprinkling of antique knickknacks—bits of bone, small golden figures, a few candleholders. For a moment she just stood there, scanning the titles, until she eventually slid one book free and stepped away as the wooden shelf swung outward on silent hinges, revealing an earthen passage gouged into the wall.

The soft chanting started again as we headed into the secret tunnel, winding our way down a claustrophobic hall lined with more bones and bits of scale. We emerged into an enormous rounded chamber with an arched ceiling and thick gray walls. Along the back wall, directly ahead, hung a beautiful crimson tapestry: an exquisitely woven thing, depicting some epic battle from long ago. A monstrous dragon posed mid-swoop, while a Murk Elf man waited, his feet spread wide, his beefy sword upraised. Behind them was a volcano, frozen in time as it spewed magma and smoke into the sky.

The final battle between the Jade Lord and the Sky Maiden, no doubt.

Everyone stared at the mesmerizing piece in utter silence, except for Cutter, of course, who let out a soft whistle, then mumbled, “I wonder what that’d go for on the Black Market,” under his breath.

“It’s priceless, I can assure you,” the Priestess replied, strutting across the room, then lightly—reverently—trailing her fingers over the fabric. “We have many treasures here. Not just the belt you’ve come in search of. We have tomes of forgotten knowledge, some even dictated by the Sky Maiden, Arzokh. We have dragon bone weapons. We have ritual spells. But this tapestry is among our most valued possessions. For its beauty, of course, but more so because like these other artifacts”—she touched the belt fondly, then gestured toward my crown—“it contains a bit of her essence, though willingly given. With it, we can see her mind. Her memories. Some of them, anyway.”

She wheeled, robes flashing out. “Sky Maiden Arzokh, these visitors would know the truth about your Downfall. They would know your tale.” As the words left her mouth the floor began to tremble, to shake, bits of dust raining down as piles of bone, strewn around the room, danced and clattered. Then, the gorgeous tapestry shifted—morphed and changed—as the picture sewn into the fabric took on a strange semblance of life. It was like watching a movie made of embroidery and silk. The volcano in the background zoomed forward, consuming the tapestry, as a voice, stately and female, boomed in the air:

“They came for the gold,” the voice said. “Svartalfar miners, sent by the Jade King and his brothers.” On the tapestry, a host of Dwarves—squat, bearded men with pickaxes slung over their shoulders—trudged through thick grass with their heads bowed. Ahead of them, riding on an immense ebony puma, was Nangkri. “I’d been hibernating for a hundred years, then,” the voice came again, “while my mate, Irrinth, stood watch over the mount. I woke for the hatching, though. You see, the great volcano lies dormant, often for many years—hundreds of years—but it always wakes, eventually. And, when it does, it spews molten gold up from the bowels of the world.”

Suddenly, the mining party was gone and we were inside the volcano, perched on a wide brim of rock pitted with shallow pools of burbling liquid gold. In each pit were eggs, each the size of a basketball, their shells shimmering with metallic rainbow light. Like giant diamonds held up to the sun. There were twenty or so in total. “The Jade King knew this thing,” the voice said. “He knew of the gold. Knew it was protected by fierce dragons, though he didn’t know of the eggs or that the gold was necessary for them to hatch. To survive. He soon learned, though.” The voice paused, engulfing us in a sad, sullen silence. “Not that it changed anything,” she finished.

A hole appeared in the side of the volcano as a pickaxe burst through, accompanied by a brilliant shaft of sunlight, followed shortly by a Dwarf. Then, another Dwarf, and another still. “I was weak, too weak even to move,” the voice said, “but Irrinth, he fought.” A dragon with slick green scales, not much larger than Devil, threw himself from the ledge, taking wing over the volcanic fumes and burbling lava, then diving at the invading miners. “The battle was fierce—my Irrinth was a warrior to his core—but the Jade Lord had powerful magics and a quick wit.”

In an instant, the dragon was on the floor, wings broken, hide scorched, one eye gone, while the Jade Lord stood over him, his face somber as his sword whooshed down. Emerald scales and pink muscle parted as Irrinth’s head rolled away from a flailing neck, leaking viscous golden blood. Dead. Murdered. “Nangkri didn’t stop there, though. No, he and his miners came for the gold. I pleaded with them, too weak to fight, but strong enough to speak. To explain. They didn’t listen …” Mining picks smashed through fragile multicolored eggshells; young dragons, only partially formed, squealed as they died. “Just business. That’s what the Jade Lord told me. He needed to finance a war so that he could defend his kingdom.”

The voice died away and the vivid images on the tapestry faded, reverting to the picture we’d first seen.

“It hurts her to remember,” the Priestess murmured, tears welling in her eyes. “The Jade Lord, burdened by guilt, spared her—an act he very much regretted later because eventually she regained her strength and flew south, consumed by revenge and rage. The Jade Lord killed her, then, but only after she extracted a terrible price upon his kingdom. Afterward, driven by a blind rage, Nangkri formed these artifacts, trapping a portion of the Sky Maiden’s soul so she would never be able to leave the Twilight Lands and enter Kuonela, where the souls of her mate and children wait for her. The only way to free her from her fate is to gather the three artifacts of the Jade Lord and destroy them—”

“That is enough,” Amara spat, slashing one hand through the air as though to physically cut off the words. “Lies. Deception. As I said. Lord Nangkri and his brothers were honorable men, they would never do such a disgusting act. You and your foul magic pervert the truth, and shake us from our purpose.”

“Amara, maybe we should finish hearing her out,” I hedged, uncertain. I wanted to believe the Dark Conclave’s version of events, but this wouldn’t have been the first time in history a leader had done something terrible for the sake of power, then covered it up. Heck, that’s sort of what world leaders did. “I mean all that stuff happened a long time ago. How do we know the Dark Conclave didn’t—”

“No, I will hear no more of it,” Amara snapped, wheeling and bolting for the door, leaving the way we’d come, the ghost of tears building in her eyes.

Cutter shot me a tight-lipped grimace, then turned and went after her. “Amara,” he called, feet click-clacking on the stone floor.

“The truth can be hard to hear at times,” the Priestess said, watching them go with a frown. “The Jade Lord and his kin are the most honored ancestors in the Murk Elf society—to hear this tale is to lower their eyes before their ancestors. A grave sin.” She shrugged and folded her hands. “But such is the way of truth at times.”

“Jack,” Abby said, grabbing my sleeve and offering me a fake smile. “Can we speak privately for a moment?” She didn’t even let me answer; instead, she hauled me over to the other side of the room. “Look, we can’t do this, Jack,” she said in a whisper. “We can’t. Either we need to find a peaceable solution or we need to abandon this quest.”

“What?” I said, genuinely shocked, though trying to keep my voice down. “You can’t be serious. Obviously, what happened is awful—assuming it’s true and it might not be—but we need these artifacts, Abby. We need them. We don’t have any choice. Osmark is breathing down our neck, but if we unite the Storme Marshes … it’ll change everything. Besides, it’s not like any of that stuff really happened. This is a bit of tragic backstory some overzealous Dev came up with. There was no Sky Maiden. No Jade Lord. No massacre.” I paused, glancing over a shoulder, making sure no one was close enough to overhear. “It’s a game, Abby. But this war with Osmark? That’s real.”

She folded her arms across her chest, wilting beneath my words as she chewed on her bottom lip. “Look,” she finally said, “everything you’re saying is true. But this all feels off, Jack. This whole scenario”—she waved her arms around at the temple—“it’s exactly like the story we just heard, except we’re the bad guys. Think about it. Nangkri killed Arzokh and her family, who were all innocent, in order to fund a war for the greater good of the Storme Marshes. That’s messed up, right? But now here we are, preparing to kill a bunch of innocent people in order to go kill Arzokh again—all in order to help our own war effort.

“The parallels are too close for comfort,” she continued. “It feels like history is repeating itself, and not in a good way. Plus, this seems a lot like what Osmark’s done. The things we’re fighting against. I mean, he broke laws, hurt people, and made a lot of morally questionable decisions—teaming up with Carrera, and others like him—all in service to the ‘greater good.’” She used air quotes, showing exactly what she thought of his motivations. “I’ll support you whatever you decide, but I’m not sure we should do this. Just call it gut instinct.”

I blew out my cheeks and absently ran a hand through my hair. She was right, of course. Killing a bunch of innocent people—well, potentially innocent, I reminded myself—was exactly the kind of thing Osmark would do. At the same time, we did need that belt. It could change everything. I glanced away, unable to meet Abby’s gaze, entirely unsure what to do.

Before I could make any decision, though, a shout rang out—Cutter, yelling an inarticulate curse—followed by the ring of steel on steel. “What treachery is this?” the Priestess hissed, lips pulled back in a snarl, one hand dropping to a small bronze knife riding her hip. “You are no better than the Jade Lord, then. Merciless killers. I’d hoped this could end differently, but if it is a battle you demand, then none of you will leave here alive.”

And just like that, the decision was out of my hands: the Priestess pulled her dagger free and began chanting as the bones, piled around the room, rattled and danced along the floor, rising into the air.

TWENTY-FOUR:

Bones and Battle

The Priestess chanted, and as she did she morphed into something new and terrible. Her skin sprouted thick green scales—tough as plate mail, no doubt—her limbs elongated, her fingers grew gleaming black talons, and a reptilian tail broke free, lashing wildly at the air. Her nose melted away, replaced by a pair of flat slits, her eyes took on a golden hue, and her mouth filled with row after row of needle-sharp teeth. She wasn’t a dragon, but she sure wasn’t human. She was something else, somewhere in between.

Meanwhile, the bones from the floor continued to swirl in a miniature tornado, ancient magic sculpting and welding them together. A broken and distorted skull took shape, filled with jagged tearing fangs, followed by a serpentine neck of yellow bone. Squat legs and powerful arms materialized in a flash, connected to a streamlined torso cobbled together from broken shards of bone and dusty rock. A whipping tail came next, along with powerful wings. In seconds, the frame of a dragon, a little longer than Devil, hung patiently in the air. Then, the oddest thing of all happened: the magical tapestry tore free from the wall, flew along on a powerful gust of air, then wrapped around the conjured creature, creating a thin skin of colorful fabric.

Oh no.

I moved on instinct, pushing away all of my uncertainty as I summoned Devil from the Shadowverse. The dread lizard emerged in a puff of sooty smoke, took one quick scan of the room, then bolted into action, propelling himself into the air. He flew like a torpedo and slammed into the necrotic bone dragon like a freight train. Their bodies came together with a thunderclap that shook the room and reverberated in my teeth before both creatures dropped to the ground in a tangle of limbs, thrashing wings, and snapping jaws.

The tapestry-clad Bone Dragon was a force of nature to be sure, but Devil was no slouch in a fight—especially not with a bit of backup. With a thought and another effort of will, I summoned Nikko to the fray, grinning as the chimp exploded into existence and took wing, soaring among the bone rafters above. Help Devil, I sent. Nikko offered a primal howl in confirmation and swooped toward the battling dread lizards, dropping onto the Bone Dragon’s neck, then digging down with teeth and claws, ripping bits of fabric and bone free.

I spun around, turning my attention back to the Priestess.

Forge was in front of her, lashing out with his magically imbued axe and dodging her brutal strikes in return. Vlad loitered ten feet away, lobbing Frost Orbs at the Priestess’s back while trying to stay more or less invisible. But even two on one, the pair was severely outclassed. Forge’s strikes, when they landed, did almost no lasting damage. A shifting barrier of fiery magic clung to the Priestess like a second skin, absorbing the blows with ease as she attacked with her bronzed dagger in one hand and a spectral sword of molten flame in the other.

And Vlad, try as he might, never seemed to land a solid hit, period. She was just too fast, too nimble: a major-league Battle Summoner, with some serious agility. Great. Even worse, it wasn’t just the Priestess or her pet dragon we had to worry about.

Nope.

Wild-eyed cultists were pouring in from the adjoining hallway, forcing Cutter and Amara back as swords flashed and spears jabbed. The Thief and the Ranger fought like a pair of desert whirlwinds, Cutter hurling conjured daggers, Amara firing meticulously well-placed arrows, both ducking and dodging with practiced ease. But there were simply too many Disciples. On top of that, many of the Disciples were spellcasters—a combination of Clerics and Shamans—and they used their defensive abilities to absorb attacks or deflect them outright while protecting a small group of frontline fighters leading the charge.

Thankfully, Abby was leveling the playing field—at least a little. She unleashed her trio of flame serpents, which darted among the cultists, and they laid in with reckless, murderous abandon. Attacking with flaming fangs and wildfire tails. Dragging down the unwary in a blink. Strangling or incinerating them before moving on. With that done, Abby started hurling fireball after fireball with her right hand while simultaneously summoning a single firewall with her left, funneling the invaders away from Forge and the Priestess. Watching her was like watching a maestro conduct a symphony of fire and death: terrifying, but strangely captivating.

I cast Shadow Forge—a wash of purple light momentarily enveloping my team and me as the active aura took hold—followed immediately by Umbra Bog. Black tentacles of writhing power emerged from beneath the feet of the onrushing cultists, snaring arms and legs, pinning them down, which gave Cutter, Amara, and Abby a little breathing room.

The quarters were far too cramped for Plague Burst or Umbra Flame, so instead, I opted for a couple of Umbra Bolts. The spell itself didn’t do much damage against the spell-shielded warriors and casters, but since I’d upgraded Umbra Bolt to the Journeyman level, it now had a 10% chance to confuse enemies, causing them to attack other hostile forces randomly. The first three blasts landed without much effect, but the fourth smacked into one of the frontline brawlers—a stout female Dwarf in leather armor, wielding a shortsword—who turned and promptly jabbed it into one of the Clerics behind her.

Satisfied, I pulled a Spirit Regen potion from my belt, killed the thing in one long pull, then spun, focusing on the Priestess, since she was clearly the biggest threat … Well, the Bone Dragon was the biggest threat—both literally and metaphorically—but he was a minion, which meant if I could take the Priestess out, he would fall too. Just because she was smaller in size didn’t mean she wasn’t dangerous, though. Forge had been battling her for all of twenty seconds, he’d received only a handful of direct hits, and already his HP was down by half. She, by contrast, was still sitting well above 90%.

I charged her, bolting right and swinging around in an attempt to flank her. I closed the distance in a heartbeat and unleashed a concentrated column of Umbra Flame.

The conjured fire momentarily engulfed her, but a golden barrier of light exploded out a second later, stopping my flames dead. The Priestess shot me a withering look—her now reptilian face contorted in rage—and blitzed me. Her conjured sword, burning with the heat of a volcano, whooshed toward me like a buzz saw. I ducked low, and the blade narrowly whipped over my head as I shot in with my warhammer, jabbing the cruel spike into her gut while triggering Savage Blow. My weapon landed with a wet thud, penetrating her robes, drawing a thin trickle of blood.

Despite that, the attack did next to nothing to her overall HP. For being a spellcaster, this lady sure could take a hit.

I pulled the weapon free with a grunt and dived left, rolling beneath an incoming sword swipe, bringing my weapon screaming through the air in an arc. She was quick, though—even quicker than me—and diverted the attack with a flick of her blade, following up with a wicked-fast riposte, which scored a nasty gash across my left shoulder. I gritted my teeth and ignored the burst of pain, feinting left, then lunging right. My warhammer met empty air, and before I could reposition myself, a raw javelin of silver force sucker punched me in the chest.

The assault cost me a fifth of my HP, hurt worse than a mule kick to the ribs, and left me wheezing for precious air. I wanted to drop into a ball and die right then, but instead, I kept my feet through force of will. Unfortunately, she followed up immediately with another attack: she leaned forward, arms thrust back, jaws stretched wide, and vomited a torrent of raw fire, thick as a telephone pole. Panicked, I triggered Shadow Stride, zipping into the Shadowverse as the geyser of flame crawled to a herky-jerky halt a few feet away. I took a deep breath and swiped a hand across my forehead, obliterating the thin sheen of perspiration threatening to drip into my eyes, and skirted around to her backside.

I dropped into a crouch, preparing my attack, then took my remaining time to recuperate and survey the battlefield.

Devil and the Bone Dragon were still locked in combat, but sadly Devil seemed to be losing. The slightly larger Bone Dragon had straddled my Drake, pinning his front legs to the ground; his crushing jaws were inches away from taking a chunk out of Devil’s exposed neck. Only Nikko—clinging wildly to the Bone Dragon’s head, digging her claws into burning eye sockets—stood in the way.

And the tussle against the cultists wasn’t going much better.

Butchered bodies had piled up at the entryway, but there were still more Disciples coming. Abby was doing alright—currently frozen with a fierce snarl on her face, one arm thrust forward, a golden fireball forming in her palm. But Cutter and Amara were decorated with a myriad of bloody wounds like war medals. Forge, likewise, was upright but stooped over, clutching at his gut, covered in blood, with a grimace etched into the lines of his green skin. Yep, this looked about as bad as things could be.

The countdown timer hit zero, and I emerged into the material realm, letting loose with my warhammer, swinging for the fences, and putting my whole body into the attack while triggering Crush Armor. Crush Armor was meant for opponents in heavy plate, but so far my attacks had been largely ineffective, so changing things up certainly wouldn’t hurt. Besides, it was always possible whatever spell the Priestess was using offered her the magical equivalent of heavy armor.

My weapon whistled as it flew, and it landed square in the back of her skull with a sickening crack—a critical hit—wiping out a tenth of her HP and knocking her forward several feet. Not bad, but not the crippling death blow I’d been hoping for, either. My victory—as small as it had been—didn’t last long. She wheeled around with preternatural speed; one hand shot out like a cobra strike, wrapping around my throat as she hoisted me into the air. She regarded me with golden reptilian eyes as my feet dangled half a foot above the floor and I labored to pull in even a handful of air.

I clawed fitfully at her wrist as black crept in along the edges of my vision, but then, before I passed out completely, she hurled me across the room with a contemptuous flick of her wrist. Just tossed me aside as easily as an angry toddler throwing a rag doll. I smashed into the far wall and slid to the floor, crumpling like a Styrofoam cup as a dull ache exploded in my back and sprinted along my arms and legs. I groaned—holy crap that hurt—then thanked my lucky stars I hadn’t earned myself a combat debuff.

I easily could’ve ended up with a broken spine, which would’ve meant game over for sure.

When I glanced back at the Priestess, though, my stomach dropped as fear reared its ugly head: She was facing me, arms back, jaws yawning, only a second away from another flame attack. And this time, Shadow Stride couldn’t save me. Nothing could save me. There was no way out. I scrambled to my knees, thrusting my left hand forward—palm out, fingers splayed—and summoned Dark Shield as she unleashed a fresh wave of scorching Dragon Fire. The shield popped into existence an eyeblink before the fire rolled over me, saving me from immediate respawn.

But even with the defensive barrier firmly in place, her attack was brutal, powerful, and borderline unstoppable.

