Viridian Gate Online: Embers of Rebellion: A LitRPG Adventure
Author: J. D. Astra; James Hunter
Date: 2022-05-15 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: virtual reality VR MMO litRPG role playing men’s adventure fantasy video game adaptations science fiction thriller sword superhero action horror dark gritty epic metaphysical wizard shapeshifter war
Description: A single spark begets an inferno. The theft of the drug lord Carrera's Faction Seal has set Osmark's empire-to-be ablaze with the hunt for Abby and Otto's heads, but her quest to discover the truth about the ultra-rare item won't wait. There are only days left until Earth's destruction, and the Faction Seal plays some role in Osmark's plan to rule over Viridian Gate Online, the immersive VRMMO game turned humanity's lifeboat. With nowhere left to turn in Harrowick, Abby and Otto have no choice but to flee to the rebel undergrounds of Alaunhylles-a fading light that was once a beacon of hope in
Publisher: Shadow Alley Press Inc
Rights: James A. Hunter and Shadow Alley Press

Contents

Viridian Gate Online: Cataclysm

James A. Hunter

Summary

Dedication

ONE: Beginning of the End

TWO: V.G.O.

THREE: Clash of Kingdoms

FOUR: Cutter

FIVE: Mercy

SIX: Quest Alert

SEVEN: Loot

EIGHT: Brawl

NINE: Rowanheath

TEN: The Broken Dagger

ELEVEN: Training

TWELVE: The Grind

THIRTEEN: The Hamadryad

FOURTEEN: Skill Bump

FIFTEEN: Abby Intrigue

SIXTEEN: Bad to Worse

SEVENTEEN: Into the Hole

EIGHTEEN: Firestorm

NINETEEN: The Long Road Down

TWENTY: Boss Battle

TWENTY-ONE: Faction Seal

TWENTY-TWO: Downtime

TWENTY-THREE: Rise and Shine

TWENTY-FOUR: The Emporium

TWENTY-FIVE: Storme Marshes

TWENTY-SIX: Legs, Legs, Legs

TWENTY-SEVEN: Captives

TWENTY-EIGHT: Chief Kolle

TWENTY-NINE: Rebirth

THIRTY: Dark Templar

THIRTY-ONE: Test Drive

THIRTY-TWO: Moss Hag

THIRTY-THREE: Critical Hit

THIRTY-FOUR: Victory Road

Viridian Gate Online: Crimson Alliance

Summary

James Hunter's Mailing List

ONE: Waiting Game

TWO: Shadow Portal

THREE: Void Terrors

FOUR: Ore Grind

FIVE: Ancient Tome

SIX: Void Drake

SEVEN: Contest of Wills

EIGHT: Good News

NINE: Reunion

TEN: Wanted

ELEVEN: The Keep

TWELVE: Guardians

THIRTEEN: Crimson Alliance

FOURTEEN: Initiate Tutorial

FIFTEEN: Faction Skills

SIXTEEN: The End Has Come

SEVENTEEN: Strategy

EIGHTEEN: Worthy Foe

NINETEEN: Spider’s Lair

TWENTY: Wheeling and Dealing

TWENTY-ONE: Debuff, Death

TWENTY-TWO: Reports, Reports, Reports

TWENTY-THREE: Changes

TWENTY-FOUR: Thief in the Night

TWENTY-FIVE: The Weaponeer

TWENTY-SIX: Plague Tunnels

TWENTY-SEVEN: Gentleman Georgie

TWENTY-EIGHT: Bloodletting

TWENTY-NINE: Mop Up

THIRTY: Final Preparations

THIRTY-ONE: Mount Up

THIRTY-TWO: Light it Up

THIRTY-THREE: Dogfight

THIRTY-FOUR: Boss Battle

THIRTY-FIVE: Peace Offering

Viridian Gate Online: The Jade Lord

Summary

James Hunter's Mailing List

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

VGO Reading Order

Other Works by James A. Hunter

Books from Shadow Alley Press

About the Author
litRPG on Facebook

GameLit on Facebook

Special Thanks

Copyright

James A. Hunter

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Summary

October, 2042

An extinction-level asteroid, 213 Astraea, is cannonballing toward Earth. Collision, imminent.

An international team of scientists is working around the clock to avert the cataclysm—few are optimistic. World governments are preparing for impact with deep earth bio-dome bunkers, but only a select few lottery winners will be saved.

Jack Mitchel, a thirty-two-year-old EMT living in a tiny studio apartment on the West Coast, isn’t one of those winners.

Still, there might be a way for him to survive Astraea: a slim chance, requiring a radical leap of faith. Through a connection at Osmark Technologies, Jack’s acquired a NexGenVR capsule and with it, a one-way ticket to the brand-new, ultra-immersive, fantasy-based VRMMORPG, Viridian Gate Online. Taking that leap of faith, though, means permanently trapping his mind in the game, killing his body in the process.

Worse, one in six die during the transition, and even if Jack beats the odds, he’ll have to navigate a fantastical world filled with vicious monsters, domineering AIs, and cutthroat players. And when Jack stumbles upon a secret conspiracy to sell off virtual real estate to the ultrawealthy—transforming V.G.O. into a new feudal dark age—the deadly creatures inhabiting Viridian Gate’s expansive dungeons will be the least of his concerns.

If Jack can’t game the system, he’s going to be trading in a quick death for a long, brutal one …

Dedication

For all the crazy-amazing readers out there, who pay me to write these kooky stories. You guys and gals are seriously the best.

ONE: Beginning of the End

I took one last glance around my apartment. A tiny studio flat, just under five hundred square feet, which still cost me a sizeable chunk of change every month. It didn’t help that the cost of living had skyrocketed over the past few years while my meager paycheck had remained rock steady. Which is to say, low. Being an EMT doesn’t pay what it used to, not that it’s ever really been a lucrative career field—kids flipping burgers at most fast-food joints made what I did, despite the demands of the job. Working grueling shifts. Saving lives. Watching people die.

Still, even in spite of the pay, it was good work. Fulfilling.

My little slice of paradise had a small kitchen, a nearly microscopic bathroom, and a living room that doubled as my bedroom, office, dining room, and pretty much everything else. I’m something of a minimalist, I suppose. Someone less generous might say I was poor. Everything I owned was old, worn, and just this side of broken: a dented stove, a bulky white fridge that’d certainly seen better days, a used brown sofa I’d picked up from Goodwill a couple of years ago. The couch was heavily stained, the cushions deeply creased and sagging. A full mattress in the same condition bordered the far wall, near the door to the bathroom.

The TV was nice at least—a hulking seventy-five-inch Shintaro with a nano-crystal screen and multi-zone backlighting. My VR headset, a matte black helmet with a sleek viewing screen, sat on the floor next to the massive television. I smiled looking at it. Lots of good memories.

For a moment, I stood there staring, swaying slightly on my feet. I frowned, trying to decide what to do next. As an EMT I know what shock looks like, and I had it bad, but there wasn’t anything I could do. I briefly considered going around my apartment and unplugging the appliances, just to make sure the place didn’t catch fire and burn to the ground. No point in that, though. A house fire was the least of my concerns at this point.

So instead, I shrugged numbly, readjusted my bathrobe, shuffled over to the cramped kitchen, and poured myself a cup of day-old joe, strong enough to knock teeth out.

The coffee was tepid at best, so I stuck the mug in the barely serviceable microwave, hit the auto start, and headed over to the front door. The only door. The only way in or out, save the windows, but I was four stories up, so that wasn’t a huge concern. I checked the lock for what was probably the hundredth time. Still shut nice and tight. The deadbolt was engaged, the hanging chain in place. Then, I rechecked the shoddy wooden chair I’d jammed up under the knob—in case someone decided the lock wasn’t enough of a deterrent.

That was fine, too.

The microwave sounded, beep-beep-beep, letting me know my formerly lukewarm coffee was ready to go.

I retrieved my cup, now steaming, took a few tentative sips, and headed over to the far window overlooking the street below. I didn’t open the blinds—didn’t want anyone to see my apartment was occupied, since that might mark me as a target—but instead peeked through one of the plastic slats. A quick gander. It was getting dark, and the streetlights were starting to kick on; not that the streetlights needed to be on, what with the fires raging all over the city. Sooty orange-and-yellow light littered the skyline, plumes of smoke drifting, rising, visible even against the darkening sky.

A man in a hockey mask strode by on the street below, a pump action shotgun clutched in his hands, a bag of looted toilet paper slung across his back in a duffel bag. The strobing lights of an empty police cruiser washed over him in splashes of red and blue. Toilet paper. His prize loot is toilet paper. Maybe the world deserves to die. I shook my head, then took another sip of coffee, letting the bitter liquid wash down my throat and hit my belly with a surge of delicious warmth and caffeine.

I turned away from the window and fixed my gaze on the brand-new, state-of-the-art NexGenVR capsule—a coffin of glossy black plastic and sleek chrome. Really, it looked more like a high-tech suntanning bed, but, all things considered, it sure felt like a coffin. A host of tubes snaked away from the capsule to a hefty generator powered by a renewable hydro-cell. The capsules drew far too much power to operate on the city grid, so they needed their own private source, and that generator could keep my VR capsule up and running for a solid month. Not that I needed a month.

Seventy-two hours would do it.

I paused and ran a hand over the surface of the capsule, feeling the smooth plastic. Honestly, I was lucky to have the thing—a good friend of mine from college was a program developer at Osmark Tech, and she’d hooked me up big time. Of course, that’d been before the news about Astraea. I tapped the surface, fingers drumming out a staccato rhythm as I took another sip of coffee. Almost time. I brought the cup away and realized my hand was trembling. Yep, almost time. But not yet. I still had a little longer. Long enough to finish my joe—it’d be the last cup of coffee I’d ever have, so I figured I should really enjoy it.

I turned, refusing to look at the capsule, feeling a wave of guilt rise from my gut and claw its way upwards. I shoved the feeling away and ambled over to the couch, plopping down on the well-worn cushions just like I had a million times before. Just survivor’s guilt, I reminded myself; there was no reason to feel that way. I hadn’t done anything wrong. This was the end, and I needed to do what I could for me. I didn’t have a girlfriend. My parents were across the country, and with air services shut down they’d never make it out here. Not in time for it to matter. We’d already Interfaced and said our goodbyes.

I took another swig and glanced down, realizing my cup was already half empty. I swirled the mug, watching the black liquid dance. Better make it last.

“Sophia,” I said.

“Yes, Jack, how can I help you?” The voice, polite, vaguely British, and female, resounded from a small black speaker shaped like a hockey puck attached to the side of the television. Sophia was a limited AI controller—an automation system that ran my home.

“Turn up the thermostat to seventy-two and please put on Cartoon Network.”

“Of course, Jack, my pleasure.” The heat kicked on a second later, a rush of warm air flooding in through the vents while the TV blinked to brilliant life. They had classic reruns on: Courage the Cowardly Dog shrieked, his eyes bulging out as a talking tree spouted sage advice. I wasn’t in the mood for Courage, but neither did I feel motivated to look for something else, something better. Most of the stations would be covering the flaming death-ball anyway, and I sure as heck didn’t feel like watching any more of that circus.

So, I sat and watched Courage’s shenanigans, chuckling tiredly as I slowly polished off my drink. Enjoyed every sip. After half an hour, though, my cup was empty and the anxiety was coming back with a vengeance. “Sophia, find me news coverage,” I said reluctantly. The channel switched in a blink. Courage was replaced by a pair of news anchors, one a forty-something guy with too-white teeth and well-coiffed hair, the other a cute black woman with a short bob cut and a pink blazer.