Currently, my Dark Shield absorbed 110 points worth of projectile or spell damage per second, but even with that, and the extra protection from my Night Armor aura, my health still plunged by the second. For a heartbeat, I contemplated trying to dive into a roll, but I had the creeping feeling that if I dropped my Shield even for a moment, she’d roast me like a marshmallow on a stick. So, I steeled myself and held the spell even as my skin burned and my cloak caught aflame. I screamed in agony as a new noticed popped up in the corner of my eye, confirming just how screwed I was:

∞∞∞

Debuffs Added

Burn: You have been burned! 5 pts Burn Damage; duration, 1 minute.

Flame Trauma: You have sustained a severe burn! All physical attacks do 25% less damage; duration, 1 minute.

∞∞∞

Then, suddenly, the attack ceased and the Priestess let out a cry of rage as a flurry of frost and snow swirled around her. Vlad gave a whoop, pumping one fist in the air, before hurling another ball—this one a shimmering crimson—directly at me. The orb crashed near my feet with a tinkle and burst in a hazy cloud of red mist. The pain radiating through my body guttered and died as my HP shot out of the red and back above the 50% mark. An AOE healing spell, and a good one. I wanted to kiss that crazy Russian.

The Priestess wheeled about, charging the Alchemist in a fit of furious rage. The color drained from Vlad’s face as he retreated. He quickly found his back pressed up against the wall with nowhere left to go and a terrifying dragon-lady closing in. He fumbled fitfully for another throwing orb, but his fear left him shaky-handed as he whispered some prayer under his breath. She was five feet out, sword raised high—ready to cut him clean through with a single stroke—when Forge smashed into her like a linebacker, shoulder driving into her side.

She was a tough, tough lady, but even with her transformation, she was rail thin and couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred and fifty pounds soaking wet. The hit drove her through the air like a cannonball and straight into the far wall. And Forge didn’t relent. Oh no, he followed through with a colossal axe blow like a lumberjack bringing down a mighty redwood. The Priestess howled as the curved blade, wickedly sharp and etched with glowing runes of power, sank deep into the meat of her shoulder, lodging in the bone.

For one sweet second, I thought that was it. The killing blow. The victory shot. But then she merely sneered at the weapon and swatted Forge away with a contemptuous backhand slap. The meat-slab Risi cartwheeled across the room, landing on his side with a groan, alive but unmoving. Probably, he’d suffered a paralyzing debuff, so common after taking a nasty fall. The Priestess lurched forward—Forge’s axe still protruding from her shoulder—and turned toward Vlad, lips pulled back to reveal row after row of deadly shark-teeth.

Before I could decide what to do—how to beat the Priestess or her horde of cultists—Nikko appeared beside me, materializing from the Shadowverse into the Material Plane. Even a casual glance told me she was in bad, bad shape. One of her simian arms was clearly broken, twisted at an unnatural angle, and bloody gashes and black scorch marks marred her fur. She grunted at me, pulling her lips back in a grimace, then gestured across the room. I followed the motion with my eyes; the breath hitched in my chest when I spotted Devil.

He lay on the ground like a car wreck, blood spurting, body mangled, though alive. Barely. True, the Bone Dragon wasn’t a picture of good health—one of his wings was missing, the tapestry was ripped and burned, a myriad of bones ended in jagged, blackened stumps—but it was still doing better than my poor minion. Devil would fight until his final breath, kicking, scratching, and biting all the way to respawn, but it was evident he couldn’t win this fight. Not while the Priestess was animating that monster with necromantic life.

Suddenly, the weight of this mission hit me like a load of bricks. This was impossible. I was going to die here, and even more importantly, my friends would die here, too. And there’d be no respawn for Cutter and Amara. I glanced at Nikko, preparing to recall her so she could heal, when I noticed the bandolier strapped across her chest. Many of Vlad’s alchemic bombs were gone, used long ago, but a handful remained—including one filled with swirling gray gas. An orb identical to the one that had nearly killed Vlad and me back in the Crafter’s Hall.

Maybe I could finish this thing after all … But only if I timed it just right. If not? Well, we were almost certainly dead anyway, so what did I have to lose?

I hustled over to Nikko, pulled the cloudy gray orb free, then recalled her back to the Shadowverse for a well-deserved rest. The Priestess was ten feet away, herding Vlad into a corner so she could finish him off right and proper. With Forge still down for the count and the rest of the party occupied with the cultists, it was up to me, and I’d only get one shot. I glanced at the Shadow Stride cooldown timer and grinned as it disappeared—the ability was available again. But I didn’t attack, not yet. Instead, I dropped into Stealth and slunk away, watching patiently and praying things panned out the way I hoped.

Vlad held a blue-tinged orb clutched in one hand and an enchanted dagger in the other. He snarled in defiance—a cornered animal that knew there was no way out. And the desperate, feral glimmer in his eyes told me he didn’t expect to live through this encounter; he would fight, would do his damnedest to put a dent in her before dying, but he was prepared to die. The Priestess raised her sword and I felt my heart lurch into double time. No, no, no. If she attacked with her sword, there was no chance of my plan working … But then it happened. She lowered her sword and threw her arms back, her face shooting forward, mouth stretched wide.

Ready to burn Vlad alive.

I triggered Shadow Stride, letting the world screech to a stop. I took a second to collect my thoughts, then carefully picked my way across the impromptu battlefield, avoiding the scattered corpses, heading for the Priestess. I circled her once, then again, a pang of guilt bubbling up from my stomach. She may have looked like a monster now, but she wasn’t a monster, not really. I felt genuinely awful about how everything had shaken out, but at this point, there was no other way.

It was her or me.

No, even that was wrong. I was prepared to die, but I wasn’t prepared to let her kill my friends.

I slipped my warhammer back into my belt, then held up the orb swirling with deadly gray gas. Finally, I positioned myself at the Priestess’s side, steeled myself for the inevitable pain to come, and stepped back into the material realm with a resigned sigh. The second the world lurched back into motion, I jammed the orb into the Priestess’s open mouth, shoving my fist all the way to the back of her throat as my fist curled around the fragile glass. The glass crunched in my palm; scorching flame and toxic gas enveloped me like a giant hand, tossing me up into the air like a pop fly.

I landed in a heap fifteen feet away as a combat notice with a string of debuffs popped up:

∞∞∞

Debuffs Added

Alchemist’s Toxic Cloud: You have been poisoned: 2 HP/sec; duration, 2 minutes or until cured.

Burn: You have been burned! 5 pts Burn Damage; duration, 1 minute.

Fractured Arm: You cannot use your right arm and cannot cast mage spells requiring hand gestures; duration, 2 minutes.

Concussed: You have sustained a severe head injury! Confusion and disorientation; duration, 1 minute.

∞∞∞

I dismissed the notice with a wave, but a brilliant purple afterimage stained my vision, making it nearly impossible to see. Quickly, I blinked it away and stared at the chaos erupting in the cavernous chamber. The Bone Dragon—before only seconds away from killing Devil—now writhed on the floor, head and tail whipping this way then that as bits of tapestry burned and chunks of bone broke away, crumbling to dust now that the Priestess’s magic no longer powered it. And the cultists themselves weren’t faring much better. Twenty or more corpses lay scattered across the room, and my party was making short work of the few remaining stragglers.

Not that it much mattered to me, since my HP was flashing scarlet and all the debuffs were chewing up what little remaining HP I had. Still, Cutter and Amara would make it out of this debacle alive, and that was the most important thing. I closed my eyes as blackness crept in, preparing for respawn …

TWENTY-FIVE:

Aftermath

I blinked my eyes open, expecting to feel my mammoth bed beneath me and see the ceiling of my master suite overhead. Typical respawn. Instead, my palms brushed over dusty stone and Abby stared down at me, her lips drawn into a worried line as she searched my face. Searching for any signs of life, no doubt. I tried to sit up but broke into a coughing fit that left my ribs feeling like a pro boxer had just used me as a punching bag for the last hour. Oh, my God, everything hurt. My skin was too tight, my head ached with a dull throb, and my muscles screamed in a mixture of protest and pain.

Still, Abby’s worry disappeared a second later.

“Wow, that was close,” she said, dropping down next to me and letting out a long sigh. “Seriously, Jack. You had a single point of HP. One. Measly. Point. I wasn’t sure there was a potion in the world that could bring you back from that.” She pressed her eyes shut and reached one hand up, gently rubbing at one temple. “Maybe you were right about this whole adventuring thing. Paperwork is awful, but these high-stakes missions are too stressful.”

I smiled weakly. “Everyone else okay?” I asked, conjuring the strength to prop myself up on my hands.

“Everyone but Devil,” she replied with a grimace. “Even at a distance, that explosion was enough to kill him. Frankly, I’m astounded it didn’t kill you instantly. It certainly did a number on the Priestess.” She swept a hand toward a fallen body ten feet away. The explosion had obliterated the Priestess completely. Her bottom half was scorched and ragged, and her top half—everything above the chest, anyway—was simply gone. A disgusting splatter of charred meat and burned blood surrounded her in a halo. “A few of the remaining cultists fled, but Forge is hunting them down now.” She blanched and looked away. “Mopping up.”

And suddenly, I was mad.

Mad at the game, mad at the Devs for creating this stupid quest chain, mad at the Dark Conclave for sending me here to wipe these people out. And Amara, I was fuming at her. This was her fault, I was sure. Everything had been going fine—nice and peaceable—then she stormed off, distraught and angry, and then everything was Cultists, Chaos, and Bone Dragons. True, things probably would’ve ended up this way even without her anger issues, but maybe not. Maybe we would’ve been able to come to a compromise with the Priestess and her followers.

But instead, Devil was dead, the Disciples were all history, and the Priestess was a corpse decorating the floor of a sacred temple.

I scowled and gained my feet, locking eyes on Amara—currently looting the body of a female cultist with a vacant stare and a giant gash running diagonally across her face.

She did this. This is all her fault.

I beelined for her, stepping over the dead Priestess without giving her a glance—not wanting to see the devastation again—grabbed the Huntress by the shoulder, and yanked her away from the body. She spun in an instant, drawing a curved blade in a single fluid motion, lashing out. Her attack was instinctual and lightning fast, but the blinding rage gave me strength and purpose. I caught her blade with my spike vambrace and casually batted the knife from her hand. The weapon flew, clattering along the stone floor a few feet away, coming to a rest next to a deeply charbroiled cultist without a head.

“Grim Jack?” she asked, confusion flashing across her features.

“Shut up,” I hollered, giving her a rough shove away from the dead woman with the oozing diagonal gash. “Who told you to go and pick a fight with them? Who? Because it wasn’t me, that’s for sure!” I was in her face, only inches away, jabbing her in the chest with one finger as though it were a dagger and I was going for the kill.

“But, but—” she sputtered, flabbergasted as she backed away, attempting to get a little breathing room.

I didn’t let her finish. I didn’t even let her start.

“No,” I said, shadowing every step she took, keeping the distance between us uncomfortably close. “I don’t want any excuses, Amara. None. I understand you didn’t like what they were saying—but storming off that way? Picking a fight with a room full of powerful enemies without telling us? You could’ve gotten someone killed! Heck, you could’ve gotten all of us killed. All because of your pride.” My fist was by my side, trembling, ready to swing. To pop her in the mouth—

Cutter stepped out of the shadows, materializing in a blink, then popped me in the mouth. One good hook right across the cheek, busting open my bottom lip and sending me stumbling away. It was a warning shot if I’d ever seen one. “That’s enough, friend,” he said, glaring at Amara and me in turn, forehead creased in concern. “You’re being a right arsehole, and you need to get your head on straight, Jack. Understand?”

“What?” I demanded, shaking with a combination of pent-up frustration and hot-blooded adrenaline. “How can you defend her? She picked a fight that nearly got us killed! A fight that turned into a massacre that maybe could’ve been avoided entirely.”

“Listen to yourself, Jack. Just listen!” he shouted back, slipping between Amara and me like I might be a rabid bear ready to maul her. “I know you’ve got your blood up right now, but ask yourself—does that honestly sound like Amara? Meticulous, professional, honor-bound Amara?”

I paused. Faltered. Some of my rage died away as I thought.

He was right, it didn’t sound like Amara. Not one bit.

Cutter could be impulsive at times, and Forge, likewise, might pick a fight for a sideways glance—I knew from experience—but not Amara. She was always prepared for every eventuality, and though she could be ornery, disagreeable, and even downright unlikeable at times, there was one thing she did implicitly: follow orders. She’d wanted to kill Cutter and me the first time she found us trapped in a spiked Punji pit, but an order from her superior, Baymor, had kept us alive. Same thing with Chief Kolle, and my initiation into the ranks of the Maa-Tál.

“That’s right, I can see you working it out, Grim Jack,” Cutter said, relaxing and loosening his clenched fists. “She didn’t do this, not because she didn’t want to, but because that’s not who she is. And I bloody well know because I saw it all go down and it was this sod”—he strutted over to a copper-skinned man with a thick mustache and blood-drenched robes lying dead near the tunnel—“who started this whole mess. The bloke that high priestess left in charge. Makin, err no, that’s not it … What was it?” He paused, eyes hazy, tapping idly at his chin.

“Nasim,” I said, feeling a hot surge of guilt stampede through me like a herd of wild horses. “His name was Nasim.”

“Bloody right,” Cutter replied with a nod. “So this Nasim fella, why he’s leading the chant one second, then charging Amara the next, carrying on about how we’re all infidels and that we wanted to steal the divine secrets of the Sky Maiden or some such shite. There wasn’t anything we could do. It happened like that”—he snapped slim fingers—“and when Amara went to defend herself, why the rest of the blighters went right mad. Like they’d contracted the bloody plague, but with a case of the crazies instead of a case of the pox.”

I shuffled over to the wall and plopped down, pressing my back against the cool stone as I rubbed my palms into my eye sockets, trying to release a growing stress headache. Of course that’s how it had happened. How could I have been so stupid to forget about Nasim bar Ruwayd, the undercover sleeper agent Sophia had told me to be on the lookout for? Nasim’s connection with Serth-Rog gave him a compelling reason to want me dead, especially after my encounter with Gentleman Georgie. Obviously, he’d have jumped at any chance to prevent me from getting whatever info he was hiding about Serth-Rog’s operations.

But with all the things on my mind—Osmark, Death-Head mode, uniting the Storme Marshes, running an entire faction—I’d forgotten about him. And my mistake had almost gotten us killed, not Amara.

I looked up at her and shook my head. “I’m sorry,” I said with a grimace. “I shouldn’t have assumed the worst—Cutter’s right, you’re better than that. And I should’ve known it. I guess what they say about assuming is true.” For a long beat, I looked down, not wanting to meet her gaze, afraid I would find anger, rage, or even worse, disappointment waiting there. At last, though, I looked up and found her with the ghost of a smile gracing her lips. She rolled her eyes, cocked her head to one side, and planted her hands on her hips.

“Sometimes you’re a fool, Grim Jack. But only sometimes. Given the circumstances, it was not an unreasonable conclusion. And everyone is entitled to a lapse in judgment on occasion.” She paused, her eyes darting toward Cutter—just a flash—then her face was flat and unreadable once more. “It is forgiven. A thing of water and bridges. Now, stop sulking about like an unruly child. The Storme Marshes won’t unite themselves.”

Her words stung, but only a little since she was right—no matter how I felt at the moment, we had a job to do and a mission to complete. Resigned, I gained my feet, running my hands along my trousers as I surveyed the bloody carnage. “Yeah. Alright. Let’s clean this place up. Get everything you can: weapons, armor, bone fragments, books, whatever.” I paused, deeply troubled by how this had turned out. “At least something good can come out of this mess,” I murmured under my breath, gaze lingering on the headless Priestess. “I’ll personally search her and Nasim.”

Reluctantly, the crew scattered, picking over the corpses as I turned my attention to Nasim—the Serth-Rog sleeper agent responsible for this debacle. From what I’d been able to figure out, he’d been one of the lieutenants in the Winged Disciples, and his gear certainly reflected it. He didn’t have much in terms of armor—just priestly garments and soft leather boots—but his weapon and jewelry were nothing to scoff at. He carried a scaling Dragon Bone Dagger with +25 points of Fire Damage, a +15 Spirit boost, and an Intelligence bonus equal to .5 x Character Level.

Crazy good, though not for me. He did, however, have an enchanted cloak which offered some wicked abilities right up my alley:

∞∞∞

Disciple’s Holy Cowl

Armor Type: Medium; Heavy Cloth

Class: Rare; Blessed

Base Defense: 15

Primary Effects:

+5 Vitality Bonus

+8 Spirit Bonus

+8 Intelligence Bonus

Secondary Set Effects:

Increases effectiveness of all Aura spells/abilities by 10%.

For the devout, a simple cloak can be imbued with faith powerful enough to turn even the sharpest blade.

∞∞∞

I swapped that out with my Cloak of Web-Walking without a thought.

The real prize, however, was a slim leather-bound journal identical to the one I’d taken off Gentleman Georgie. I pulled it free from Nasim’s corpse and flipped absently through the pages. Well, nearly identical. Interestingly, this notebook was not filled with names, but with locations. And not random locations, but the locations of dungeons. At least, I assumed they were dungeons. With names like Blackbog Hallow, The Burning Labyrinth, The Spectral Vault, and Dread Bat Burrow, there was no other plausible explanation.

Yep, this was definitely what Sophia had sent me for. A popup appeared a second later in confirmation:

∞∞∞

Quest Alert: Unholy Mystery

Congratulations, Jack! You located Nasim bar Ruwayd—though you very nearly screwed the pooch. The leather-bound journal you found confirms Nasim’s status as a doppelganger and agent of Serth-Rog, and by proxy Thanatos. The fact that these are clearly dungeon locations is deeply troubling, though it does explain why I’ve been out of the loop. Dungeons are the province of my sister Enyo. I’m not sure what this all means, but it can’t be good. Keep your eyes open, Jack, and I’ll be in touch.

∞∞∞

I read over the quest alert in mild bafflement—I’d never received a notice quite like that. Yet another reminder of Sophia’s power and influence over the in-game world. I shook away the unsettling thoughts and headed over to the Priestess, whose brutalized body lay close by. I knelt down beside her, my stomach churning and seething at the sight of the gory mess, and placed one hand on her leg. I wasn’t religious—my dad had been a Christmas and Easter Christian, my mom a non-practicing Catholic—but I muttered a prayer anyway. Just a quick Hail Mary, Full of Grace to send her off to whatever came next.

Deep down, I knew there probably wasn’t anything next for her—she’d been an NPC, after all, and now she was a string of deleted code—but secretly, I hoped there was something more.

Then, with a sad sigh, I accessed her inventory.