“We here at Channel 9 will continue to monitor the news right up until the very end, folks,” said the woman in the blazer. A countdown timer in the corner of the screen spun merrily away: nine days, four hours, and thirty-two minutes left until impact. “Scientists from NASA,” she continued professionally, “along with astronauts and researchers from the US-European think tank AIDA—Asteroid Impact and Deflection Assessment—are working around the clock on a viable solution to either destroy or divert asteroid 213 Astraea, the nine-mile-wide chunk of rock and ice currently predicted to land in the North Atlantic near the coast of Greenland.

“Although few specific details have been released about AIDA’s plans, our sources say the best hope we have is to nudge Astraea into the stable orbit of the Moon. With that said, we are told scientists and government officials overseeing the project do not seem optimistic at the prospect. Local A.R.C. lottery winners are being directed to rally at the Osmark Football stadium as quickly as possible. But any travelers, be warned, looters are out in force and you will need credentials, two forms of identification, and Lottery vouchers to get past the Guardsmen holding the stadium. All vouchers are nontransferable and are invalid without proper identification.”

“In other news,” said the man with the well-coiffed hair, “Osmark Technologies is still accepting people at their secure facility in the Silicon Valley. Those slots are limited, however, and are filling up quickly, so if you’re prepared to make the leap into Viridian Gate Online, you shouldn’t delay any longer. The company is urging private citizens with access to NexGenVR capsules to stream live as soon as possible. According to our sources inside Osmark Technologies, complete interface integration usually takes seventy-two hours, but apparently it can take longer, so they are advising people not to wait.

“For those without A.R.C. vouchers and no plans to upload into Viridian Gate Online, the National Guard is recommending you get to a secure basement and store at least one gallon of water per person per day for a minimum of five days. Also ensure you have any necessary life-saving medications on hand since emergency services will likely be off-line for quite some time after—”

“Turn it off, Sophia,” I said, with a wave of my hand. The TV died with a single final flash of light. Then darkness. A preview of the world to come: one big bang, then black.

I set my mug down on a stained and scratched coffee table and rubbed slick palms along the legs of my sweatpants. My hands trembled noticeably. No point putting it off any longer—there was nothing left for me to do now, and if I had any chance of surviving Astraea, it was going to be inside that capsule.

I stood with a groan, went over to the NexGenVR, and reverently touched the machine, keying the manual power button on the control console. Immediately, it hummed to life, accompanied by a strobe of neon-blue light the color of a bug zapper. I swallowed hard, my hands now shaking so badly I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to operate the controls. Thankfully, Sophia would help with the rest. I flipped open the lid and placed a modified version of the familiar VR helmet on my head, before carefully lowering myself onto the stiff memory-foam mattress lining the capsule’s interior.

The lid automatically closed, leaving me in a cramped space filled with a pulsing light. My heart labored in my chest, thumping against my ribs, beating a million miles a minute. At this rate, I’d have a coronary, which would put me down long before that stupid meteor ever got here. No, I’ll be fine. All I needed to do now was give Sophia the command, tell her to initiate Viridian Gate Online, and that would be that.

Except, I couldn’t make my lips form the words.

Once I did, I’d be committed. And I might die. That was one thing they weren’t telling people on the news: one in six who attempted full integration died during the process. And those that did “survive” would live on as virtual avatars in a virtual world. Was that really even living? I didn’t know. I also didn’t know if I had the guts to pull the trigger—this was like playing Russian roulette.

I shuddered. Shivered. My brow broke out in claustrophobic sweat.

Yeah, this process might kill me. Might, I reminded myself. When Astraea hit, though, I’d be one hundred percent dead. No question in my mind about that. “Sophia,” I said, voice quivering, “please run Viridian Gate Online.”

“Of course, Jack,” she replied calmly. “Please lie as still as possible.”

The machine let out a click-buzz—the lid locking mechanism—followed by the whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of a whirling MRI. Abruptly, everything went black as the VR headset engaged, but the black was soon replaced by a white loading screen. A video popped up in front of me, filling my vision, featuring a man with shaggy hair and wire-rim glasses, wearing black slacks and a dark navy turtleneck.

“Hello, I’m the CEO of Osmark Technologies, Robert Osmark, and I’d like to personally welcome you to Viridian Gate Online,” he said, “the most advanced full-immersion video game in the world. Viridian Gate Online is truly the first of its kind. And that’s not the typical hyperbolic language so cavalierly tossed around in tech circles. No, I can assure you, I truly mean this is the first of its kind.

“Our revolutionary work with massive memristive neuromorphic computing systems has created a paradigm shift in AI technologies, and the result is an experience second to none. Moreover, through Osmark’s patented NexGenVR capsule you will experience a whole new world as though you were there in the flesh. Even the pain is real.”

There was a pause—Robert froze with a stupid grin on his face. “Patch 1.3 update announcement,” Sophia intoned.

The screen blinked and Robert resumed speaking. “If you are watching this,” he said gravely, “it means you have a very real, very hard choice to make ahead of you. The imminent arrival of asteroid 213 Astraea has changed everything. Though it’s possible, likely even, that human life will continue in some form or capacity after the asteroid’s impact, many, if not all of you watching this, will die. That’s a somber, hard truth, and at this stage it’s a truth which shouldn’t be sugarcoated. But there is another way. A way that you might live—and I’m extending that invitation to everyone watching this.