She had a load of good gear—robes, rings, ceremonial daggers—but my conscience nipped at me like an ornery puppy hungry for attention. This was wrong, and looting these people felt gross. Evil, even. But it also felt like a crime to just leave the stuff to rot away; this gear could literally be the difference between life and death for someone else. So, as much as I regretted it, I pocketed her stash of items, followed by the Jade Lord’s Belt. With the unsettling deed done, I stood and put some distance between me and the body, examining the new set piece with avid fascination:

∞∞∞

Belt of the Jade Lord

Armor Type: Medium; Belt

Class: Ancient Artifact; Set Item

Base Defense: 33

Primary Effects:

Strength Bonus = .5 x Character Level

Constitution Bonus = .5 x Character Level

15% Resistance to Slashing Damage

Secondary Set Effects:

+10 to all Resistances per set piece worn

All Spell Costs are reduced by 20% (2 pieces)

+1 to Class Specific Skills (3 pieces)

The Belt of the Jade Lord is an ancient symbol of authority and power, forged from the bones and soul of Arzokh—one of the last great Dragons of the North.

∞∞∞

Like the Crown of the Jade Lord, the belt was a truly incredible find: extraordinarily better than my current Belt of Agility with its pitiful +7 Dexterity Bonus. With reverent, trembling hands, I slipped the belt on, fastening it in place with a soft click. New power—vitality and restless energy—ripped through me as though I’d just chugged a whole pot of coffee. Despite the awful circumstances, and the grisly scene surrounding me, I couldn’t help but pull up my interface and toggle over to my Character screen. My avatar appeared—lean build, dusky gunmetal gray skin, glossy raven-black hair—next to my stat screen:

Satisfied, I closed the screen, which is when I noticed the jade light bleeding from the belt around my waist, drifting up and twirling in the air. Everyone stared, transfixed, at the spectacular light display, their eyes tracking the hypnotizing and sinuous movements. In a handful of heartbeats, the lazy cloud of light coalesced into a picture: a meadow of electric-green grass, ringed by a series of gray stone archways, nestled in a magical forest. Seven sprawling chairs, heavy wooden things edged in gold, sat in the clearing.

The Sacred Glade, home to the Dark Conclave.

As I watched, a brilliant portal of opalescent light appeared between one of the stone arches, and then, in a blink, the glade was gone and a new landscape appeared. Everything was hazy and indistinct, blurred and distorted in every direction, as though I wasn’t meant to see this. Not yet. One image was clear, however: the enormous dragon, larger than a semitruck, crouched on the ground. The Sky Maiden, Arzokh. Even more disconcerting was the thing she wore around her redwood-sized neck: a golden chain with an amulet cobbled together from yellowing bone and chips of jade.

The last set item. Of course.

The Amulet of the Jade Lord was inside the Twilight Lands, where the Jade Lord was being held captive. The real problem, though, was I needed to have all three set items in my possession to render the Sky Maiden mortal, but she had the last set item. Which meant I’d need to travel to the Twilight Lands and figure out how to get the amulet off the neck of a bloodthirsty, indestructible dragon without her noticing. As if this ridiculous quest weren’t hard enough already.

The swirling light faded and died, immediately replaced by another quest update:

∞∞∞

Quest Update: Path of the Jade Lord

Congratulations! You’ve retrieved the Belt of the Jade Lord from the Citadel of Arzokh and discovered the location of the last set item, the Amulet of the Jade Lord. Unfortunately, the Amulet is in the Twilight Lands and currently in the possession of the Sky Maiden, Arzokh. Travel to the Sacred Glade of the Dark Conclave, use the Horn of the Ancients to access the Twilight Lands and steal the Amulet from Arzokh. Once you have all three Artifacts in your possession, destroy the Sky Maiden and free the Jade Lord and his brothers from their imprisonment in the Twilight Acropolis.

Quest Class: Ultra-Rare, Secret

Quest Difficulty: Death-Head

Success: Capture the Amulet of the Jade Lord, destroy Arzokh, and free the Jade Lord.

Failure: This is a Death-Head Quest; if you die at any point before completing the objective, you automatically fail and the quest chain will forever be closed to you!

Reward: The Set of the Jade Lord; the Blessing of the Jade Lord; 40,000 EXP.

∞∞∞

I read and reread it at least a dozen times.

What a complete and total nightmare.

Finally, I closed the quest update—looking at it wouldn’t make things any better and we were burning daylight. Hastily, I filled in the rest of the party on the new quest objective and the formidable complications standing in our way to victory. Needless to say, we departed the Citadel via the port-stone as a very somber group, more than ready for this grueling quest to finally be over. Thankfully, the port-stone didn’t drop us back in the abandoned tunnels but rather teleported us directly to an alley near the Knobby Knee.

I saw Ekrin through the window as we trudged by; from the sadness lining her face, it was obvious she knew exactly what had transpired down in the Citadel. The gore covering our armor—splashes of red and bits of bone—told the story better than words ever could. I turned away from her accusing stare, and led us away from the ramshackle opium den as the sun sunk lower and lower into the horizon. Time to get back to Yunnam and figure out how we were going to do this thing, and with only a little over a day left.

TWENTY-SIX:

Tomestide

We stepped through a shimmering portal, courtesy of the Mystica Ordo of Ankara, and into Yunnam proper at twilight. A swirl of dark purples, sprinkled with pinpricks of diamond light, pressed down on us as the last glimmers of golden daylight faded. Ankara, with its gleaming crystal towers and colorful markets, had been beautiful, but it was nice to be back in Yunnam. In some small way, it felt like coming home. The rest of the party shuffled out, bloody, dirt-streaked faces downcast in defeat.

Obviously, the butchery back at the Citadel was still weighing heavily on everyone.

“Well,” Cutter said, breaking the contemplative silence, “I know we’re on a bit of a time crunch, but I say we break, eh? Get cleaned up at the bathhouse, grab something to eat, then reconvene at the Keep? Let the chief know about the new developments, then come up with a plan?”

“I’m on board with that,” Forge said, followed by a round of muted, half-hearted agreement. “I mean I know we got the mission to take care of, but I smell like the inside of a sweaty ass crack.” He lifted one powerful arm and took a sniff at his pit, face wrinkling in distaste. “I’m making myself sick, to be honest.”

Abby stole a sidelong glance, then scooted a little further away from the former Texan. “For once,” she said, arms folded across her chest, “I think you actually have a good idea, Cutter. Let’s say”—she paused, eyes going hazy as she pulled up her interface—“an hour in the Control Center. Does that work for everyone?”

Another round of muted approval followed.

I was on the verge of answering when something pinged in my ear, a new personal message. I held up a finger, just give me a sec, pulled up my user interface, and scrolled over to my inbox. Whatever I’d been about to say died on my lips as I read the subject head: It’s not too late to stop this … The sender was none other than Robert Osmark. Goosebumps broke out along my arms and neck as an army of butterflies flipped, soared, and swooped in the pit of my stomach. Deep down, I’d known it would come to this sooner or later—I’d just expected later.

Like after I had the entire Storme Marshes backing me, maybe.

“You alright, friend?” Cutter asked, genuine concern flashing across his features.

I shook my head, feeling genuinely ill as I pulled up the message.

∞∞∞

Personal Message:

Jack,

I’m disappointed in the way you’ve decided to play things. I thought we had an understanding after our last conversation, even if we didn’t see eye to eye on every detail. Apparently, however, I was mistaken. Although I don’t know the exact details of this quest you’re currently pursuing, I’ve been informed by Enyo that it has the potential to change the game. If you finish it, you’ll control the entire Storme Marshes—or so I’m told—which is an unacceptable outcome for the Empire. For my business associates and me.

From my understanding, though, it’s not too late to stop this, Jack. Not too late to do the reasonable thing. You’re on the edge of a cliff, however, and once you jump, there’s no way back to the top of the mountain. Any chance we formerly had at a working relationship vanishes. But I don’t want things to go that way, as I said last time. I like you. For that reason, I think we should meet in person before you make a decision you can’t take back.

There’s something you need to see before you leap to a very unfortunate fate.

To that end, I’ve attached a single-use port-scroll, which will bring you to a small town called Tomestide on the West Viridian side of the continent. You’ll see there’s also a return scroll, which will instantly port you to your respawn location. You have my word as a businessman that you’ll be safe, treated well, and allowed to leave whenever you decide. I’m being generous here, Jack, and if you choose not to take me up on the offer, there will be severe, irrevocable consequences.

Best Regards,

Robert Osmark, High Emperor of the Viridian Empire

∞∞∞

I read and reread the message as everyone stood around me in a circle, a mixture of concern and fear waltzing across their faces.

“Jack, what’s happening?” Abby asked, barely controlled panic in her voice. “You’re freaking everyone out.”

Finally, I dismissed the PM and glanced up, feeling jittery and nervous all the way down to my toes. “I just got a message from Osmark,” I said, my voice dull and flat. “He knows about the Jade Lord quest. Not everything, but enough to understand the implications and to be pissed about them. He sent over a one-off port-scroll. He wants to have a face-to-face with me in some town called Tomestide.”

“In West Viridia?” Cutter asked incredulously, hands planted defiantly on hips. “The man’s bloody mad is what he is. Why would he think you’d ever be stupid enough to go, eh?”

I pressed my lips into a tight line and glanced away.

“Wait a bloody minute, you’re not thinking about going, are you?”

“Oh, my God,” Abby said, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “He is. He’s legitimately considering it.” She reached up and rubbed at the bridge of her nose. “This is a terrible idea, Jack. Osmark’s a snake—you can’t trust him. Seriously. I’ve met him before, so I know how charming he can be, but it’s all a show. One big act. As soon as it’s convenient, he’ll kill you. He’ll kill all of us. I know you don’t want to fight him, but please,” she said, face softening in genuine concern, “don’t do this.”

“Jack,” Vlad said, skirting around the others until he stood directly in front of me. “Abby, she is right. It is likely a trap. If you go, what is to stop him from killing you on the spot? Or worse, imprisoning you?” He put a reassuring hand on my shoulder and stared me in the eyes. “In Russia, such underhanded tactics are standard practice. This is a bad idea, I think. Foolhardy. All risk, no value.”

“No, that’s where you’re wrong,” I said, shrugging his hand off. “The value is in preventing a war. Osmark might be dead set against us, but I don’t think he’s a bad guy. At least not all bad.” My mind flashed to the corpse of the Priestess laid out on the ground, her skin blackened, her head and shoulder blown away. That was what war looked like—maybe not for players, but certainly for countless NPCs. I shuddered involuntarily. I was fine with grinding monsters into the dust, the gamer in me loved that, but killing NPCs and players was something else entirely. “And, if he wants to talk, then maybe there’s still a chance to end this all peacefully.”

“But, Jack—” Abby started, holding up a hand.

“No,” I cut her off, shaking my head. “I’m doing this.” I pulled the scroll—a piece of faded white parchment, bound with red ribbon—from my inventory. “This is my quest, and at the end of the day, I’m responsible for how things turn out. If I can avoid a war, I will.” I broke the seal with my thumb and unrolled the sheet. A shimmering portal, like a rainbow given life, formed in front of me. “Rest, wash, tell the chief what happened, and get ready to leave for the Conclave. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Please, Jack,” Abby called out as I stepped into the portal, her voice trailing me through the void. “I know you don’t want a war, but you can’t trust Osmark—” The words died as the portal snapped shut behind me.

I stumbled a step or two, then caught myself not feeling any of the typical vertigo or nausea that came with port skips. The one-off spells were great that way: super reliable, accurate, and extremely stable. The only problem was they were prohibitively expensive, costing over a hundred and fifty gold—the equivalent of fifteen hundred dollars—for a single use, and they could only accommodate two or three people, tops, before fizzling. On top of that, they were extremely difficult to manufacture, requiring a specialized skill set and a very rare set of alchemic ingredients.

Still, when this quest was over and done with, I needed to have Vlad see if there was some way to produce them more cheaply. Not having to rely on the Mystica Ordo could be a game changer—not to mention the sheer convenience factor.

I dismissed the thoughts as I turned in a slow circle. The scroll had dumped me in a cozy inn with worn cobblestone floors, white plaster walls, and a double fistful of oak tables flanked by long communal benches. Strangely, though, the inn was silent and empty. No one sat at the tables or loitered by the roaring fire burning merrily along the right-hand wall. The raised wooden stage near the back likewise stood empty, and though there was a long sleek bar—well stocked with heavy barrels of mead—there was no bartender serving up suds.

“Don’t worry,” came a familiar voice, drifting from the upper floor.

I spun, hand automatically landing on my warhammer. A man leaned casually against the wooden railing, a lopsided smirk adorning his face as he regarded me through a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. He was human—an Imperial, at a glance—with a wiry athletic build, a slightly crooked nose, and shaggy brown hair framing an angular face. Robert Osmark. I knew it was him, both from IRL media coverage and from my brief meeting with him a week ago. He certainly didn’t look much like an emperor or the would-be tin-pot dictator I’d been envisioning.

In fact, he didn’t look like a native of Eldgard at all. I’d come expecting a toga and laurel leaf crown, at the very least. But no. He sported black slacks and a navy turtleneck—simple, plain, and modern. He also didn’t have a weapon, not so much as a dagger.

He smiled, noticing my surprise. “Not all of us enjoy the medieval look. And though my gear may not look like much”—he gestured at his unusual attire—“I can assure you, my clothes will protect me better than the heaviest steel plate mail. Ancient Artifact promotional items, crafted before launch. Just a few of the benefits of being the creator of the world.”

His smile widened a hair as he straightened and slowly made his way down the stairs, his plain black loafers clicking against the wood as he walked. “Thank you for having the courage to come,” he said, stepping onto the cobblestones. “Most men and women, the huddled masses of the world, are controlled by fear—it paralyzes them. Leaves them indecisive, docile, predictable, and constantly searching for comfort and safety. That doesn’t make them bad, of course, it just makes them unspectacularly average.” He uttered that last word with a contemptuous sneer. “Sheeple who need to be guided by a strong, capable hand.”

He smiled and dipped his head, the gesture clear: they need to be guided by a hand like mine.

“Not you, though,” he said after a beat. “You came, despite the danger and potential risk. It’s hard to believe you were an EMT before this, but that is proof of the potential exceptionalism of the human animal. Yet …” He ambled over to a high-backed leather chair near the fire. Leisurely—like a man at an exclusive country club—he sat and leaned back, crossing his legs and tenting his fingers, cataloging every detail about me: My armor. My weapon. The bloodstains marring everything.

“Yet, you also defy someone who is clearly your superior in every way,” he finally continued. “I have more money, more faction members, more allies, and more experience. Yet here you are, working against your best interests, which is such a curious thing. So, tell me why, Jack. Make me understand what would motivate you to walk away from such a generous deal. Why purposely take a road that will lead to your destruction?” He calmly regarded me over the top of his glasses. “For a bright, promising, ingenuitive young man, that seems like a very, very, very stupid move.”

“Because it’s the right thing to do, for one,” I said, shifting uncomfortably under his intense scrutiny.

He snorted, rolled his eyes, and waved my answer away with one hand. “Idealism is for starry-eyed undergrads. From our last chat, I got the impression you were a more pragmatic sort. So, let’s avoid the cliché good verse evil tripe and talk reality. Just level with me. Why do this?”

Instead of answering, I paced for a second, lacing my hands behind my neck as I thought. “Because the deal is dependent entirely on your benevolence,” I blurted. “I don’t want a war, and right now you don’t either—at least that’s what you say—but what if that changes? I don’t think you’re evil, Osmark, but I believe you’ll crush me in a second if it fits into your agenda. I think that’s the kind of man you are. And I want insurance in case you suddenly change your mind. Having all of the Storme Marshes united behind me is that kind of insurance.”

Osmark smiled, a wicked grin, with a dangerous gleam in his eye. “I can respect someone who isn’t shortsighted,” he said, nodding. “Here’s the problem, however. You’re hoping this quest will secure your position of power inside Eldgard, but in fact you’re endangering it. That’s why I invited you here, to Tomestide.” He stood and clasped his hands behind his back. “Please follow me, and I’ll explain.”

TWENTY-SEVEN:

Hard Choices

Osmark lingered in front of the inn, rocking back and forth on his heels as he stared at the horizon. Tomestide itself was a small and unremarkable town with gray cobblestone streets and a mixture of stone and wood houses. A layover village of maybe five hundred people—the kind of place that probably offered a handful of low-level quests for lowbie players looking to kill low-level rats or gather ingredients for the local blacksmith. Idyllic, beautiful, but not much more than a blip on the map.

But it wasn’t the town Osmark was looking at, it was the rippling sea of campfires and pitched tents in a broad grassy clearing to the south. The lighting wasn’t great—the sun was gone and early evening washed the scene in shades of purple and blue—but with my Night Eye ability, I could see just fine. There must’ve been a thousand tents with a multitude of men and women weaving their way through the camp or huddling around campfires—eating, drinking, joking, tending to gear. It was hard to tell the exact number, but I’d say there were ten thousand troops present.

Maybe more.

But the sheer numbers weren’t the only issue. Oh no. Edging the right side of the camp was a line of battle-ready war mounts: everything from bulky draft horses to sleek pumas and giant ground lizards, fifteen feet long. And on the left were war machines. Heavy ballistae with formidable steel bolts. Hulking mangonel on wooden rollers. Long armed trebuchets, capable of lobbing a boulder a thousand feet or more. Massive battering rams of sculpted stone, etched with runic magic. Colossal siege towers of wood, leather, and cold iron, easily capable of reaching the top of Rowanheath’s outer wall.

“Did you think you were the only one with an Alchemic Weaponeer, Jack?” He asked, still staring at the weapons. “The only one who understood the value of investing in the Merchant and State Craft skill trees? I built this world. I know it better than anyone, except the Overminds, and I have twenty-four factions backing me. Your faction strategy is clever, Jack, but not nearly clever enough. And this move to unify the Storme Marshes? Instead of securing your future, you’re going to destroy it. Destroy everything you’ve worked for and built.”

He glanced at me, a cruel half smile on his lips. “In business, we call that the law of unintended consequences. You see, the Storme Marshes will give you an edge, but it won’t give you enough of an edge. Not to win. No, no.” He pursed his lips and shook his head ruefully. “It will only give you enough power to be considered a legitimate threat. Before you were a cockroach, too small to bother crushing. Now, however, you’re a rabid dog that needs to be put down.

“So far, I’ve been able to convince my allies and business partners of your value to our Imperial enterprise. I’ve convinced them you’re under my heel. As a result, they’ve been content to throw token forces at you for the sake of appearances. Not anymore. This”—he swept a hand out toward the troops, the mounts, the siege engines—“is the direct response to your actions. The unintended consequences of your ambition and disloyalty.”

He fell silent, waiting for my reply. But I didn’t have one. What could I say?

Instead, I stood there, staring at the impossible force arrayed against me as a warm evening breeze blew through my hair and a soft chorus of crickets chirped and sang. Sophia had told me this is where I’d end up, so none of this should’ve come as a surprise. It still did, though. In my heart, I’d always known the Crimson Alliance was the underdog, but knowing that intellectually and seeing it with my own eyes were vastly different.