“Our NexGenVR capsules work by injecting microscopic nanobots into your bloodstream. The nanobots migrate north and map out your mind in precise detail. These extraordinary mechanical marvels survey each of the major portions of your brain—the cerebrum, the cerebellum, and the brainstem—and chart each of your neural pathways, which is no small feat. They’re the secret behind our system’s full integration: they actually stimulate the nerves in your brain, allowing you to experience the game with lifelike sensation. The information gleaned by the nanobots is then uploaded to one of several deep-earth servers, located in secure bunkers all across the globe.

“Truthfully, that’s far more candid than I ever expected to be about how the process works, but this is the end of the world.” He offered a tired, lopsided smile. “The system is perfectly safe—under the right conditions. During our clinical trials, we discovered that if this uploading process continues for longer than seventy-two consecutive hours, the body shuts down and the physical brain goes into a state of catatonia. After that, without proper life-support measures, the body simply dies.”

He folded his hands, lips pressed into a tight line. “But that map the nanobots uploaded,” he continued after a beat, “will continue to exist indefinitely within the game server. And that map is, for all intents and purposes, you. It’s your thoughts, emotions, experiences, personality. A digital copy of you within the game world of Viridian Gate Online. Originally, we installed neural inhibitors into all the capsules, which automatically logged players out after six hours of game play, but Patch 1.3 has changed all that. The neural inhibitors have all been disabled and, after twenty-four hours of in-game time, the logout button will permanently disappear, leaving you stranded in the game.

“If you choose to upload yourself to Viridian Gate Online, you have a chance at surviving Astraea, at least in a digital form. Now, let me take a moment to address some of the concerns circulating around the internet rumor mill. First, I can personally assure everyone listening to this message that Patch 1.3 is our last major update—the game is locked and all essential functions are now being administered by the AI controllers.

“Second, contrary to what some fearmongers have reported online, once you are uploaded, no hacker or Osmark Tech employee will be able to delete your profile. All permanent user profiles are immediately encrypted using asymmetric key cryptography and then circulated continuously and randomly through all of our linked databases, ensuring no person will ever be able to access your digital identity. Not even I could manage to do it. And really, this is as much for our protection as yours—we don’t want a way to delete players because that’s a two-edged sword, which could easily be wielded against us.

“No, I can assure you, once you’ve successfully transitioned to a digitized form, you’ll be safe and secure for as long as V.G.O. exists. With that said, I won’t lie to you, this process isn’t without risks. Not everyone successfully transitions. There is a one in six chance you will die during the process. One in six. But for the vast majority of you, there is a one hundred percent chance you will die if you fail to take the risk. By watching this warning, you hereby remove all liability of damages from Osmark Technologies, its corporate owners, and its subsidiary entities. Would you still like to proceed?”

His terrible question hung in the air, heavy like a storm cloud. Did I want to proceed? Would existing in a video game really be better than dying? Than seeing what came next?

“Yes,” I said. “Proceed.” The machine kicked into overdrive, the whirling picking up in intensity. WHOOSH, WHOOSH, WHOOSH, WHOOSH.

“Traveler,” boomed a hard-edged male voice, “prepare to enter Viridian Gate Online!”

TWO: V.G.O.

The white loading screen gave way and, in an eyeblink, I found myself standing on the rocky slope of a gigantic mountain, snow and ice underfoot, a tremendous valley stretching out before me. The sight was breathtaking, amazing—the lush forests and rolling plains below so lifelike I could’ve sworn I was standing high in the Rockies or maybe the Swiss Alps. A slapping wind bit at my hands and face, plastering crude, scratchy, homespun garments to my body. I reached tentative fingers up to my cheek, feeling the prick of rough stubble running along my jawline.

Wow. I dropped to my ass, my legs too weak to support me. The chill from the snow instantly hit me as water soaked into my threadbare pants—I scrambled back to my feet in a hurry, eager to be away from the cold. I glanced down and saw a divot in the fresh powder. Wow. This was incredible. I’d been involved in VRMMORPGs for as long as they’d been around, but there’d never been anything like this. Never. Not even close. The graphics quality was unmatched, indistinguishable from IRL, even. The frigid snow and the blades of grass poking up from below were as real as the saggy couch in my apartment.

And the sensations …

I could really feel here. I wasn’t sure what’d I’d expected when I’d first heard about the NexGenVR capsule’s NerveTech features, but it hadn’t been this. I could smell the fresh pine wafting from the towering spruces and sprawling evergreens dotting the mountainside around me. On a whim, I bent over and scooped up a handful of powder and took a bite—cold, faintly flavored with ozone and cedar. The snow melted in my mouth, water trickling down my throat and hitting my belly with a cool splash. Robert Osmark certainly hadn’t been exaggerating—this was definitely a first-of-its-kind game.

Still, as amazing as this was, could I live here forever? Guess I didn’t have much choice at this point.

That thought vanished as a semitranslucent display popped up. A hazy image of myself—an average looking guy with sandy brown hair, a medium build, and a slightly pinched faced—floated in the air. Except, I was no longer wearing my ratty old bathrobe and sweatpants; now, I was sporting a tattered burlap-looking tunic with rough stitching, a pair of equally uncomfortable trousers, held up with a length of rope, and some fur boots that weren’t doing much to keep the chill out. An interface bar with a variety of options—race, build, sex, face, name—trailed down beside my floating avatar.

I glanced up at race, and immediately a new options menu appeared on my right, hovering in the air like a specter. A list of available, playable races. I scanned the first one, Hvitalfar. Immediately, my avatar’s image changed; sandy brown hair was replaced by platinum blond locks, and my skin took on a golden hue while my ears elongated, slimming to narrow tips. It was still me, though, my face and body providing the underlying framework for some new and strange costume. A prompt popped up and lingered at the bottom of my vision:

<<<>>>

Hvitalfar (Dawn Elf): The elves of the Shining Plains, also known as Hvitalfar, make excellent Clerics and Sorcerers. Due to their natural affinity for spellcraft and the restorative arts, they receive a 5% bonus to starting Spirit. With their affection for nature and close kinship with animals, they also make admirable Rangers, excelling in the Shaman kits.