“It doesn’t need to be this way, though, Jack,” Osmark said, staring straight ahead as though envisioning the inevitable slaughter to come. “Like I said, you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, a great precipice, but you haven’t jumped. Not yet. Back down. Refuse to complete the quest and things can go back to normal. If not …” He trailed off and shrugged indifferently. “Well, I can have this entire army outside of Rowanheath in ten days. I’ll wipe you out there, then turn south and bulldoze the Storme Marshes all the way to Yunnam. It will be long and painful, but quite thorough.”

I turned away, then, pulling the return scroll Osmark had sent along with his original message from my bag. I broke the seal and unfurled the parchment, triggering the portal with a flare of brilliant light.

Osmark’s hand wrapped around my bicep, his fingers biting down painfully. “Just consider it,” he said. “I do like you, but you’re not irreplaceable. Never forget that.”

I batted his hand away, gave him a thin smile, and stepped through the gateway and directly into my master suite in the Darkshard Keep, my mind weighed down by the difficult decisions ahead of me.

I knew Abby and the others would be in the control room, talking strategy for the upcoming battle against the Sky Maiden, but I couldn’t force myself to join them. Not until I had a real chance to think things through. I stripped—glad to be free from my gore-spattered armor—and beelined for the bathroom, stepping into the shower and turning the hot water on full-tilt. In seconds, a cloud of steam rolled out as scorching water splashed over my face and across my chest, running down in a sheet.

I closed my eyes and leaned my head forward, letting the water run over my neck and cascade down my back, loosening tense, overworked muscles. As I stood there—eyes closed, bathed in delicious heat, listening to the pitter-patter of falling water—I felt like I could finally think. Naturally, my mind turned to Osmark: to his plea for peace and his threat of war. Like any good salesman, he’d given me both the carrot and the stick. Get on board with progress and maybe things would be okay, or rock the boat and risk getting thrown to the sharks.

My gut reaction was to let the Jade Lord quest die—to keep my head down, mind my own business, and leave Osmark alone. I hated conflict by nature, so there was a certain appeal to sticking my head in the sand and ignoring the looming threat Osmark posed. That was the path of least resistance, the path of least conflict. Moreover, I didn’t really want to finish the Jade Lord quest anyway. Not after what had happened beneath Ankara. I could walk away, forget about the whole damned thing, and hope that everything would go back to normal.

But, I couldn’t stop envisioning that colossal army stretched out across the Shining Plains like a plague of locust ready to eat me out of house and home. Honestly, what were the chances he’d assemble an army like that, only to send everyone home without so much as a skirmish? That pushed the border of credibility. No, that army was a loaded revolver with the hammer cocked, and Osmark’s finger was already squeezing the trigger. Maybe he wouldn’t fire tomorrow, next week, or even next month, but he would fire eventually. It was only a matter of time.

Plus, I didn’t trust him.

Maybe he wasn’t evil, but he certainly wasn’t above lying through his teeth to get what he wanted.

He’d told me, straight-faced, his army was the direct result of my actions, but I knew that couldn’t be true. Sure, on its face, it was a convincing argument, but the sheer logistics of it didn’t work. I’d only accepted the Jade Lord quest two days ago, and moving ten thousand people into place over two days was nearly impossible. Not to mention, siege engines took time to build. Maybe he could do it with a crew of highly specialized builders, led by a whole team of Alchemic Weaponeers, but even that seemed suspect. Osmark didn’t have a handful of siege weapons, he had two dozen or more.

No, that would take time. A week or more, easy, and that was with access to unlimited supplies and manpower.

Only one thing made any sense: he’d been building that army for a while. And since I was the only enemy he had at the moment, the logical conclusion was he’d been preparing to attack me all along. To attack the Alliance and wipe us out root and branch. Was it possible he’d never wanted peace? Was it possible he’d been playing me from the get-go, just like Abby had warned? Setting me up so I’d be complacent? So I’d let down my guard? It hurt to think I could be so gullible, but there wasn’t another solution that seemed to fit the evidence.

If that was the case, however, then why tip his hand? Why bring me to Tomestide and let me glimpse his forces?

I stewed on that for a moment as hot water sluiced over me.

The answer hit in a flash: he’d showed me because he was afraid.

If he wanted to wipe out the Alliance and set someone else up as a puppet, it would be much easier if we didn’t have the Storme Marshes standing firm behind us. He showed his hand hoping to make me back down so he could crush the Alliance with ease. It all made sense, it all added up. Suddenly, the anger I’d felt after the battle in the Citadel was back, rampaging through me at Osmark’s deceit. He’d buttered me up with flattery and promises that were too good to be true, and I’d fallen for them.

I’d never wanted any of this—the faction, the burden of responsibility—and as a result, I’d been blind to the truth. All because I didn’t want to embrace my new role in this world.

Well, no more …

I killed the water and stepped into the frigid air, goosebumps breaking out along my skin as I toweled off, slipped on fresh undergarments, and donned my armor. Instead of triggering the internal port feature, I trudged through the Keep and up the never-ending spiral steps to the control room, simmering in my rage and using the extra time to think about what we should do and what I would say to the others. When I finally crested the stairs and shoved my way past the wooden doors standing sentry against intruders, I found the circular room mostly empty.

The usual hustle and bustle was absent—no Dwarves talked mining, no bureaucrats discussed trade earnings, no clansfolk lodged complaints. Instead, Abby, Vlad, Forge, Cutter, Amara, and Chief Kolle sat around the hulking central table, sipping at mugs of potent Western Brew while talking in somber, quiet voices. Despite our victories in the recent past, they looked defeated: faces long, backs slouched, heads bowed. Every eye turned on me as I marched in, and a palpable relief seemed to invade the air as they released a collective sigh.

No one spoke, though. They just stared at me expectantly.

I cleared my throat and dipped my head. “I’ve been an idiot,” I said, feeling the hot edge of anger churn in my gut.

“No, Grim Jack,” the chief said, sympathy flashing across his bluff face. “Much has happened—”

I held up a hand, cutting him short. “I appreciate that, Chief Kolle. I do. But I have been acting like a gullible idiot. I never should’ve trusted Osmark—I should’ve listened to you all, but I wanted peace so bad I didn’t. Well, that’s finished. Tonight, I visited Tomestide and I saw an Imperial army ten thousand deep, with enough siege equipment to bring down Rowanheath ten times over. And then? Then Osmark gave me an ultimatum: abandon the Jade Lord quest or, in ten days’ time, that army is going to be at the Rowanheath gates.”

Everyone was silent, even more somber than before.

“But that’s when this realization hit me like a baseball bat to the back of the head,” I continued. “This was always his plan. Always. He never wanted what I wanted. He was just biding his time, stringing me along until he was strong enough to roll in here with his troops and his siege weapons and crush us flat. And since I’m being honest, I have to admit he might be able to do just that. That army …” I trailed off, shaking my head. “Well, I don’t know how we’ll win against that. But I’ll tell you this for damned sure—the Empire isn’t going to beat us without one helluva fight. Maybe Osmark will grind us down in the long run, but not before we kick his teeth in for the trouble.”

“But to do that—to have any chance at all,” I said, leaning forward, hands pressed down against the table, “we need to have all six Murk clans at our backs, and I think Osmark knows that. He saw what we did against Rowanheath and he saw what happened to Carrera, and that was with a handful of warriors and a platoon of mercenaries. Imagine what we could do with all six clans and Rowanheath under our belt. I think Osmark’s afraid of us, of what we’re capable of, which is why he made this move. He wants to keep us weak and unprepared for as long as possible, which means we need to complete the Jade Lord quest no matter the cost. It’s about survival and it’s for the greater good of everyone in the Crimson Alliance.”

I paused, staring around, meeting each of their gazes in turn as they absorbed my words. “Ultimately, though,” I said after a time, “this isn’t my decision—at least, it’s not my decision alone. Everyone at this table has skin in the game, so whatever we decide … Well, it needs to be our decision.”

For a second, no one spoke.

“I have never trusted this Osmark,” Chief Kolle finally offered. “This was always the path we were destined to walk, I think. So, let us walk it proudly. Defiantly, as is the way of our people.”

“I am in agreement,” Amara added. “Let us see how his siege weapons fare in the muck and mire of the marshes. He will find we Dokkalfar are no easy game.”

“Damn right,” Forge added. “I didn’t wanna step on your toes, Jack, ’cause you’re our leader and a good guy, but that Osmark’s a real dickbasket. I don’t wanna make no deals with him. Me? I’m a patriot—my blood runs red, white, and blue—and I don’t truck with no empire. Not since 1776. I’d rather go down in flames doin’ the right thing than survive by compromisin’. So, I’m in all the way.”

“And you know where I stand, Jack,” Abby said, really smiling again for the first time since Ankara. “Osmark’s as bad as they come, no matter what he says. I’m glad you finally see that, too. Let’s fight him tooth and nail on this.”

Vlad was silent, his gaze hazy and distant—strangely thoughtful. “I do not speak much on my background, because I am Russian. And a proud Russian. The Motherland, it flows in my veins as surely as the stars and stripes flow through Forge. Still, my homeland has a long history of corruption and tyrannical leaders, and that is why I sided with you, Jack. I sided with you because you have power, but you don’t want it. And that? That is good. Not so Osmark.” He shook his head. “He is a man who only wants power, and such men are more dangerous than rabid bears. Such men must be stopped.”

“Well, you know I’m not going to say no,” Cutter added, the last to weigh in. “I’ve never been a fan of the Empire. Not out of idealism, you understand. It’s the bloody taxes. I’ll fight taxes to the death, mate. Plus, if I have to follow anyone, I suppose you’re an alright sort, Jack.” He shot me an encouraging wink.

I grinned—Cutter might not have been noble, but he was honest. Something I’d always appreciate about the thief. “Alright, then,” I said. “Let’s go take a trip to the Twilight Lands and put this thing to rest.”

TWENTY-EIGHT:

Twilight Lands

I lingered in the sacred glade with the Horn of the Ancients clenched in one white-knuckled hand. It was a simple instrument of beaten brass covered in hair-fine inscriptions that spiraled from the battered mouthpiece to the gently flared bell. It couldn’t have weighed more than a pound, but for some reason it felt impossibly heavy in my hand, dragging me down with the weight of its implications. All I needed to do was raise it to my lips, give one little puff, and the Twilight Lands would open to us.

One puff to set us on a crash course with the Empire.

One puff and I’d come face-to-face with a dragon, who might burn me to a crisp.

One puff and my world would change forever, one way or another.

I took a deep breath, pressing my eyes shut, hand flexing around the horn, pressing into the metal until my palm hurt from the strain. Was this a risk? Yes. Was killing the Sky Maiden morally questionable? Possibly—especially if what we’d heard in the Citadel was true. But I just couldn’t see a better choice, or another way forward, and as Chief Kolle was fond of saying, “There is no reward without risk and no change without challenge.”

“Well let’s not dawdle,” Cutter said from behind me. “That dragon isn’t gonna slay itself, and I’ve got better things to do than stand around in some dank, musty cave. Like drink and gamble and spend all my hard-earned gold.” His words were as confident and cocksure as ever, but I knew him well enough to catch the hint of worry and fear lingering just beneath the surface. One of us might die here. Maybe him. Maybe Amara. Maybe all of us.

Slowly, I surveyed each of my teammates in turn. As I scanned their faces, I saw that same worry, that same fear—though tightly concealed—in each of them. There was something else there, too, a hopefulness of things to come. A hope that maybe this was the road to a better tomorrow for all of us. I also read solidarity in their faces: for better or worse, we were in this thing together, and whatever waited for us on the other side … Well, we’d face it together. Suddenly, the immense weight of the horn faded and it was just an old piece of brass.

Just one more quest item on the road to something better.

I smiled, nodded, and raised the horn, pressing it to my lips and giving it a short blow. A single clarion note exploded out like a bomb blast, shoving me back a few steps as a wave of arcane power flooded into the stone archways surrounding the glade. In a flash, an eyeblink, the archways ceased being crude lifeless rock and became something more: gateways to other realms. Other worlds. Each of the doorways was covered with a spectral sheen of shifting purple light, and each looked out onto some new and fantastical landscape.

“Wow,” Abby said, her voice muted and oddly reverent. “This is incredible.”

I agreed completely. I’d never seen anything like this.

One doorway showcased an endless desert of cracked yellow hardpan, as flat as an ocean with a single pyramid—hulking, ancient, and crumbling—marring the horizon. Another peered onto the gray sands of a beach with white rocks jutting up; water, the color of a nosebleed, crashed endlessly against the shore. A third led to an orchard of towering wild apple trees with a small winding road leading to a crystalline lake in the distance. A beautiful, peaceful place—or so I thought, until a horror as large as a tractor-trailer, with a forest of black tentacles, broke the surface of the water before disappearing back into the depths of the lake.

Another portal, this one off to my right, caught my eye.

A barren, desolate land of rolling hills, covered in ashy pale dirt and dotted with patches of withered scrub grass and stunted, bone-white trees poking up like oversized skeletal hands. In the distance, colossal twisted spires—adorned with spectral green windows like glaring insect eyes—scraped a star-studded sky the color of an old bruise. A city. One which easily rivaled Rowanheath or even Ankara, though dreadful and dreary. I couldn’t be sure, but every fiber of my being said that had to be Morsheim, the land of Serth-Rog and home to the long-dead Vogthar.

I shuffled over to the Morsheim portal, my feet moving against my will, and reached out a tentative hand, stretching toward the twisted city beyond.

My fingers stopped short, though, jamming up against an invisible barrier as solid as glass. These doorways were locked, then. Restricted areas, barred until I had the right quest to open the way. Idly, I wondered if there were more areas like this glade scattered across Eldgard—some sort of primal hubs for players to access different realms of existence, locked during regular gameplay. An interesting notion—and the gamer in me couldn’t help but chortle in glee, imagining all the unique quests and loot likely spread through those lands—but it was a notion I’d have to ask about later.

I had a dragon to find.

It didn’t take me long to locate the portal to the Twilight Lands. “That one,” I said, jabbing a finger at a gateway with a giant volcano spewing an endless stream of molten rock high into the air. I stepped forward, but Abby’s hand fell on my forearm, her normally gentle fingers squeezing down, stopping me in my tracks.

“Can I just have one minute before we go in?” Unlike her steely grip, the words were soft, almost pleading.

I nodded.

She led me off to the side, away from the others, and drew me close. “Look, I know we agreed to fight Osmark and I know to do that, we need to do this.” She dipped her head toward the portal. “We need to get the artifacts and kill the dragon …” She trailed off, glancing away while she fidgeted with her dress. “But I still feel really uncomfortable about it. I mean after what happened back in the Citadel … I dunno, it just feels wrong to do this. I can’t explain it, but I can’t shake the feeling either.”

“I understand completely,” I replied, meaning every word. “I’d never say this in front of Amara or any other members of the Dark Conclave, but I believed every word the Priestess said. She had no reason to lie to us. Nangkri probably killed Arzokh and her family for some gold, which is incredibly crappy. But we need to think about the faction, Abby. This isn’t about us, not anymore. Like it or not, we’re in charge and that means people are depending on us. A lot of people. And what’ll happen if we fail? Osmark steamrolls us in two weeks and destroys everything we’ve worked for.”

“Yeah, I know that,” she said, bobbing her head in agreement. “Just, just promise me one thing …” She glanced up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “If there’s any way to bargain with Arzokh, to find a peaceful solution, tell me you’ll at least consider it?”

I hesitated for a second, then nodded. “Yeah, of course. I don’t know how things will shake out, but if there’s any other way, we’ll do it.”

She leaned in and gave me a quick peck on the cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered, before letting go of my arm.

I shot her a lopsided smile in return, then spun and headed into the breach, shuddering involuntarily as frozen power splashed across my skin, freezing me to the bone.

The cold didn’t last long, though.

Nope.

A wave of sweltering heat bludgeoned me like a baseball bat, far worse than anything I’d experienced in the game so far. The Storme Marshes could be awful with high temperatures and overwhelming humidity, but not like this place. Not even the sweltering Barren Sands of Ankara came close. Perspiration instantly broke out across my brow, rolled down between my shoulder blades, and left my shirt and pants sticking uncomfortably against my skin. I staggered, slipping over to one side as I took a moment to get a handle on my surroundings.

The sky overhead was devoid of stars and black as the bottom of the ocean, though a vast battalion of clouds—angry red things—floated by on an unfelt breeze. The ground beneath my boots was gray, lifeless, and studded with spars of sharp rock like gigantic teeth. Nothing grew here—no flowers, no trees, no life. It was a dead place, made for the dead. I was in a canyon with towering walls of craggy rock flanking me on both sides.

The volcano—a domineering mountain of black stone and jagged peaks—vomited a constant stream of lava like a never-ceasing geyser; the glowing magma trailed down the slope and turned into a sludgy, slow moving river of fire and molten rock. That river, in turn, meandered through this canyon, implacably carving its way through the rock thirty feet to my left. I turned in a quick circle, scanning the jagged, irregular rocks for any sign of the dragon or the Twilight Acropolis—the Jade Lord’s prison for the last five hundred years.

It didn’t take long to spot an ancient complex, perched precariously on an outcropping, overlooking the canyon, since it was the only man-made structure in sight. A squat, flat-topped building with a host of columns, which marched around the perimeter like stern-faced sentries. Even at a distance, I could see seven figures, blurry and indistinct, standing in the shade of the immense columns, staring out over the fiery landscape. That had to be the Jade Lord and his brothers. Had to be. Hiking up to the Acropolis would be an absolute nightmare, but with Devil I could make the trip in minutes.

Without a thought, I drew on the frigid power of Umbra coursing through me, calling Devil from the Shadowverse in a burst of cold energy and inky smoke. The Drake appeared a few feet away, looking significantly better than the last time I’d seen him—his wounds healed, his wings mended, his scales gleaming and slick in the firelight from the river. The Drake glanced at me, dipping his head in acknowledgment, before turning his reptilian gaze on the bleak landscape. What is this place? he sent, sounding … not scared, not exactly, but a touch apprehensive.

Twilight Lands, I replied, clambering over to him and slipping onto his back. We’ve come to find the Sky Maiden, Arzokh.

Devil sniffed and snorted, his purple eyes narrowing. The mother of dragons, he sent, more respectful than I’d ever heard from him. Among my kind, it is said she is the true mother of all Dragons, Drakes, and Wyverns.

You okay to fight her? I asked, panic creeping into my thoughts, my heart leaping into overdrive … I was already unsure how we were going to win this thing, but without Devil to assist me, it would go from nearly impossible to absolutely impossible.

The Drake hesitated for a second, debating with himself, before eventually bobbing his head. She is a worthy foe—there is no greater challenge for one of our kind. It will be a honor to battle her.

A string of muted cursing interrupted our silent conversation as Cutter stumbled through the portal, followed in short order by Forge, Abby, Vlad, and Amara. Most covered their mouths against the choking dust or shielded their eyes from the harsh glare of the nearby volcanic river.

“Shite,” Cutter said, eyes squinted as he fanned himself with one hand. “And I thought the Storme Marshes were hot. This place is a right nightmare. I wouldn’t want to spend an hour here, much less five bloody centuries. No wonder Arzokh is disgruntled—I’d be too if someone damned me to this god-awful place.”

“Yeah, it’s awfully desolate,” Abby said thoughtfully, turning in a slow circle, searching the landscape much like I’d done a second before. “So, I assume that’s the prison”—she hooked a thumb toward the building—“but where’s the Sky Maiden? I sort of expected her to be just waiting for us. Do you think there’s a dungeon we need to fight our way—”

A roar, part earthquake, part thunderstorm, cut Abby off mid-sentence. The sheer volume shook the ground and reverberated in my chest as loose pieces of scree bounced down the canyon walls in a series of mini rockslides.

“Guess that answers that,” Forge said, pointing toward the volcano with his heavy axe.

I stared, thunderstruck, as an enormous creature of scale, spike, and bone emerged from the top of the volcano like a fire god brought to life then given wings and terrible purpose. Simply incredible. I’d seen visions of her more than once, but it was nothing like seeing her in real life. Not even close. The size of her alone left me breathless and terrified. When I’d first battled Devil back in the Darkshard mines, Cutter had told me Drakes were simply small dragons, but it wasn’t until this second that I understood the difference.

The scope of it.

Arzokh was easily ten times the Drake’s size. If Devil was a sleek sports car, then Arzokh was the love child of a coal train and an aircraft carrier.

She was longer than a jumbo jet from snout to tail and just as big around in the chest. Her hide was a red so deep it bordered on black, and covered with cracking slabs of volcanic rock. Her wings, instead of jutting from her shoulder blades, connected along the outside of her elongated front arms like a bat’s wings. Her head—bigger than a Slugbug and sporting jaws packed with teeth longer than my forearm—swayed on a neck as thick as a towering pine. Smoke and fire trailed from her yawning maw as she hurtled toward us, making me think of the cataclysmic asteroid that had ended the world not so long ago.

I couldn’t help but feel she was going to succeed where the asteroid failed: she was going to end me. End us all.

“Pizdets, nam pizdets,” Vlad said with a groan, his face drooping as he groped at the alchemic grenades crisscrossing his chest. “We are—how do you Westerners say—screwed royalty.”

“That’s not how it goes,” I mumbled absently in reply.

“I’ve got to agree with the Alchemist,” Cutter said, glancing longingly at the portal hanging open midair, leading back to the sacred clearing. “I think we ought to chalk this up as a loss and call it quits. There’s no way we can beat that thing. It’s bloody impossible. Especially if she’s indestructible until we get the amulet. Might as well go jump in that magma river—it’ll be quicker and less painful.”

“She is bigger than I expected,” Amara said, nocking her bow with practiced efficiency. “But no creature is indestructible. She is formidable in body, true, but not more formidable than the mind.” She reached up and tapped at her temple. “She will rely on her size and strength, so we simply need to outthink her.”

As much as I subconsciously agreed with Cutter, Amara was right. I couldn’t go into this battle already convinced I’d lost. Beating Carrera had seemed impossible and so had defeating the Moss Hag, but I’d done both even when everyone thought I was doomed to failure from the start. I narrowed my eyes, squinting until I caught a glint of gold draped around her neck: the Jade Lord’s Amulet. If I could somehow get that away from her, then force her to land, we might have a chance. I wheeled Devil around in a tight circle, searching the desolate landscape.

Fifty feet behind us, and not far from the river of churning magma, was a jagged rock outcropping forming a small bottleneck with the canyon wall.

Not a great place to make a stand, but it would give everyone a little cover and it would restrict Arzokh’s ability to move. “There,” I commanded, gesturing toward the outcropping. “Forge, Vlad, Cutter—go set up in the fissures. Stay out of sight if you can. Abby and I are going to try and get that amulet, then drive her to the ground. Once she’s down and in range, unleash everything you’ve got.”

“And me?” Amara asked, glancing between the outcropping and the incoming dragon.

“Can you scale the opposite wall?” I asked, nodding toward the jagged rock-face. “That should give you a better vantage so you can put down suppressive fire.”

She frowned, canting her head to one side in thought, before dipping her chin in acknowledgment. “I will do it.”

“Good,” I said, wheeling Devil around again and offering Abby my hand. She accepted gladly, allowing me to pull her up into the saddle as everyone else scrambled to get into position.

“You honestly think we can do this?” she asked, the words uncertain as she wrapped her arms around my waist.

“I guess we’ll find out,” I replied, spurring Devil on with a nudge of my heels.

The Drake broke into a lurching gallop over the uneven terrain, his wings pumping as we built up speed. And then we were airborne, soaring upward, hot wind beating against my face as the river of lava burbled beneath us. A flutter of panic rose in my gut as the dragon barreled closer. Some part of me—the part interested in survival—insisted we should be fleeing from the monster, but I crushed my inner dread and spurred Devil on faster and faster.

TWENTY-NINE:

Round One

“How dare you,” the dragon bellowed, great strands of flaming drool trailing down from her scaly jowls like burning napalm. Her voice was only a shadow of the regal, matronly dragon from the tapestry back at the Citadel. Now, when the Sky Maiden spoke, it was the sound of a natural disaster given voice—all grinding rocks, smoky infernos, and raging windstorms. “After all that’s been done to me, after all that’s been stolen, you would come and take more?” The question hung in the air like an ominous thundercloud.

A spike of guilt wormed its way up from my belly, but I ignored it. I had to do what I had to do. I leaned in low against Devil’s back, slapped the reins, and dug my heels in further, urging him on.

“I’ll melt your skin, pry those cursed artifacts from your smoking corpse, feed what’s rest of you to the Phlegethon, and finally have my freedom,” she bellowed, then threw her mouth open and belched a gout of flame. I’d seen Devil do the same trick a hundred times, but once again, size made a big difference. Instead of a column of fire as thick as a telephone pole, Arzokh unleashed a white-hot column of flame as big as an industrial sewer pipe and hotter than the surface of the sun. It was the ultimate KO technique—there was no blocking an attack like that, no absorbing it or shrugging it off.

It was instadeath.

Without prompting, Devil veered right, the world below flashing by as the beam of all-consuming sunfire whooshed past us, the air sizzling in its wake. I leaned left and tugged sharply on the reins, pulling us into a steep climb.

We rose, wheeling left, preparing to launch an attack on Arzokh’s flanks. We weren’t quick enough, though. For being such a colossally oversized creature, the Sky Maiden could move. Her head shot out, mouth wide. On instinct, I threw my body right, pulling us into a nimble barrel roll; the world inverted for a moment as Arzokh’s jaws snapped shut with a thunderous crack, missing us by inches. Devil completed the daredevil maneuver—the world suddenly normal again—and immediately banked right, swinging around in a tight arc, then darting toward the dragon’s face.

Devil struck like lightning, his inky talons slashing across her dinner-plate-sized eyes, leaving bloody gashes behind, before zipping just out of range. So, the Sky Maiden was fast, but obviously she wasn’t a match for Devil’s flight speed or his sheer aerial agility. He was a fighter jet to her cargo plane. We circled again, dancing and weaving just outside of the Sky Maiden’s deadly reach. Abby loosened her grip around my middle, stuck one hand out, and unleashed an insane barrage of fireballs that slapped at Arzokh’s muzzle and splashed into her eyes.

The dragon winced from the steady bombardment, but her HP bar remained constant and unmoving. Arzokh seemed mildly annoyed, sure, but as long as she had that amulet in place, she was some kind of spectral being, immune to the damage of our attacks.

I could see the amulet, though, dangling from a golden chain, as thick as my wrist, around her brawny neck. That was the prize, the ultimate goal, but getting ahold of it was going to be one heck of a challenge. For that, I needed to be closer. Much closer. An annoying enough distraction might do the trick. Devil darted in again, unleashing a fly-by wave of Umbra Flame while I drew on my innate Shadow Spark and promptly summoned Nikko from the Shadowverse. The winged chimp materialized in a poof of sooty smoke, her eyes locking on the dragon.

Keep her distracted, I sent urgently, drawing my warhammer from my belt.

Nikko responded with a squawk, leaping onto the end of the dragon’s snout, scampering along Arzokh’s bony muzzle, then launching herself at the dragon’s face. The fiesty chimp literally drop-kicked the Sky Maiden in one of her eyeballs, then whipped around like a Muay Thai fighter, lashing out with her claws while her feathered wings fluttered frantically, obstructing the dragon’s view. The attacks did no damage whatsoever, but they had to be painful, and it was going to be awfully difficult for Arzokh to pay attention to anything else.

“Hold on tight,” I yelled at Abby over one shoulder, hunching down and urging Devil into a reckless dive. Wind beat at my face, tugging my cloak back in a flutter of fabric as Abby tightened her arms around me in a death grip. I squinted, staring up at Arzokh’s sinuous neck—gaze fixed steadfastly on the glittering jade amulet at the base of her throat. I only had one chance to get this right, and seconds to do it. Quickly, I thrust my warhammer skyward, the rear spike forward, the weapon wobbling uncertainly in the air.

Closer and closer we flew.

Then, with a shout, I lunged upward and whipped my hammer forward, angling the hook so it would catch the golden chain, and maybe—hopefully—rip the amulet free.

The spike clanged against the metal, and for a single heartbeat, I thought I’d managed it, but then my weapon slipped free leaving the amulet in place and the chain unbroken. Not even a stratch.

Damn. A swing and a miss.

I dropped back into the saddle, stowing my hammer as Arzokh’s dark shadow washed over us and we zipped beneath her, skimming along close enough to reach out and run a hand along her dirt-caked belly. In seconds, we shot out from beneath her like a bullet and began our ascent, breaking for the sky—

The dragon’s tail—as long as a bus and topped by a nubby wrecking ball of bone spurs and spikes—broadsided us like a battering ram at the castle gates, batting us hard right. Devil howled in pain, teeth gnashing, one of his wings severely damaged, the flesh torn. Simultaneously, Abby shrieked, her arms disappearing from around my middle as the blow threw her from the saddle entirely. I spun around in utter horror, heart pounding—ready to explode from my chest—fully expecting to see her plunging toward the ground below.

The breath caught in my throat … There she was, hanging from the saddle by one hand, her eyes wide and frightened, her legs dangling two hundred feet above the ashy ground below.

Oh thank God … If she’d fallen from this height, there’d be no going back. She would’ve ended up as a bloody smear on the canyon floor.

Carefully, I leaned back and grabbed a fistful of her robes, dragging her up while she kicked and scrambled, fingers clawing at Devil’s sides. By the time she got resituated behind me, Arzokh was sixty feet away, completely consumed with trying to take a bite out of Nikko, who kept popping in and out of the Shadowverse, deftly avoiding her powerful, but comparatively slow, attacks. We were in the clear for the moment, but we still didn’t have the amulet, and even worse, Devil was flying in a herky-jerk fashion, fighting to stay aloft on his damaged wing.

Are you going to be okay? I sent.

I’ll live, but I won’t be able to fly much longer, Devil replied, sounding disgruntled all the way to his reptilian soul. Her aim was true—she damaged the wing joint. It will heal in time, but the limb will only deteriorate from here.

Crap. I thought for a second as Devil trembled, his wings pumping feebly as we headed for the Sky Maiden.

Okay, I need to get on Arzokh’s back, I finally sent. That’s the only chance we have left. Can you do a roll-and-drop, then get Abby safely to the ground?

He didn’t reply for a second, the only sound the desperate beating of his wings, my heavy breathing, and the constant drone of the wind. Yes, he replied after a time. I can do this thing, but it will be ... He faltered, as though searching for the right word. Difficult, he finished. Then, before I could say anything else, Devil threw his head back and rocketed up, his body going near vertical. I hung on for dear life, fists clenched around the reins, knees dug in, while Abby’s fierce bear hug squeezed the air from my lungs.

In a handful of seconds, we plateaued, breaking into a jittery glide fifty feet or more above the Sky Maiden, who was still battling Nikko below. Prepare yourself, the window will be small, Devil sent, groaning and grunting as he fought against the constant pull of gravity.

“Abby,” I said, switching on the Officer’s Chat so she could hear me over the howl of the wind, “things are about to get crazy.”

“Crazier than this?” she said, her voice clear as a bell inside my head. “We’re fighting a dragon from the back of another dragon, over a river of magma. I almost fell to my death five seconds ago. This is officially the craziest thing on the planet.”

I grinned, unable to help myself. “Even crazier,” I said. “I’m going to get onto Arzokh’s back and get that amulet. After I bail, Devil will get you to the ground, but he won’t be good to fly for a while. So get set, and get everyone else ready.”

“What do you mean bail?” she asked, voice firm and unamused.

“You’ll see in a second. Now take the reins and hang on tight.” Slowly, hesitantly, she loosened her grip on my waist and grabbed the reins. I tapped Devil on the neck, directing us into another breakneck dive.

The Drake crested, arched, and fell, folding his wings and limbs tight against his streamlined body until he looked like a reptilian cruise missile plummeting toward the earth. I crouched, eyes squinted, hanging onto the spikes running along his neck as the wind hammered at me, burning my skin and stealing the air from my lungs. Behind me, Abby was quivering, uttering either a prayer or a string of angry curses—I couldn’t tell which, since she’d switched the chat feature off.

When we were twenty feet above Arzokh I nudged Devil in the sides with my heels, let’s do this; in a blink his right wing exploded outward, catching the air and throwing us into a blazing-fast corkscrew. The second we were inverted—my head hanging directly over the colossal Sky Maiden’s spur-studded back—I triggered Shadow Stride. Time lurched to a halt as I let go of his neck, unhooked my feet from the stirrups, and dropped like a rock. My stomach clawed its way up into my throat as I fell, and I thought I might vomit and pass out cold—not necessarily in that order.

I beat those feelings back and tucked into a roll, flipping head over heels, then spreading myself out so I was belly-flopping toward Arzokh at an insane speed. I only had seconds and I needed to time this move perfectly or I risked phasing through the dragon while in Shadow Stride. If that happened, it would be a long, deadly fall, followed by a bone breaking splat. Or worse—what if I ended up inside the dragon? I wasn’t sure that was possible, but I absolutely didn’t want to find out. I pressed my eyes shut, knowing this was going to hurt no matter what, and exited from the Shadowverse a handful of feet above the Sky Maiden’s back.

I hit facedown, arms and legs splayed out. Half of my HP vanished as a sharp, stinging pain exploded in every nerve ending as though some giant had just open-hand slapped the entire surface of my body. Instantly, I wanted to curl into a ball and weep for the next two years, but I soldiered past the pain instead, fumbling at one of the bony spikes protruding from her spine. I wrapped my hands around the spur a second before she roared and dived, the whole world quivering as she fought to shake me off like a dog shedding water.

My teeth rattled, my legs flopped up and down—toes drumming rhythmically against her back—while my arms burned from the strain of holding tight. But I kept right on holding, because I had no other option. After what felt like a lifetime, her bone-shaking roar subsided and she leveled out, offering me a brief reprieve to breath and recuperate. Slowly, carefully, I inched my way forward, slugging from spiky spine to spiky spine, dragging my body ever closer to her enormous neck and the golden chain holding the amulet in place.

THIRTY:

Desperate Measures

I crawled forward another foot, then paused, profoundly winded, and took stock. I had about another fifteen feet to go, which seemed like a daunting prospect, but on the plus side, Arzokh was dipping lower and lower, apparently trailing Devil and Abby into the canyon, which was all I could hope for. I mean, at some point I needed her to land.

After another handful of seconds, I continued my murderously slow slog.

“Why can’t you leave me in peace?” the dragon asked, her voice booming around me as I wriggled against her. “Was it not enough that your ancestors murdered my family and doomed me to this place, separated from my loved ones? Must you invade the Twilight Lands, too? Must you torment me with flying pests and turn even my kin against me? Must you murder my hope that one day I might destroy all three of those cursed artifacts and finally find peace in the world to come? Is there no mercy in you? No sense of justice?”

“I’m sorry,” I screamed against her back, inching my way along hand over hand, a grimace etched into the lines of my face. “It’s nothing personal. I listened to your Priestess’s story. I know what happened, and I know it was wrong, but there’s no other way. Please, you have to understand that. I don’t want to kill you, but it’s one balanced against millions.”

“You sound just like him. Nangkri.” Her words pulsed with anger, but there was also a note of sadness simmering beneath. “He said the same thing as he killed my Irrinth and let my babies die. What’s one group of hatchlings balanced against the whole of the Storme Marshes? He felt bad, but his guilt didn’t wash him free of his sins. Neither will yours.” She threw herself into a roll that left me suspended above the earth, clinging on for dear life by my fingertips. Just when I thought I couldn’t hold for a second more, she flipped again, leveling out as I flopped back onto her pebbly hide.

My Stamina bar was almost empty, and what I needed was a break, but I didn’t take one. Oh no. One more maneuver like that from the Sky Maiden and I was toast, so I needed to finish this thing now. It was time to take a few more risks. I was only seven feet away, so carefully I moved into a crouch, hands down, toes digging into scaly flesh, and scrambled forward on my hands and knees, praying she didn’t take any evasive action. Four feet out, I hurled my body into a dive, arms outstretched. I landed with a thud, clinging to a sharp ridge of bone at the base of her neck.

I’d made it. Oh my God, I’d made it.

I cackled madly—the pressure finally getting to me—pulled my warhammer free, and laid into the fat golden chain looped around her neck like a noose. The blunt head of my weapon landed with a clang, a chain link denting and giving slightly under the force of the blow.

“Stop that!” She waggled her head back and forth, fighting once more to dislodge me.

But I didn’t stop. Nope.

I blocked out everything except the hammer in my hand and the golden chain that might mean my salvation. Over and over again I struck, beating my way slowly but surely through one of the chain links. Clang, clang, clang. Rinse, wash, repeat. Before long, great gobs of sweat rolled into my eyes and my arms ached from the difficult and awkward effort. I was almost through—only a few more hits to go—when Arzokh tossed her head back, issuing a deafening, deep-bellied laugh before twirling and smashing her back into the canyon wall.

Just what I needed.

Ragged shards of rock bit at me, tearing into my armor and carving away chunks of flesh and HP with every terrible second. This was road rash of the worst kind, and I only had seconds until the wall ground me into Murk Elf paste and sent me for respawn. In that instant, I knew she’d beaten me, I could feel it in my heart and my guts. I’d given it everything I had, but it wasn’t enough. Not in the end. I cursed under my breath and triggered Shadow Stride. Time hiccuped, creeping to a standstill, and the dragon beneath me became nothing more than a wraith.