<<<>>>

I immediately scrolled down, gaze landing on the next race in the list—Dokkalfar. My avatar changed again, this time the skin darkening to a dusky gun-metal gray, my hair going a glossy raven’s-black, which looked almost blue from a certain angle. This race also had pointy ears and I could tell they hailed from the same family as the Dawn Elves I’d just looked at. After a moment, a new text box appeared:

<<<>>>

Dokkalfar (Murk Elf): The Murk Elves of the Storme Marshes are a tough and often unlikeable people. Many Dokkalfar prefer to keep to their own kind and rarely venture outside their boggy home lands. A lifetime of living in the dangerous and predatory swamps of Eldgard makes them excellently suited to be Rangers. They also excel in the Rogue class—particularly as assassins, Sicarii, since they possess a 20% resistance to poison and disease—or as mysterious Dark Templars, the enforcers of the Shadow Pantheon.

<<<>>>

There were several other races to choose from.

The Svartalfar, short and squat, who resembled the typical dwarf and excelled in Smithing, Enchanting, and Merchant-craft. They also sported a hefty 50% resistance to fire, probably on account of their forge work. Next came humanoid creatures with dark, Middle Eastern features and pronounced wings jutting from their backs. They looked like living angels. The Accipiter, who could fly apparently, had a few race-restricted specialty classes, and a sizeable bonus to Dexterity.

Two varieties of humans followed: the Imperials—vaguely Roman looking with short, wavy hair and Mediterranean complexions—and the Wodes. The Wodes, big and blond-headed, looked like the Germanic barbarians of ancient history. Neither of the human races had any extra racial bonus or resistances, but there was a note, which read, “humans can assume any profession or nonrestricted class without penalty,” which was probably a big advantage early on.

Last came the Risi—a meaty looking humanoid loaded down with thick muscle, faintly green-tinged skin, and a pronounced underbite studded with protruding fangs. Some variety of Troll or Ogre, if I had to guess. The Risi, more than any other race, appeared excellently suited for heavy melee combat and tanking, but I knew without hesitation I wouldn’t be going that route. First, I found brawlers and fighters were great early on, but were often lacking at higher levels. And second—the more important factor—I refused to look like that monster for the rest of my life, no matter what racial bonuses might sweeten the pot.

I quickly went back through my options, eliminating the Dawn Elf and the Dwarf—being a glass-cannon mage didn’t suit my play style, and I certainly wasn’t a crafter by nature—which left the Murk Elf, the bird-winged Accipiter, and the two human races. I saw a wiki icon and immediately brought up a search menu. “Look for class kits,” I said.

“Certainly, Jack,” Sophia answered, which was a pleasant surprise. Hearing her voice was a small point of comfort. Unfortunately, the search yielded a whole bunch of nothing, so I closed out and went back to my character creation screen.

Usually, in MMORPGs I played as a Cleric/healer, but a mixed class like a Paladin or Dark Paladin might serve me well in this new frontier where I didn’t have a clan, didn’t know the rules, and might have to go it alone for a while. I paused, rubbing at my chin—Rogues were also highly versatile for lone wolf players, so that might be an option to consider, though that certainly wasn’t my preferred class.

Finally, I scrolled over to the Murk Elf.

That 20% poison and disease resistance was too good to pass up. Plus, superficial as it may have been, he looked badass and the only other character I could reasonably see myself as was the Accipiter—except I wasn’t so great with heights. So, I selected the Murk Elf, then scrolled through the other creation features, tweaking my appearance a bit—adding some extra muscle here, opting for a short beard there, picking a few swirling tribal tattoos—before final selecting the “create,” option. A new screen appeared asking me what name I’d like for my character. Jack didn’t seem like an appropriate name for a high-fantasy elf, but it was my name, and I was hesitant to give it up.

Everything else was changing. My face, my body, my world. But I could keep my name, or at least a variation of it. Grim_Jack was my gaming handle, so if I went with that, it would kind of be the best of both worlds. “Grim Jack,” I finally said, decided.

“Are you sure you would like to create Grim Jack the Dokkalfar?” came the booming baritone voice from before. “Once you create a character, you will not be able to change your racial identity or name. Please confirm?”

“Yes,” I said again, trepidation mounting in my stomach, not knowing what came next.

THREE: Clash of Kingdoms

I waited for a beat, then two, folding my arms. I was on the verge of saying something else, maybe telling these guys to get a move on it, when music exploded around me like a thunderclap. An epic score, with pounding drums, clanging cymbals, and a host of stringed instruments, conjured images of noble kings and fierce battles, clashing armies, and world-shaking magic—

“The year is 1095 A.I.C.—Anno Imperium Conditae,” the disembodied announcer bellowed over the music. “Dark power and the stirrings of war ride upon the winds of Eldgard, the provincial outpost of the Great Viridian Empire.”

Something streaked across the sky, a burst of fire that reminded me all too much of the meteor and the world I was leaving behind. The streak of light disappeared, blocked from sight by a thicket of pines, then exploded back into view a hundred feet away. A massive scale-covered body with huge, pumping wings flashed across the field of view, trailing fire from crushing jaws as large as a T. rex’s. A golden eye, big as a dinner plate and slit down the middle with a slash of black, regarded me coolly for a second. Then the creature ascended into the clouds above. Gone.

The breath caught in my lungs. A dragon. A fantastical monster of scale and fangs and flame.