An insubstantial cloud, incapable of holding my weight.

I passed through her hide in a blink, dropping out the other side.

I flipped, head over heels, and crashed into the rocky slope of the canyon wall, flopping and rolling my way down toward the bottom. Chunks of black obsidian scratched at my face, nubs of barbed rock jabbed into my limbs and back, and dust clogged my eyes, nose, and mouth. Thankfully, I was only twenty-five feet from the canyon floor, and the Sky Maiden had kindly deposited me near the rest of my party—still tucked away in the outcropping of rock. After what felt like a lifetime, I rolled to a stop at the base of the wall. Any other time that fall would’ve killed me, but I sustained no damage.

Not a lick. Thank God for Shadow Stride.

Still, it hurt worse than getting tossed through a plate-glass window and landing in a hive full of angry fire ants. Every inch of me throbbed in time to my heart.

With a groan I pushed myself upright, grimacing at the ache in my feet, knees, and thighs, and turned in a slow circle, contemplating my next move. Amara was twenty feet off the ground, squirreled away in a narrow crevice in the cliff face, her bow drawn and on the verge of releasing a hail of arrows. The rest of the crew, Abby and Devil included, were taking cover around the rocky outcropping, eyes locked on the Sky Maiden. They all looked scared and with good reason: Arzokh was descending like an avenging angel, completely unharmed, wearing the amulet loud and proud.

Despite the pain and the hardship, I grinned and stifled a chuckle. Nikko was still clinging to the dragon’s face like a pesky tick, clawing at her eyes and refusing to be dislodged. I could see the utter and complete annoyance on Arzokh’s reptilian face—she looked like a long-suffering mother desperately trying to ignore a disobedient and particularly obnoxious toddler. Nikko wasn’t the most powerful minion, but boy was she a resilient, persistent bugger.

The weak laugh died as I turned my mind back to the situation at hand.

The best thing we could do now was retreat. Just head back through the portal and regroup. Maybe we could come up with a better plan now that we knew what we were up against. Before I could decide what to do, however, my countdown timer hit zero and the world blurred back into life. Into motion, chaos, and the harsh heat of the Twilight Lands. A swirling cloud of debris and ash, kicked up by the Sky Maiden’s massive wings, blasted me as the dragon touched down twenty feet away.

Quickly, I recalled my minions—they couldn’t do anything now except die—and pulled open the Officer Chat. “Retreat!” I screamed at Cutter, Abby, and Amara, simultaneously unleashing a violet Umbra Bolt right at Arzokh’s tooth-studded mouth. “Get everyone back to the clearing,” I called again as my spell landed with a flash, immediately drawing the Sky Maiden’s eye. My order was a second too late, though, because everyone was already in motion, launching attacks, too focused on the battle to pay me any mind.

Amara rained down arrows fitted with improvised specialty tips that exploded against Arzokh’s hide, covering her in biting acid. The sludgy green goop chewed into the Sky Maiden’s armored flesh with ease, but her HP bar didn’t even flicker. Meanwhile, Vlad stood on the top of the craggy outcropping, back straight, face screwed up in defiance as he mechanically hurled alchemic grenades, one after another. And Cutter and Forge, our melee fighters, sprinted across the chalky earth—Forge with his axe raised high, Cutter with his dual daggers spinning.

Only Abby had gotten the message, it seemed.

“Abby,” I said, cueing the Chat again, “without the amulet, we can't win this. Can’t do it. We need to get everyone back into the clearing before she starts unleashing Dragon’s Fire. You get Vlad and Amara. I’ll collect the knuckleheads.”

“On it, Jack,” she replied, shooting me a nod, then scampering up the stone toward Vlad.

That left Cutter and Forge to me.

Unfortunately, they’d already closed the distance, working in tandem like a pair of wolves hunting larger, more dangerous prey. Forge darted in, slashing at Arzokh’s exposed neck with his massive battle-axe, leaving deep furrows in the dragon’s flesh, before backpedaling while Cutter attacked from her other side, jabbing at the leathery folds in her wings. It was a smart tactic—deliver lightning-fast strikes, always stay in motion, and simply wear the enemy down down with a thousand small wounds. Against any other foe, it might’ve worked. The problem was Arzokh couldn’t die; not even ten thousand slashes would do the trick.

And it would only take one solid hit to end either of them.

I twirled and broke into a sprint, hurling a barrage of Umbra Bolts at the Sky Maiden to get her attention. My plan worked, alright, and I regretted it immediately as she snarled and unleashed a gout of white-hot Dragon Fire directly at me. “Oh shit,” I squawked, darting right and throwing myself forward, landing with a huff on my belly, then scuttling away on my hands and feet. The geyser of flame ceased a moment later, leaving a trail of liquid glass in the sand and plumes of white smoke lazily drifting upward.

“I’ve got Vlad and Amara,” Abby’s voice chirped in my ear as I hastily gained my feet. “We’re heading through the portal now. Round up the idiots and get back before things blow up.” The line clicked and fizzled in my ear, dead, as I reversed course, bolting back toward the dragon—

My heart skidded to a halt as my worst fear took shape right before my eyes: Cutter slashed at Arzokh’s wing, scoring a long gash in her leathery skin, then promptly threw himself into a blindingly fast dive as she countered with scimitar-like claws. The talons whooshed over him—only a hairsbreadth from impaling him—but that attack was only a feint and Arzokh was waiting. Ready. Her jaws yawning like an open grave. Cutter’s eyes flared in shock, but he was already committed to the roll—there was no turning back and no way out. The thief yelped as her mouth snapped shut around one of his legs, blood spurting.

The yelp morphed into a bloodcurdling scream, Cutter’s lips pulled back in a snarl of agony as he sank both daggers to the hilt into her prehistoric face. The Sky Maiden didn’t even flinch. Smoke curled up from her lips in anger as she squeezed down tighter, Cutter’s HP draining away at an alarming rate.

“No, no, no.” I sprinted forward and leaped onto the top of her bony snout. “You’re not going to win.” I screamed defiantly, swaying on top of her nose, then slamming the spike on my hammer directly into her skull, throwing my weight into the attack as though I were driving a tent stake into the ground. The wicked spike struck home with the crack of fracturing bone, and the Sky Maiden threw her mouth open on instinct, issuing a thunderous roar of pain and hate and murderous fury. Cutter fell free, thudding to the ground, his skin pale and waxy, his left leg butchered almost beyond repair.

Then the world tilted as Arzokh bucked up and I lost my footing, arms pinwheeling wildly as I tumbled and landed in the dirt with a oomph. My head bounced against a jagged piece of stone; stars exploded across my vision, but it was my right shoulder that took the brunt of the fall. Rock snapped bone and my body weight ripped through muscle, earning me an instant and crippling debuff:

∞∞∞

Debuff Added

Fractured Shoulder: You cannot use your right arm and cannot cast mage spells requiring hand gestures; duration, 2 minutes.

∞∞∞

For a moment I lay there, stunned, and then an enormous serpentine face appeared above me—a cobra rearing back, ready to strike and kill.

“Not today, you no-good, alligator-looking sumabitch,” Forge hollered, driving his axe into her muzzle, the blade sinking deep as he slammed into her with all his weight. The Sky Maiden was one big ol’ monster, but Forge’s Charge ability packed a serious wallop. Arzokh’s head jerked right from the impact, but then, before Forge could even blink, she whipped around and scooped him up in her crushing jaws.

I scrambled to my feet as Forge flailed at her with his axe, swearing the whole time, while his legs disappeared entirely into her jaws and bloody foam frothed on his lips. “Go,” he grunted at me, his HP fading fast, his eyes already clouding over with death. I lurched away, heading for Cutter, who was worming his way across the ground, dragging himself with his hands and working leg, leaving a long smear of blood across the ground. I stowed my weapon and bent over with a grimace, using my serviceable arm to hoist him up and onto my back in a classic fireman’s carry. A technique I’d used a handful of times before as an EMT.

I glanced back as Forge let out one last strangled gasp as his whole body vanished into Arzokh’s throat, dead and sent for respawn in the most grisly and awful manner possible. Still, I wasn’t going to let his sacrifice be for nothing. As much as it pained me, I picked up my pace, hobbling for all I was worth toward the portal, Cutter groaning and moaning with every step, every bump.

“No!” Arzokh cried out in fury, whipping her head toward me. “You cannot escape. I won’t allow it. I’ll burn you and all your companions,” she said, her golden eyes narrowing as her lips pulled away from her jagged teeth. “Die,” she spat, reptilian jaws stretching, a spark of golden flame blooming in the back of her mouth. Oh no, not again. In the face of incineration and certain death, my body discovered a new well of adrenaline-fueled strength, and suddenly I was running, my legs pumping as fast as they would carry me.

I heard the whoosh of inferno flame scorching the air and immediately threw myself into a clumsy dive. Cutter and I sailed through the air, arms flopping, legs kicking. The icy power of the portal splashed over my face and shoulders as a terrible wave of heat licked at my boots …

THIRTY-ONE:

Regroup

I blocked out the inrush of blistering pain and crashed into a blanket of deliciously soft grass, rolling and flipping from the momentum of the fall before ending on my back, staring up at the glittering ceiling above. Wow, that was close. My HP bar flashed red in the critical zone, my right arm was still broken and limp by my side, and my boots smoked and smoldered from that last bout of dragon’s flame. But I was wonderfully, miraculously alive—and better yet, so was Cutter. I could hear him moaning in pain, whining about his leg, somewhere off to my right.

But he was alive. That was the important thing.

Except, he’d survived at an expensive price. Forge, dead. Eaten by the Sky Maiden.

Forge would respawn, of course, but that didn’t lessen the impact of dying inside VGO. Dying was a horrible experience, and according to Osmark, it took a serious psychological toll on those who experienced it too often—a bug the Devs had failed to iron out before launch. No doubt, Forge would be having nightmares about this for years to come. Still, considering the circumstances, one player dead instead of the whole team pushing up daisies was a win, even if a small one. I let out a sigh and pressed my eyes shut, feeling a sudden exhaustion settle over me like a blanket as all my hot-blooded adrenaline leaked away.

I fished a pair of Health Regen potions from my belt and killed them both, letting their magic go to work in my body. Then, I just lay there for a couple of minutes, enjoying the green carpet and the sweet smell from the flowers scattered around the glade. Eventually, someone cleared their throat, rousing me from a hazy near-sleep. Begrudgingly, I cracked my eyes. Abby loomed over me, concern carved into her face, making her look a couple of years older. “You okay?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow, then stealing a look at my boots.

“I’ve been better,” I replied, mustering the strength to sit. “Cutter?” I asked.

She frowned and hooked a thumb over one shoulder. The thief was sprawled in the grass, looking defeated, dejected, and like the victim of a murder investigation. His blond hair was charred in places, his skin, covered in sooty dust, and blood adorned most of one leg. Amara sat beside him, legs crossed Indian-style as she dabbed at him with a damp rag. Vlad was sprawled out in one of the carved wooden ceremonial chairs, glum and gloomy as a late winter’s day.

“Everyone’s feeling a bit down,” she admitted with a grimace and a shrug. “That definitely wasn’t the way anyone expected things to turn out. Some part of me was secretly hoping we’d be able to reason with that monster, like you did with the Spider Queen, but that’s a lost cause.” She paused, fidgeting with the folds of her robes. “Forget reasoning with her, I’m not even sure there’s a way to beat her. We didn’t know what to expect going in, but I feel like we did everything in our power, and we didn’t even come close to killing her. We weren’t even in the ballpark.”

“She’s right,” Cutter added, massaging his blood-smeared leg with one hand. “I’ve never felt like such a useless sod in all my life, Jack. I’ve fought some tough monsters in my days, but nothing like that. Never. Even that dragon priestess didn’t compare—she was a candle next to the bloody sun. I hate to say it, but this might be one fight we can’t win. Maybe we should start thinking about other ways to beat Osmark.”

Everyone was quiet for a spell, thinking about our options—most of them bad.

We’d gone up against seemingly impossible odds before, but each time we’d overcome. For the first time, we’d lost. Really lost. I lay back down, intertwining my hands behind my head, brooding. There had to be a way. Had to be. Even if a quest was infernally difficult, no quest was impossible. There was a solution, if only I was smart enough to find it.. Something Amara had said trickled up into my brain. No creature is indestructible. She is formidable in body, true, but not more formidable than the mind.

That’s when it hit me like a cinder block to the forehead.

Innovation was the solution. Innovation was always the solution. I’d grown a lot as a Shadowmancer over the past couple weeks—so much so, I was primarily relying on my powers and physical abilities to win my battles these days. And that was my problem. Admittedly, I’d used some clever tactics against Arzokh, but in the end, I’d gone at her head-on like an idiot, working to take her out using brute strength. And that would never work. Every “impossible” task I’d accomplished so far was not by force, but by careful planning and a fistful of good old-fashioned cunning.

I’d never stood a chance against the Moss Hag, so I’d lured her into the heart of Hellwood Hollow and let the Spider Queen and her minions do the heavy lifting for me. And I’d used the same strategy against Carrera and Rowanheath—not attacking the gates like a traditional army, but finding a way to bypass their strengths and hit where they were weakest. Even against the Dragon Priestess Elanor, I’d used an improvised alchemic grenade in a highly unorthodox way to win the fight.

If I had any hope of taking the Sky Maiden down, I needed to work smarter, not harder—a truism my dad had lived by.

I thought back to the battle in the Twilight Lands, replaying it in my head, examining it and reexamining it from different angles. Getting her to the ground wasn’t good enough, not even close. What I needed was a way to catch her. To catch her and hold her long enough for me to pry that amulet from her throat. “What we need is a trap …” I mumbled, reaching up and rubbing at one temple. But what kind of trap could possibly hold something as large and powerful as Arzokh? And assuming we could get such a trap, how would we deploy it?

My mind reeled this way and that, searching frantically for an answer.

I let my eyes go out of focus, staring at the diamond-studded ceiling above. “Vlad,” I finally said, sitting up as the inkling of an idea drifted into my head. “That rope you showed me back in your lab. You said it was stronger than steel, right? Do you think it would be strong enough to hold a creature like Arzokh?”

The Russian was silent—contemplative—scratching distractedly at his chin, as though he were running the numbers in his head. Knowing Vlad, he probably was running the numbers. “Perhaps,” he said after a time. “But the amount of rope we would need … A thousand yards of it at least, and it’s not easy to make. The ingredients are quite rare.”

I grinned, recalling the conversation. “Yeah. You said it required spider silk and powdered diamond, right? Those are the two main ingredients?”

“Da.” He nodded, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

I pointed at the cavern ceiling, studded with stars that weren’t stars at all. An almost endless supply of swamp diamond. “Do you think that would be enough?”

He gulped, wide-eyed, and nodded. “Yes, yes. We’ll need to find a way to mine it,” he mumbled, staring at the ceiling, the gears whizzing away in his head, “but that should do it.” He faltered, canted his head, and frowned. “Still, even with access to the resources, it could take most of a day to construct. How long before the mission expires and you die?”

I pulled up my interface and scrolled over to my active effects screen:

∞∞∞

Current Debuffs

Death-Head Mode: You’ve temporarily activated Death-Head Mode! Time until the Gut Check debuff takes effect: 10 hours 9 minutes 16 seconds.

∞∞∞

“I have ten hours until the next debuff hits, which means thirty-four hours until the mission expires and I kick the bucket.”

Vlad nodded his head, bottom lip protruding, one index finger tap-tap-tapping against his knee. “Okay,” he finally said with a shrug. “There is a chance, a small one, but I think I can do what you ask.”

“Good. I need three separate strands, each a hundred yards long with some heavy-duty meat hooks on each end. Now Abby,” I said, rounding on her, “can you get ahold of Anton?”

“Yeah, of course,” she replied, eyes hazy and distant as she accessed her interface, already working on the request. “What do you need?”

“Three things,” I replied. “First, we’ll need a team of miners.” I stuck one finger up into the air. “Second, we’ll also need every Alchemist we can get our hands on”—another finger joined the first—“and last, a full platoon of spider-riders to produce the silk and help harvest the swamp diamond.” A third finger entered the fray. “When they get here, put them to work right away.”

“Wait, what?” she asked, dismissing her interface with a curt wave. “Where are you going?”

I grinned and hoofed it out of the glade. “Producing a rope sturdy enough to capture Arzokh is only half the battle,” I called back. “We need to find a way to deploy it, and I have an idea that might do the trick. I’ll be back in a few hours.” I pulled up my map, located the grave of Isra Spiritcaller, and headed deeper into the forest, leaving the others behind. After fifteen minutes of cutting through dense tree cover, ducking strangle-thorn vines, and avoiding bog pits, I made it to the craggy fissure leading to Isra Spiritcaller’s tomb.

I loitered on the edge of the tree line, waiting in a low crouch, cloaked in Stealth. I studied the pair of hulking, twisting trees flanking the catacomb entrance, searching the knotted boughs, covered in broad leaves and green melons, for any sign of opposition. But nothing. The way looked clear, which was problematic, because I hadn’t come to explore the tomb, I’d come specifically for the sentries. The Void Watchers. Remembering my first encounter, I triggered Shadow Stride, slipping into the Shadowverse as smoothly as silk.

That’s when I saw the eyes. A small army of Void Terrors, tucked away in the foliage, stared down on the clearing with hungry, predatory gazes. Just waiting to ambush the crap out of anyone foolish enough to step into the open. There were maybe thirty of them, all smaller than Nikko—[Standard Void Watchers] instead of the Greater Void Watcher variety—but that didn’t matter. Not really. The important thing was they were smart, they could fly, they could use weapons, and, most important of all, with the Pack Animal ability I could summon more than one at a time.

They were exactly what I needed for my plan to work. Quickly, I toggled over to my Character Screen and dropped two of my three remaining Proficiency Points into the Void Terror skill—granting me another two slots on my minion team.

That done, I closed out of the menu, pulled my warhammer free, and conjured an Umbra Bolt in my left hand as I stepped from the shadows, visible as the sun at noonday. “Come get me,” I said, voice level and brimming with self-assurance. “I’m looking to recruit.” I marched forward a few steps. “So, who wants to be on team Jack? Any volunteers?” For a second the Watchers were silent, seemingly bewildered by my boldness. Bewildered was no good, though. I needed angry. I thrust my left hand forward and launched the pent-up Umbra energy into the heart of the pack.

The bolt landed with a crack of purple light, knocking one of the chimps from the tree and unleashing absolute havoc. In a heartbeat, the chimps poured from the trees—driven on by red-hot rage—swooping at me, claws flashing, blunt teeth snapping. I raised my hammer and charged, offering a war cry in retaliation …

The tussle took a solid hour.