“Imperial legions,” said the announcer, “allied with the forces of light, march from the east, bringing the natives of Eldgard to their knees through flame, magic, and steel. Bringing progress. Building roads. Cities. A kingdom. Civilizing the dark-natured Wodes, the swamp dwelling Dokkalfar, and the Accipiter of the far-western deserts, enlightening them in the ways of the ever-victorious empire.” On the stretching plains below, I watched in awe as a sprawling force of humans, elves, and Risi—men and women—all clad in gleaming metal and oiled leather, swarmed across the ground like a plague of locusts. Banners rippled in a far-away breeze while foot soldiers hauled towering catapults and other savage siege engines.

“But the natives of Eldgard are not so quick to give up the old ways—to heel for foreign masters. Though the rebellion is yet small, they fight on. Hour by hour, day by day …”

Suddenly, I was floating, drifting high above like an eagle. The encroaching army vanished in a swirl of black smoke, and I found myself overlooking a marshy swamp filled with twisted trees and murky water. Dusky-skinned Murk Elves clad in dark leathers and crudely stitched robes fashioned swords and fletched arrows …

The scene exploded in a shower of light as a flock of the birdlike Accipiters cut through the air, banking hard right on outstretched wings before unleashing a volley of arrow fire on the invaders below …

Then, the scene faded, shimmered, resolved: blond-haired Wodes forged armor, battle-axes, and heavy maces in a roaring furnace, the sound of steel hitting steel ringing out like a battle cry …

“But, in the far flung North, another threat looms,” came the announcer’s voice as the Wode encampment vanished, giving way to a domineering peak capped with icy white. “The reclusive, mountain-dwelling Svartalfar have unwittingly burrowed into the prison of a dusty and long forgotten god. A monstrous being of true dark, eager to return to the land of mortals once more. The breach is small, but large enough for Serth-Rog, Daemon Prince of Morsheim, to call acolytes to his cause… Imperial. Rebel. Light. Dark. Living. Dead. Which side will you choose?”

The towering mountain erupted in a swirl of opalescent light and violent motion, wind beating against me with gale-force fury as I fell. Tumbled, end over end, arms wheeling, legs kicking, stomach rising into my throat. This shouldn’t be happening, I told myself. I shouldn’t feel this way. But the logic didn’t do much to ease the fluttering in my belly. I flipped once more and caught a set of burning eyes, green and deeply malevolent, watching my meteoric descent with amusement —

I smacked against cold stone with a thud, pain shooting from my back, elbows, and skull. Man, the Devs had taken this whole realism angle very seriously. Maybe a little too seriously. My head began to pound with a dull throb, and I restlessly ran my hands over my stomach, impulsively searching for broken ribs. When I was finally satisfied that nothing was irreparably damaged, I pushed myself up and leaned back onto my elbows. I blinked sporadically, squinting against the dark, trying to figure out where exactly I was. What had happened.

The lighting was terrible—gloomy and provided by sparse, sooty firelight—but after a few minutes, everything took on a ghostly blue tinge.

<<<>>>

Racial Ability Unlocked: Night Eye

Night Eye allows you to see even in the poorest of lighting conditions, casting the world into a blue haze. Hvitalfar (Dawn Elves), Dokkalfar (Murk Elves), and Svartalfar (Dwarves) automatically use Night Eye in dark environments.

Ability Type/Level: Racial, Passive / Level 1

Effect: 8% vision improvement at night or in poor lighting.

<<<>>>

I read over the gained skill and smiled. That was a nice little bonus they hadn’t mentioned during character creation. I dismissed the alert with a nod, and resumed my scan. The ground was gritty stone, and I immediately noticed thick steel bars around me—I was in a cage. A shoddy prison cell. I gained my feet, dropped into a crouch, and stole forward, searching for the door. It didn’t take me long to find the exit, but it also didn’t take long to find the thick iron lock, which refused to budge an inch when I yanked at it.

Well, this didn’t seem like a good way to start things off.

I let the lock go and pressed my face against the bars, searching for an NPC—non-player character—or any sign of what I was supposed to do. I was in a rectangular chamber in some sort of underground cavern; formidable stalactites and stalagmites jutted from the ceiling and floor like the wicked teeth of a monstrous, slumbering beast. In the center of the room was a grisly scene that made me immediately rethink the wisdom in choosing Viridian Gate Online as my emergency life raft.

A rudimentary wooden table dominated the space, and strapped to that table were bodies. Pieces of bodies, in most cases. As an EMT, I’d seen a lot of awful scenes—high speed car wrecks were frequently stomach churning—but I still wasn’t prepared for the graphic display. Amputated limbs. Strings of gray intestine. A glassy-eyed head, devoid of a body. There were also other tables littered with cruel-looking tools, hooks, pliers, knives, and clamps, plus a variety of machines and contraptions that didn’t look friendly.

An open metal sarcophagus, outfitted with foot-long metal spikes, was particularly gruesome.

I swiped the back of my hand across my forehead, wiping away the cold sweat dotting my brow. I didn’t know what they had planned for me here, but it couldn’t be good. I immediately turned my attention back to the lock, holding it up and giving it a thorough examination. I thought about slamming it against the bars in hopes of breaking the thing, but quickly dismissed the notion. That wouldn’t work, plus there was a good chance it would alert whoever was running this nightmare dungeon, and I wasn’t keen to meet them.

Not as a newb, stuck in a cage, with no weapons, no armor, and no skills.

I turned back to my cramped cell, scurried over to a simple pallet of furs in the corner, and began to frantically search for a key or lockpick. The Devs wouldn’t start you out in a cell if there wasn’t a way out. There had to be something. I pulled aside a rough blanket and tossed the furs. Something metallic clinked against the floor. A glint of light revealed a piece of bent black metal. A makeshift prison shiv, maybe. Or a lockpick. Certainly not an elegant lockpick, but that had to be its purpose. I headed back over to the lock and slipped the thin length of metal into the keyhole.