An hour of Umbra Bogs and monkey bites, of Umbra flames and retaliatory scratches, of Savage Blows and hurled stones. It was a grueling, tedious fight, made worse by the fact that I needed a few of these things alive. That and the stupid Diseased debuff, reducing my Attack power and my Regen rates. Eventually, though, I bagged two Void Apes, both males—a level 12, which I named Kong, and a level 10, who earned the handle Mighty Joe. An excellent pair of minions, not nearly as large or feisty as Nikko, but angry, stubborn, and deadly in their own right. Both had demonstrated remarkable intelligence, and had fought like a pair of wild bobcats when I invoked the Contest of Wills.

Honestly, they were perfect.

By the time I made it back to the sacred clearing with my new knuckle-draggers in tow, our reinforcements had arrived: a regular caravan of miners—loaded down with pickaxes, shovels, and dynamite—scuttling in on the backs of bulbous bodied, hair-legged brown arachnids. Children of the Spider Queen, Lowyth the Immortal Orbweaver, a dungeon boss who also happened to be our closest ally, thanks to our Recruitment faction ability. Trailing behind them were Alchemists. The long, baggy-sleeved robes and bags packed with powders and glass beakers were a dead giveaway.

Alright. I rubbed my hands together in anticipation, my mind racing along at a million miles an hour. It was late, I felt more beat than a dead horse, but we had a lot of work to do—time to get crafty …

THIRTY-TWO:

Round Two

Thirty hours later—with a mere four hours to spare before my quest timer expired—I stood in front of the shimmering gateway to the Twilight Lands for a second time. It had been a long, tedious, punishing day filled with a few cold meals, a handful of occasional naps, and what felt like endless hours of backbreaking mine-work, hanging from the cavern ceiling, suspended by a thick strand of spider-webbing, chipping away at stone. True, plenty of actual miners had shown up—guys with serious skills and crazy perks—but we needed a lot of diamond, and even my low mining level helped.

A little.

By the end, I’d earned three levels in mining, which wasn’t too shabby.

And while we worked tirelessly above, Alchemists—all junior members of the Crafter’s Guild—slaved away below. Grinding powders, gathering spider silk, or brewing strange concoctions, all under Vlad’s careful, and often harsh, guidance. Apparently, work-Vlad was very different from the often-bumbling adventure-Vlad. Work-Vlad was stern-faced. Work-Vlad was far more prone to offer biting criticism than even moderate praise. And most of all, work-Vlad was a production-demon. Even with the task of teaching the junior Alchemists the formula and overseeing the work, somehow—almost impossibly—he turned out three times as much rope as anyone else.

He may not have been much use as a frontline brawler, but holy crap could the guy craft.

And with his supervision—and a dump truck worth of elbow grease—we’d somehow managed to turn my half-cocked vision into a reality. Three pieces, each the length of a football field from end to end, with a fist-sized, rune-etched hook, sharp enough to pierce even dragon scale, secured to either end. Essentially, we’d built three giant, improvised bolas. Unfortunately, the ropes were pretty much all I could carry—aside from my hammer, armor, and a handful of Regen potions—because the things weighed in at a whopping five hundred pounds.

Typically, five hundred pounds wouldn’t break the bank, but I’d been drop-kicked in the face by the second Death-Head debuff, Gut Punch, a few hours ago, which zapped all my primary stats by 10 points. And in the grand scheme of things, 10 missing points from every attribute hurt badly—reducing everything from Attack and Spell Strength to overall HP and carrying capacity. Instead of 655 pounds, I was down to 590, which gave me barely enough raw power to carry my gear and my new trio of items.

It would be fine, though, because it had to be—this was my last chance, and if this didn’t work … Well, the Death-Head debuff would finish me off and that would be all she wrote.

Besides, I wasn’t going to fight, I reminded myself. I was going in for the capture.

“Jack,” Abby said from behind me. My steps faltered, and I glanced back at her. The miners and the Alchemists were all gone now, returned to Yunnam for hot food and decent rest, but my friends remained, spread out behind me in a half-circle. “Are you sure you don’t want anyone else to come with you?” she asked for about the billionth time, a polite, but worried smile stretching across her face.

“She’s right, mate,” Cutter added, absently twirling one dagger like a street performer looking to earn a quick buck. “Someone could go with you on this suicide mission.”

“Thanks for offering—”

He cut me off with an upraised hand before I could say more. “Oh, I’m not offering, friend. No, no, no. There’s not enough gold in the world to make me tangle with that monster again.” He rubbed absently at his left leg, healed now, though stained with crusted brown blood. “I was merely sayin’ one of these other sods would probably go with you.” He jerked his head toward Forge, who’d respawned and hoofed it over as quickly as he could. “He seems fool enough to do it.”

I grinned and rolled my eyes. “Thanks, all the same,” I said, “but I need to do this on my own. Against something like Arzokh, you guys are more of a liability than a help. If everything goes according to plan, this will be an aerial battle, so there’s nothing any of you could do anyway. Even if I brought one of you up on Devil’s back, you’d only slow us down and I’ll need every advantage I can get. But don’t worry, I’ll have some help.” I shot them a wink, then strode into the portal before anyone else could object.

Frigid power washed over me like a breeze on a summer day followed immediately by pounding heat and a choking cloud of dust. I shielded my eyes against the harsh light, giving my body time to adjust from the port skip and to the radical climate change. A ferocious roar reverberated in the air an instant later as the Sky Maiden exploded from the jagged top of the volcano. Her response was much quicker this time around—she must’ve been ready and waiting for me.

That was okay, though, because I was ready for her, too.

With a minuscule effort of will and a blast of raw Umbra power, I called Devil from the Shadowverse. He appeared a few feet to my right, big, bad, and about a thousand times better looking than the last time I’d seen him—some extended time in the Shadowverse had that effect on Void Terrors. For them, a solid eight hours in the Shadowverse was like a week of R and R on a sunny, sandy Mexican beach. “Ready for round two?” I asked him, eyes locked on the approaching dragon in the distance.

He snarled, his violet eyes narrowing to angry slits, tendrils of smoke wafting up from his nostrils. This time we will crush her, he replied, his voice a guttural snarl. Crush her in blood, bone, and spirit—such is the way of Dragons.

“Good,” I said, swinging onto his back with practiced ease, my hands naturally falling on the reins as my feet slipped into the leather stirrups. “We’re going to take her down, alright,” I said, flicking my wrists and spurring the Drake into motion, “but we’re going to play things a little different this go-around. We’re not going to try to hurt her—you and I are going to be the bait. We need her to focus on us, to follow us, and we’re going to let our new teammates do the hard work.”

New teammates? he asked, his tone a combination of curious and contemptuous.

You’ll see, I replied with a smirk.

He grunted and dipped his head before launching himself from the ground, wings outstretched, catching a hot draft of air which carried us skyward. In seconds we gained altitude, rising one hundred feet, then two, until we soared well above the rocky walls of the canyon below, bringing us ever closer to the final boss.

“So, you’ve come back for more,” she bellowed, rocketing toward us like an intercontinental ballistic missile on a mission. “Excellent. Your friend was the first good meal I’ve had in five centuries. But I still have plenty of room, especially for Murk Elf meat.”

I ignored her jab—I couldn’t afford to be distracted and I certainly couldn’t get caught up in a villain monolog. Instead, I kept my mouth shut tight and conjured an Umbra Bolt in one hand, holding the icy power as we drew closer. Get ready to move fast, I sent. Vertical climb, inverted barrel roll, then fly like mad.

Done, Devil responded, his mind laser-focused on the task at hand.

At a hundred feet out, Arzokh opened her SUV-sized jaws, and a ball of light, as bright and brilliant as the sun, appeared in the back of her throat: the precursor to Dragon’s Fire. But still Devil and I flew straight on, challenging her to a deadly game of chicken that we could never win. At fifty feet out, a column of fire erupted like a geyser of pure death; I unleashed my Umbra Bolt at the same instant. Her fire was powerful beyond belief, but Umbra Bolt was fast—the little ball of shadow power zipped through the air and smacked into her snout, inflicting no damage, but her jaws snapped shut on impulse, cutting her attack short.

But we were still streaking toward a head-on collision with a creature that dwarfed us in size.

At ten feet out, when I could see the gleam of hatred in her yellow eyes and feel the heat radiating from her jaws, I jerked back on the reins, pulling us into a near vertical climb as the Sky Maiden careened through the airspace we’d occupied moments before, issuing a thunderous roar of frustration. We shot skyward and then, just as I’d told him, Devil executed the inverted barrel roll, flopping straight back—my stomach lurching into my throat as we lost altitude—before corkscrewing gracefully and leveling out.

Suddenly, we were cruising just above Arzokh.

Well done, I sent, patting Devil’s neck with one hand. Now let’s get her to play follow the leader. Fire bomb the crap out of her, then head for the clouds. But make sure to keep her close—we don’t want to lose her. I glanced up, searching the sky overhead. There was no moon, no stars, no sun, just endless dark the color of a bruised plum—but there was lots of cloud cover. A sea of swollen red fog, illuminated intermittently by brilliant flashes of lightning. That’s where we need to be.

Devil snorted in acknowledgment, and then he was moving, tucking his wings in as he dived toward Arzokh’s spike-covered back, his jaws flashing. He streaked over her like a supersonic jet, spewing purple fire across her neck and head with an inhuman screech, then dropped down further until he was soaring twenty feet in front of her crushing jaws. I stole a look and shot her a wave and a wink, as though to say, this is all just a game to us.

“You will suffer unending pain for your insolence, mortal,” she boomed in response, huge strings of flaming green spittle spraying out.

“Gotta catch us first,” I hollered before blasting her in the eyes with another Umbra Bolt—just insult to injury at this point. Then I shot her another wink for good measure, dropped flat against Devil, and dug my heels into his side, pulling us up. The Drake arched back as he pumped his wings, hot wind rushing around us as we streaked up. I stole another glance back—just a quick peek—and couldn’t help but grin: the great dragon was following, her neck craned upward as her immense wings beat furiously at the air, generating tremendous downdrafts.

She opened her jaws, unleashing another churning column of flame, but I simply spurred Devil on, willing him to go faster. And he did. We stayed maddeningly close—swooping, flipping, banking, rolling, lobbing potshots for the hell of it—yet always just outside her range. She snapped and cursed, occasionally howling in impotent rage as her wings kicked into overdrive. No matter how hard she worked, though, we were always one step ahead. Sure, in a straight-up fight, there was no way we could take her, but in a contest of speed?

Well, Devil would win that every time. Work smarter, not harder.

In next to no time, we broke into the dense, churning cloud banks, obscuring our position while also drastically reducing visibility, which meant we were likely to blunder directly into the Sky Maiden if we weren’t careful. There was no other way, though. No reward without risk, and no change without challenge. Devil angled higher, wheeling right in a lazy circle while a flickering shadow blurred through the clouds below us, her enormous body displacing a swirl of pink mist in passing.

Time for phase two.

THIRTY-THREE:

Crash Landing

“You cannot hide forever.” Arzokh’s voice rang out, distorted and dampened by the thick fog. “I don’t know what you hope to accomplish, but this fight can only end in your death. And what a painful death it will be, that much I can promise you.” The air swirled again, disturbed and displaced as the Sky Maiden sailed by, concealed in the cloud cover, but almost close enough to reach out and touch. My heart thumped like a jackhammer, and my lungs kicked into double time as nervous sweat broke out across my brow and rolled down my neck.

This was definitely a risk, no doubt about it.

Despite my fear, I remained silent, refusing to be baited into giving away our position, concentrating instead on my next task. With another effort of will and a burst of Spirit, I conjured up all three of my Shadow Watcher minions, one right after the other, draining almost all of my Spirit in the process. I was certainly feeling those Death-Head debuffs now. Nikko appeared first, followed in short order by Kong and Mighty Joe, all hovering in the air on outstretched wings like ghostly specters, partially obscured by the red mist. I reached out to Nikko with my mind; her essence took shape in my head, standing out like a flickering candle in a dark room.

I didn’t have a solid relationship with her—not like I did with Devil, not yet—but I could direct her easily enough. And I was hoping she, in turn, would be able to direct my other simian minions. Instead of trying to talk with her, or explain what I needed in words, I envisioned what I wanted, sending her a single image: each of them taking one of the ropes and wrapping it around Arzokh’s body, tying her up tight like the Lilliputians capturing Gulliver.

For a long beat, nothing happened, but then Nikko moved, darting forward with the twins trailing behind her, their arms outthrust, ready to receive their lines. With a sigh of relief, I unloaded the rope. Each chimp got a coil of enhanced spider silk, a hundred yards long, which they slung awkwardly around their necks and shoulders, their wings beating furiously to hold them aloft with the added weight. I nodded to each, then turned my attention back to Devil.

Okay, time to light up the sky.

Devil growled happily in reply, the noise emanating from deep in his chest, and he spewed purple Dragon Fire into the air, swinging his head back and forth like a backyard sprinkler dispensing sizzling flame instead of water. The attack wasn’t meant to hurt anything, but it sure was attention grabbing. Just to be safe, though, I thrust one hand high in the air and unleashed a volley of Umbra Bolts, the purple orbs zipping through the air like road flares, screaming here we are, here we are, here we are at the top of their lungs.

A thunderous roar shook the air as Arzokh burst through a nearby cloud spire, her eyes wide and crazed—determined to see us burn and die. But Devil was already diving down, dodging her snapping jaws by a matter of feet, then breaking left and wheeling right. The Sky Maiden followed, not able to match Devil’s agility, but making up for it with raw power and unwavering determination. We hooked left as a freight train of fire carved a wide channel through the dense mist; even though the attack didn’t land, just the proximity was enough to shave off a fraction of my HP.

I ignored all that, though, letting Devil handle the flying as I scanned the clouds above Arzokh, waiting for my monkeys to appear. To act. Everything seemed to crawl by in half speed, as though the world itself was holding its breath, and then it happened. The Sky Maiden let out a disgruntled grumble of pain and protest as the chimps poofed into the Material Plane and sank a trio of beefy meat hooks into her pebbly flesh: one hook went in near her sinuous neck, another in her left flank, a third into her right flank, just below the wing joint. Arzokh spun, lashing out at Nikko with wicked fangs.

Arzokh was too slow by half, though.

By the time her mouth snapped shut, Nikko was gone—disappeared—and the free end of her rope was already arching gracefully through the air, crisscrossing the Sky Maiden’s body. Kong and Mighty Joe followed suit, hurling their lines through the air then vanishing into the Shadowverse, defying space and time, only to appear a second later. The three apes each caught the flying hook at the free end, then swooped low beneath the dragon, looping the ropes around her belly and sweeping skyward once more.

Wrapping Arzokh tighter with each pass.

The effects were immediate—the Sky Maiden’s reptilian limbs tangled in the impossibly strong rope, her wings struggling fruitlessly to generate lift. For the first time since entering the Twilight Lands, I saw a flash of something new in Arzokh’s golden eyes: Uncertainty.

Maybe even fear.

Immediately, Arzokh shifted focus away from Devil and me, finally realizing my strategy and the very real danger it posed to her. She snapped with her ferocious jaws and lashed out with her tail, but each attack whiffed. The dense cloud cover made it nearly impossible to track the flying apes, and even when she managed a strike, they simply poofed into the Shadowverse, vanishing then reappearing elsewhere, implacably continuing their work. Meanwhile, Devil and I harassed Arzokh mercilessly, flitting around her face and head like an annoying fly, narrowly avoiding her every attempt to swat us down as we blasted her with gouts of shadow flame or irritating Umbra Bolts.

No damage, but we ran great interference.

The deadly game of cat and mouse continued, but with every minute that passed, the Sky Maiden struggled more and more to stay aloft—every minute that slipped by was one closer to victory. The real end came, however, when the chimps finished wrapping their lengths of rope around the Sky Maiden and sunk the second meat hook deep into her scaly flesh. Up until then, there’d been enough give in the zig-zagging lines for her to flap her wings—even if the motions were awkward and encumbered—but that all came to a screeching halt as those hooks bit down.

She strained against the lines, howling, but they held despite her mammoth strength, and suddenly she was falling. Spiraling like an asteroid breaking through the stratosphere on a crash course for the earth.

With their work done, I recalled my trio of chimps and guided Devil into a measured dive, keeping pace with the Sky Maiden as she careened toward the ground. The dragon flipped end over end, twisting this way and that, struggling against her silky bonds the entire time, but failing to make an inch of progress. The hooks were rune-etched—barbed and nearly indestructible—and the ropes didn’t so much as fray.

At a hundred feet from the canyon floor, I pulled up on Devil’s reins, drifting along as the Sky Maiden finished her meteoric descent. She smashed into the canyon floor a hundred feet from the portal back to the sacred glade, landing like a wrecking ball of flesh and bone. The ground cratered on impact, kicking up a mushroom cloud of volcanic ash and gritty dust. Once the debris cloud finally died down, Devil and I cruised slowly—almost leisurely—to the ground, touching down lightly on the edge of the newly formed depression. The Sky Maiden lay at the bottom, her bones broken, her wings shredded from the rough landing, her neck twisted at a unnatural angle.

She was alive, her HP bar undiminished, but her eyes were glassy and all the fight seemed to have leaked away with the fall. Now, she appeared resigned to whatever end I had in store for her.

Carefully, I slipped from my saddle, boots scraping across the loose scree on the ground. Wait here, I sent to the Drake, inching my way over the crater’s edge and sliding down a few feet to the bottom of the shallow basin. Despite all of her threats of death and dismemberment, while looking at Arzokh—twisted, broken, and utterly defeated—I couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt creep down my spine. She hadn’t always been like this. Five centuries of loss, pain, and torture had turned her into this thing … this monster.

No.

I stomped the doubt down—I needed to do what I needed to do. Not for me, but for all the people depending on me. For Abby and Forge, for Cutter and Amara, for Chief Kolle, the people of Yunnam, and all the players who refused to live under the heel of a dictator. This is the right thing, I told myself, not entirely sure I believed it. I fixed my gaze on the amulet—the size of a silver dollar and meticulously crafted from gold, bone, and jade—buzzing with dull life and ancient power. I pulled my warhammer from my belt, its hefty weight a comfort in my grip, and stalked over to the downed dragon.

Her lips pulled back in a grimace and ribbons of smoke drifted from her nostrils, but she didn’t act, didn’t move, didn’t speak. I was pretty sure she couldn’t—not in the horrendous shape she was in.

I wrapped my hand around the pendant and gave it a sharp tug.

I expected to find resistance, but it came away without a hitch as if it were eager to rejoin the rest of the set. The giant golden chain—formerly holding the pendant in place around Arzokh’s neck—shimmered and distorted, twisting and shrinking until it was exactly the right size for me. Amazing. I slipped it on with one trembling hand, feeling a surge of energy infuse my limbs, refreshing me better than a good night’s sleep ever could. More than that, though, I felt strong, unstoppable, almost godlike.