I jiggled it around for a bit, pushing, prodding, rattling it this way and that. In most MMORPGs there was an auto-assist mechanism to help with the lock picking aspects of game play. I didn’t get any kind of notification, however—no prompt telling me how the system worked—and I certainly didn’t get an assist. After a few minutes of fruitless struggle, I pulled out the pick and slammed it against the ground in frustration. Then, I froze. The soft rustle of moving fabric caught my ear. I wasn’t alone.

Someone, or something, was in the room with me.

FOUR: Cutter

I surveyed the main chamber again, but saw no one. Marching off to my right, though, were more heavy cages, identical to my own. I slipped the pick into a crude pocket on my trousers and crawled toward the source of the noise.

“Hello,” I called out in a harsh whisper. “Is anyone there?”

A blurry shape materialized from the shadows two cages over.

A man, garbed in the same plain clothes I was in, was leaning against the bars, his arms folded, a faint grin lifting the corners of his lips. A human with the wiry build of a street brawler, short blond hair, and a strong jaw riddled with stubble. “It’s harder than it looks,” said the man. “Lock picking, I mean. People think they can just shove a spit of metal into a lock and pop”—he snapped slim fingers—“she opens right up.” He shook his head.

“It takes skill. Finesse. You have to understand how the tumblers work. You have to feel the spring mechanism. Have to intuit the pin placement.” He paused, examining his fingernails. “If you’re interested, I could walk you through the process, show you how to get that door open.”

“Yeah,” I replied. “And what would you want for that?”

“What would I want?” he asked, his face a portrait of shock. “What I want is to get out. You’re a Dokkalfar, so I assume you see all that butchery on the table. I certainly don’t want to end up like that.”

I glanced at the table again, at the congealed blood and strewn body parts. “What are they doing here?” I asked, tearing my eyes away from the display.

“Not entirely sure,” the man replied, shrugging one shoulder. “It’s not good, whatever it is. There’s some kind of dark priest running the show, an acolyte of Serth-Rog-—at least that’s what I’ve been able to glean through half-heard whispers. Not exactly a friendly, talkative sort, that fellow. All I know is he’s experimenting on people.

“Trying to change them somehow. Sometimes, the change takes and he lets them go, other times …” He trailed off, then waved a hand toward the table. “I’ll tell you this, though. I don’t want to undergo his experimenting. So, I could show you how to open that lock, in exchange for my freedom, or you could just toss me the shiv, I’ll pop the lock on my cage, then come over and bust you out. Sound fair?”

“If I give you the pick,” I said, “what’s to stop you from just breaking free and leaving me here to rot?”

He sighed and rolled his eyes. “Obviously, there’s nothing to stop me—except for the fact that we’re both in an awful situation. I could do that, but at my core I’m a lover, not a fighter. Well, not a fair fighter, anyway, and it seems like we’d have a better chance escaping together than I would alone. I always say, why make an enemy when you can fashion a tool instead. Besides, worst-case scenario, I help you out, you distract the guards, and I slip away in the shadows and leave you for dead. You being free is a win all around for me.”

I pulled the pick from my pocket and regarded it. As much as I didn’t trust the shifty man in the cell, I didn’t particularly feel like taking another run at the whole lock picking thing, even with instruction. I nodded, resolved, stuck my hand through the cell bars, and tossed him the pick. He snatched it from the air with practiced ease and immediately set to work on his cell door. He proved to have an awfully deft hand since the lock came away a second later—the guy made it look downright easy.

He pushed his door open, took a tentative look around to make sure no one was coming, then beelined for my cell, setting to work without a word. My lock came away even faster than his had.

I looked around my cell one last time, making sure there weren’t any beginner items I was supposed to take. Nothing. “Thanks,” I said, pushing my way to freedom. “I’m Jack, by the way. Grim Jack.”

“Cutter,” he said with a nod. “Now, how about we save the bonding thing for after we find a way out, eh? You can tell me your whole stupid life story over a pint of ale, friend, but until we make it to an inn, let’s keep our minds focused on escape.”

Cutter took the lead, dropping into a slight crouch and stealing across the rectangular chamber, giving the table at the center a wide berth. I followed behind, mimicking the man’s posture and working to keep as quiet as possible. It was hard to do, though, what with my heart pounding like a drum.

There was a tunnel at the far side, a twisting thing that ran straight for a few feet before abruptly snaking right and out of view. Cutter halted at the tunnel entryway, putting up a hand, a gesture that told me to stop. To wait. He dropped to a knee and ran his finger over the floor, gaze flickering back and forth.

“What are you doing?” I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me.

“Traps,” he muttered absentmindedly. “This seems like a good place to set a containment ward, but I’m not seeing anything.” He stood and moved over to the wall, pressing himself against the stone. “I don’t suppose you’re the sneaky sort, are you?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder at me.

“If it means getting out of here in one piece, I’m absolutely the sneaky sort,” I replied.

“Good, good,” he said with a bob of his head. “Crouch a little.” He bent his legs in demonstration. “And when you walk, move heel to toe, heel to toe—none of that tiptoeing nonsense. You want to evenly distribute your weight over your whole foot. Takes a little getting used to, but do it enough and it’ll become second nature. Now, keep to the shadows, stay quiet, and walk Just. Like. Me.” He turned and set off, ghosting forward on silent feet. As he moved the shadows almost seemed to reach out to him, to embrace him, blurring the sharp lines of his body, rendering him fuzzy, indistinct.

I followed, practicing the odd walk as I slipped along behind him. A prompt appeared a second later:

<<<>>>

Skill: Stealth

Stealth allows you to creep through the shadows, making you harder to detect by hostile forces. Successful attacks from stealth mode activate a backstab multiplier for additional damage.

Skill Type/Level: Active / Level 1

Cost: 10 Stamina

Effect: Stealth 7% chance to hide from enemies.