It was the power of the Jade Lord, a foretaste of the mantle of a king. Not a faction leader, but a monarch.

And it felt good.

Voices ripped me rudely from the moment—whoops of joy and cheers of victory as Abby, Forge, Cutter, Amara, Vlad, and even Chief Kolle streamed through the portal. They all looked ecstatic—understandably so. After all, I’d just brought low the mighty Sky Maiden and now I had the entire Jade Lord set in my possession. I’d done the impossible. Again.

“Bloody hell,” Cutter yelled, a lopsided grin breaking across his face. “I can't believe you pulled it off. And by that, I mean I was fully confident of your abilities the entire time.”

That earned a round of chuckles, followed by a chorus of “finish her.” Everyone seemed happy except Abby; she looked forlorn and marginally disgusted, but she didn’t voice a complaint.

My hammer was glowing, burning with spectral green light, and when I looked back at the Sky Maiden I was shocked to see her HP meter had plunged deeply into the critical zone—from the fall, no doubt. A single hit would finish her off, end this quest for good, and earn me the Blessing of the Jade Lord. I circled around to her front, raising my hammer, preparing to drive the spike into her skull and put her out of her misery. To annihilate her for good. As I stood there, the conquering hero, Arzokh shot me one last desperate look, and with it she offered me a peek into her heart and soul.

All her defiance was gone, stripped away, and all that remained was deep, unspoken grief and terrible acceptance: acceptance that this was finally the end.

An end devoid of justice or mercy.

She was a victim—her family killed and taken, her soul driven to madness by their eternal separation, and that act would go forever unpunished. I saw something else in her eyes, too: I saw myself, standing above her with the face of a stone-cold killer. In that instant, I looked an awful lot like the Jade Lord preparing to smash her eggs for the sake of his kingdom. Even more importantly, I resembled Osmark, making shady, unethical backroom deals, spurred on by the thought of the “greater good” and a hunger for personal power.

I turned away, unwilling to meet her eyes for a second longer as my conviction wavered like a candle flame in a stiff breeze.

This wasn’t right.

Maybe it was pragmatic, smart, and efficient, but it wasn’t the moral thing to do. This road led to victory, but victory at a steep and bloody price. The black handprint, branded into my skin by a dying Murk Elf so long ago, tingled and burned with icy power, a subtle reminder of how I’d gotten to here—not through the diplomacy of the sword, but through mercy. I’d helped that dying woman, even when Cutter suggested I scalp her for the price on her head, and it brought me to the path of the Shadowmancer.

That was who I was, and that was who I wanted to be. I was willing to be a leader, but I wasn’t willing to lose myself to do it. I dropped my weapon, letting it fall into the sand with a thunk.

“What’s the holdup, friend?” Cutter asked, eyebrow cocked, hands on his hips. “This is it. You’ve done it. Now finish it. Let’s unite the bloody Storme Marshes, dance a victory jig on the corpses of our enemies, then head back to Yunnam and drink until we can’t stand straight.”

“No,” I said with a shake of my head, pulling the crown off, followed in short order by the belt and the amulet. “Nope. This is wrong. We can’t do this. This creature”—I swept a hand at the downed and dying dragon—“isn’t evil. She’s the victim of a well-intentioned man who was willing to do bad things for what he believed to be good reasons. That’s who the Jade Lord was. And that’s also Osmark to a T. That’s what we’re fighting against. Maybe this stuff”—I lifted the items in my hands—“will help us defeat the Empire, but they’ll also help us become the new Empire.

“I’m sorry, but I won’t do this. It’s not enough to beat Osmark,” I said, “we need to be better than him. And this?” I glanced at the dragon huffing and puffing in the sand, only inches from death and utter annihilation. “This isn’t any better. So, I’m going to do the right thing. I’m going to side with a monster, who isn’t a monster.” I trudged out of the huge divot and over to the magma river burbling mindlessly along. I paused on the rocky bank, staring one last time at the priceless relics in my hands. God this was stupid.

I closed my eyes and tossed them all into the river of molten rock.

“This is for you, Priestess,” I whispered under my breath, opening my eyes and watching as the magma went to work. Chunks of bone sizzled, popped, and melted. The gold dissolved into orange slag. The fat jade stones disappeared beneath the surface.

In the span of seconds, the artifacts were gone, destroyed for good.

THIRTY-FOUR:

Blessings and Curses

I heard a muted round of gasps—utter disbelief over the insane thing I’d just done. Those gasps faded and died quickly, though, replaced by murmurs of awe as Arzokh shuddered and rose into the air, held aloft by swirling streams of golden light like a thousand shimmering butterflies all working as one. I stared too, captivated as the ropes fell away and her limbs, so badly broken only moments before, popped and straightened while her neck twisted back into place, and her wings mended themselves—skin, muscle, and sinew knitting together in double speed.

The golden light didn’t just repair the appalling damage, however, it also changed her. Black skin flaked away, replaced by radiant scales the color of fresh grass, etched with swirling runes of pulsing golden power. The spikes running along her spine, like a forest of sword blades, shimmered, bubbled, and disappeared as a mane of lush golden hair sprouted, running from her serpentine head down along her graceful neck and all the way to the tip of her tail. Her wings—vast leathery appendages—likewise morphed, the dry, cracked flesh replaced with golden plumage that gleamed and shimmered in the light of the lava river.

Wow. She was beautiful. Breathtaking, even.

And then, she ascended. The swirls of golden light drew her up above the canyon,toward a swirling vortex suspended high above us in the air. The rift, easily a hundred feet in diameter, offered us a peek into a beautiful landscape filled with lush rolling fields, shimmering lakes, endless blue skies, and immense floating islands defying all the known laws of physics. Kuonela, the land of dragons. A host of serpentine faces stared down at us—little baby dragons flitting about in the air—but one stood out: a slick green creature, not much larger than Devil, with burnt-orange eyes and a host of violet feathers. Irrinth, the Sky Maiden’s mate.

He didn’t smile—couldn’t—but he dipped his head low in thanks, opalescent tears leaking down his cheeks.

Then, Arzokh was gone, disappearing through the immense portal, which snapped shut, leaving only the starless, cloud-strewn sky behind. Peace and fierce joy bloomed in my chest like a flower. Yep, maybe that hadn’t been the smart thing to do, but it was definitely the right choice—I’d be able to sleep tonight and look at myself in the mirror the next morning.

No amount of gold coin or sweet gear could replace that.

I turned back to the others, but stopped dead in my tracks as a group of ghostly apparitions appeared before me in a semicircle. All hard-faced Dokkalfar men. A few were big and bulky: bruisers and tanks in heavy plate mail, brandishing brutal two-handed weapons. One was whip-thin—built with the hard lines of a razor blade—wore dark leather armor, and carried a beefy warhammer that could’ve been a twin to my own. A Shadowmancer, then. Others sported the flowing robes of mages, while another still was decked out in conjured armor built from yellowing bones.

It was the man in the middle that drew my eye, though.

He was a taller than me, with broad shoulders and a swath of ebony hair streaked at the temples with silver. He stared at me from dark eyes like chips of burnt coal, set above a hooked nose and a thin, cruel mouth, while leaning casually on a double-edged sword pulsing with violet runes of power. The Jade Lord, Nangkri, in the flesh.

“I’m sorry,” I said, staring him dead in the eye, refusing to blink, “but I couldn’t do what you wanted. Even if it means I won’t ever get your blessing.”

For a second, he didn’t respond—he just stared at me, frosty and stone-faced. But then, his somber features began to loosen as the ghost of a smile appeared on his flat face. “I’m not angry, boy.” He shook his head. “No. I’m proud. For the past five hundred years, my descendants have told stories built on pride and lies, seeking the artifacts with the sole aim of eternally destroying Arzokh’s soul. All in a futile attempt to free me and my brothers from a curse that never existed.”

My jaw dropped. “Wait, what do you mean there’s no curse? If there’s no curse then why are the seven of you stuck here?”

“We’re not stuck,” Nangkri replied somberly, hands flexing and clenching around the hilt of his blade. “We’re held here only by guilt for a crime we committed, but could never atone for in life. Killing the Sky Maiden and her brood to get that gold … Well, it was a decision that haunted me every night and every waking moment. And then, when I finally died, I was forced to pass through this blighted land”—slowly, he looked left, then right—“to enter the sacred resting place of our people.

“Instead of simply passing on, I saw Arzokh, stranded forever in this place because of me. Because of my evil, my vanity, my pride. I saw a once wise, beautiful creature twisted into a monstrosity by a grief I inflicted on her out of greed. So, I refused to move on—and my brothers, faithful men that they are—have kept me company ever since. I chose to stay, to stand vigil for my transgression until the wrong I committed all those years ago could be righted.” His smile stretched as he reached out and clapped me on the shoulder.

“That’s why I picked you, Grim Jack. Why I ensured you received the crown. Because I saw mercy in you. I saw someone who might do the just thing. Only someone who could do that—who could throw away power for the sake of goodness—deserves my blessing and the mantle of the Jade Lord. A good leader, Jack, is not someone who blindly follows orders. No, such a person is a pawn. And neither is it the person who is willing to sell their soul for the power to rule.” He shook his head again. “Such a person is a despot.

“A true leader—someone others will follow out of respect instead of fear—is one who has vision, backed by the power of conviction and determination of will. You, Jack, have such vision, conviction, and will. Now, you also have my blessing. You’ve earned the right to be the new Jade Lord, ruler over the Dark Conclave, and Lord over all the Storme Marshes. And, as a symbol of your new position, I grant you these gifts—a little something to replace those ghastly relics you destroyed.” A series of notifications popped up, one after another:

∞∞∞

x1 Level Up!

You have (10) undistributed stat points. Stat points can be allocated at any time.

You have (2) unassigned proficiency points. Proficiency points can be allocated at any time.

∞∞∞

Quest Update: Path of the Jade Lord

Congratulations! You’ve traveled to the Twilight Lands and defeated the great Sky Maiden, Arzokh. However, by destroying the set of the Jade Lord in an act of mercy, you’ve freed her spirit, allowing her to enter Kuonela, the eternal resting place of Dragons. Moved by your act of kindness, the Jade Lord, Nangkri, has granted you his blessing and mantle. You are now the new Jade Lord, ruler over the Dark Conclave, and Lord over all the Storme Marshes. In appreciation for your efforts, Lord Nangkri has provided you with The Set of the Benevolent. Additionally, you’ve earned 40,000 EXP and 1000 Renown—in-world fame—for completing this ultra-rare quest. Greater renown elevates you within the ranks of Eldgard and can affect merchant prices when selling or buying.

∞∞∞

Notifications:

- You’ve been appointed the Jade Lord, ruler over the newly revived Nangkri Dynasty!

- You are now the High Commander of the six named Dokkalfar clans!

- You have received the Cursus Honorum (Rank) of Consul!

- You now have access to the Keep interfaces for Yunnam (Ak-Hani clan), Rai Nam (Lisu clan), Baan Tung (La-Hun clan), Baan Luang (Karem clan), Mae Sawan (Chao-Yao clan), and Nan (Na-Ang clan)!

- You can now appoint Magistrates to govern your Keeps!

- Your relationship with the Viridian Empire has been lowered to Nemesis!

- Your relationship with the Eldgard Rebellion has been raised to Exalted!

∞∞∞

Viridian Gate Online Universal Alert!

Notice: Traveler Grim Jack Shadowstrider, honorary member of the Ak-Hani clan, has completed the ultra-rare quest, Path of the Jade Lord! His faction, the Crimson Alliance, now owns the cities of Yunnam, Rai Nam, Baan Tung, Baan Luang, Mae Sawan, and Nan in the Storme Marshes!

Notice: Traveler Grim Jack Shadowstrider has been appointed Lord over the newly revived Nangkri Dynasty!

Notice: Grim Jack Shadowstrider is now a Nemesis of the Ever-Victorious Viridian Empire!

∞∞∞

I read over the message, feeling numb and stunned. This was huge … this would change everything. Not knowing what else to do, I toggled over to my inventory. The original set of the Jade Lord was gone, burned to slag in the magma river, but a new set had taken its place:

∞∞∞

Crown of the Benevolent

Armor Type: Medium; Obsidian Helm

Class: Ancient Artifact; Set Item

Base Defense: 51

Primary Effects:

Vitality Bonus = .75 x Character Level

Dexterity Bonus = .75 x Character Level

20% Resistance to Blunt Trauma Damage

Secondary Set Effects:

+10 to all Resistances per set piece worn

All Spell Costs are reduced by 20% (2 pieces)

+1 to Class Specific Skills (3 pieces)

The Crown of the Benevolent, hand forged by the Jade Lord, Nangkri, and imbued with a small part of his soul, radiates authority and power.

∞∞∞

Belt of the Benevolent

Armor Type: Medium; Obsidian Belt

Class: Ancient Artifact; Set Item

Base Defense: 43

Primary Effects:

Strength Bonus = .75 x Character Level

Constitution Bonus = .75 x Character Level

20% Resistance to Slashing Damage

Secondary Set Effects:

+10 to all Resistances per set piece worn

All Spell Costs are reduced by 20% (2 pieces)

+1 to Class Specific Skills (3 pieces)

The Belt of the Benevolent, hand forged by the Jade Lord, Nangkri, and imbued with a small part of his soul, radiates authority and power.

∞∞∞

Amulet of the Benevolent

Armor Type: Medium; Obsidian Amulet

Class: Ancient Artifact; Set Item

Base Defense: N/A

Primary Effects:

Intelligence Bonus = .75 x Character Level

Spirit Bonus = .75 x Character Level

20% Resistance to Piercing Damage

Secondary Set Effects:

+10 to all Resistances per set piece worn

All Spell Costs are reduced by 20% (2 pieces)

+1 to Class Specific Skills (3 pieces)

The Amulet of the Benevolent, hand forged by the Jade Lord, Nangkri, and imbued with a small part of his soul, radiates authority and power.

∞∞∞

Wow. I closed out. These pieces were almost identical to the original set—just better and crafted from gleaming black obsidian instead of yellowed bone.

“I can see you’re pleased,” Nangkri said with a grin, “and rightfully so. But that is not all. I have one final gift to offer you as a token of my profound appreciation. The Horn of the Ancients belonged to Isra Spiritcaller, one of the greatest chieftains of the Maa-Tál to ever live. She was also my great granddaughter. I would like you to keep her horn. Inside the sacred glade, it can be used to open the gateways to a host of different realms. However, it can also be used outside of the sacred clearing. Blow on it when in trouble, and my brothers and I will answer the call, appearing to do battle on your behalf. Be warned, though, the horn will only do so once.”

Quickly, I pulled up my inventory and accessed the horn, rechecking its properties:

∞∞∞

Horn of the Ancients

Weapon Type: Relic; Horn

Class: Ancient Artifact

Primary Effects:

Blow on the horn to open the seven nexus stones located in the Sacred Glade of the Dark Conclave.

Secondary Effects:

Blow on the horn outside of the Sacred Glade of the Dark Conclave to summon the Jade Lord and his brothers into battle for (1) hour. This ability can only be used once!

The Horn of the Ancients, once wielded by the mighty Dokkalfar Chieftain, Isra Spiritcaller, is said to have been forged in the belly of Svartalfheim by none other than Eitri Spark-Sprayer, godling of the Forge. Legend holds that one of great worth may call the heroes of old from the Halls of the Dead to fight on their behalf …

∞∞∞

Sure enough, the two previously locked effects were now available to me. I closed out the screen, turning my attention back on Nangkri.

“Fare thee well, Grim Jack,” the spectral Jade Lord said, offering me a thin, tight-lipped smile full of regret. “Be a better man and a better leader than I was.” He turned away, then he and his brothers strutted toward the columned Acropolis, fading and vanishing as they walked. Disappearing from one blink to the next.

“Jack,” Abby called as everyone rushed toward me, their expressions flashing between bewildered and astonished in turns. “What in the world just happened? Seriously. I am so freaking lost right now …”

I was on the verge of answering when my personal inbox pinged with a new message. Without even looking, I knew exactly who it was—the only person it could be, really. Osmark.

∞∞∞

Personal Message:

Jack,

I genuinely hoped you could be reasoned with. Obviously, I was mistaken. You’ve made yourself a nuisance once too often, and now you’ve left me with no choice but to eradicate you from the face of the map and find a new puppet to head the Rebellion. Prepare yourself, Jack. You have ten days. I’ll see you on the battlefield.

Best Regards,

Robert Osmark, High Emperor of the Viridian Empire

∞∞∞

I closed the menu and exited out of my interface, deeply disturbed by Osmark’s message. We’d won the day, despite all the odds, but this was just one battle in a much bigger war. And now? Now that war would be marching toward us with the tech genius Robert Osmark at its head.

“What happened,” I replied to Abby’s question, breaking into a small grin, “is that we just rolled the dice and won big. Huge. But our win is only going to buy us a little time. We’ve got ten days to come up with a way to beat Osmark and an army twenty times larger than ours.” I rubbed my hands together in anticipation. “So, let’s get planning ...”

Books, Mailing List, and Reviews

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About the Author

Hey all, my name is James Hunter and I’m a writer, among other things. So just a little about me: I’m a former Marine Corps Sergeant, combat veteran, and pirate hunter (seriously). I’m also a member of The Royal Order of the Shellback—’cause that’s a real thing. I’ve also been a missionary and international aid worker in Bangkok, Thailand. And, a space-ship captain, can’t forget that.

Okay … the last one is only in my imagination.

Currently, I’m a stay at home Dad—taking care of my two kids—while also writing full time, making up absurd stories that I hope people will continue to buy. When I’m not working, writing, or spending time with family, I occasionally eat and sleep.

Dedication

Well, this one’s for me—for me and the future.

Special Thanks

I’d like to thank my wife, Jeanette, daughter, Lucy, and son, Samuel. A special thanks to my parents, Greg and Lori. A quick shout out to my brother Aron and his whole brood—Eve, Brook, Grace, and Collin. Brit, probably you’ll never read this, but I love you too. Here’s to the folks of Team Hunter, my awesome Alpha and Beta readers who helped make this book both possible and good:

Dan Goodale, eden Hudson, Heather Copeman, Megan Meyers, Amber McKee, Noah Sturdevant, Mark Robbins, and Bob “Gunslinger” Singer. They read the messy, early drafts so that no one else had to; thanks guys and gals. Another big thanks goes to my ironically-hipster writing buddies, Amanda Robinson, Kelsi Martin, Brian Howard, and Meagan—the best sounding board on the planet. And I can’t possibly forget all of the fantastic readers and writers hanging out at all the various litRPG groups out there. And of course a big thanks to my editor, Tamara Blain who, as always, rocked this book (if you need editing, go to her, she’s seriously awesome: www.acloserlookediting.com/).

—James A. Hunter, June 2017

Copyright

Viridian Gate Online: The Jade Lord is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2017 by James A. Hunter and Shadow Alley Press, Inc.

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