<<<>>>

Nice. Even if I didn’t end up playing as a Rogue class, Stealth was always a useful skill to have, especially at lower levels. That backstab multiplier could level the playing field for a relatively weak starting character.

Cutter and I continued down the winding hallway, moving from one pool of inky shadow to another, avoiding the light from the flickering torches mounted at sporadic intervals. After a hundred yards or so the tunnel connected to a rough circular cavern with a pool of stagnant black water loitering at its middle. There were no torches here, but a soft crimson glow emanated from thousands of rough crystals lining the vaulted ceiling above.

The chamber looked to be some sort of central hub. Two sizeable hallways, each constructed of smooth sandstone bricks, connected here.

Cutter tentatively crept out toward the water, but stopped as the sound of heavy footfalls drifted into the room—coming from the sandstone tunnel dead ahead.

FIVE: Mercy

Cutter glanced back at me, eyes wide, and jerked his head toward a narrow gash in the rock wall on our right. Both of us sprinted for the tight crevice, slipping in between the rocks, then went still as a group of somethings strutted into the room. As they drew closer, a caption appeared above their heads: [Lesser Fiend]. They were hulking creatures, eight feet tall, with blue, pebbled skin, wearing long shirts of black chainmail. Each clutched a deadly weapon—some held towering halberds, while others carried wicked flails—in claw-tipped hands. The creatures walked upright, but had inverted knees and cloven hooves, which clack-clack-clacked against the stone.

I counted six of the things—way too many for us to fight.

The lead creature paused as it entered the room, barking a harsh command in some unintelligible language, then raised a wolf-like muzzle, its black nose sniffing. Sampling the air. Sensing our presence. I held my breath, afraid the slightest motion might give us away. After what felt like a lifetime, though, the creature lowered its snout and shrugged beefy shoulders, false alarm, then lead the rest of his squad down the other sandstone hallway, vanishing from view. I let out a ragged sigh of relief and wanted to fall over and call it quits.

This game was intense. Too intense. Being in here was less like playing an RPG and more like going to a haunted house—sure you knew the monsters weren’t real, but that didn’t stop them from scaring the crap out of you. Not to mention, in here the horror-house monsters could not only scare you, they could attack you and, more importantly, hurt you. “Ready to move,” I whispered, turning toward Cutter. He was behind me, but I immediately noticed something behind him: the rough outline of a hidden door set into the wall.

A new alert appeared, and the outline of the door began to glow faintly purple.

<<<>>>

Ability: Keen-Sight

A passive ability allowing the observant adventurer to notice items and clues others might not see.

Ability Type/Level: Passive / Level 1

Cost: None

Effect: Chance to notice and identify hidden object increased by 6%.

<<<>>>

I rubbed a hand over my jaw in thought, feeling the unfamiliar bite of facial hair. I’d always wanted a beard in real life, but I’d never been able to grow one. At least not a good one—it always came in uneven and patchy. I dismissed the stray thought and reread the notification. Keen-Sight. Hmm, that seemed like a handy passive ability to have in my back pocket, though I had to imagine most players probably acquired this skill, since it wasn’t tied to race and it was awfully easy to come by.

At this point, though, I’d take any freebies I could get.

“Door,” I said, pointing to the wall behind the Thief.

“Good eye,” Cutter said with an approving nod. “In my experience, someone doesn’t go through the trouble of installing a hidden door unless there’s something worth hiding. Let’s take a little look, eh?” He moved forward, hands outthrust. He lightly ran his fingers over the surface of the stone, gently probing. Exploring the nooks and crannies, carefully feeling out every dip in the wall. “Ah, there she is,” he said with satisfaction as the door clicked and retracted, pulling back, sliding into the wall. The room beyond was some sort of lab—a variety of long shelves sat against the wall, heavy-laden with various test tubes and glass vials.

I put them from mind, focusing instead on the corpse of a haggard old Murk Elf strapped to yet another wooden experimentation table.

She was rail thin, nearly naked, and all sharp, protruding bone. Her grayish skin looked as worn and frail as cheap toilet paper. She had several long scars crisscrossing her belly and arms, which had been crudely stitched up. Poor old gal. Cutter immediately rushed into the room, slinking around, presumably searching for traps, while I headed over to the body. I knew she was just an NPC—more likely a part of the scenery than anything else—but part of me felt like I should find something to cover her with so she’d have a little dignity in death.

Instantly, I recoiled when her chest rose and fell; a rattling gasp escaped from her throat like the rustle of wind through barren trees. I shivered at the awful sound, and the EMT in me immediately began chattering away, demanding I check for vitals and start CPR.

“Cutter—this lady is alive,” I said. “She’s alive, we should do something. Help her.”

The Rogue turned from his thorough search, giving the woman a quick once-over followed by a sniff and a sneer. “There’s nothing to do for her. She’s one stiff breeze away from keeling over as is. And even if we could help her, why would we? She’s not going to bring anything to the table. She’s going to be a liability to our survival and escape. If she’s not an asset, she’s as worthless as a wingless bird.”

“What?” I asked, appalled. What kind of guy was I dealing with here? “Okay one, maybe if we help her she could tell us something—like what they’re doing here. And two, even if she can’t help us, we can’t just leave her here to die. To suffer more. That’s cruel. We need to help her. It’s just the decent thing to do.”

Cutter stopped, frowned, then came over and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Listen, you seem like an alright bloke, so I’m gonna level with you. Eldgard’s a hard, cruel world, friend. Kindness won’t get you far here, I’m afraid. That’s a lesson you best learn now if you hope to survive here. To thrive here. If you really want to help her, kill her. Put her out of her misery. Then, once you’re done with that, cut her scalp off and stick it in your bag. She’s a Maa-Tál—a Murk-Shaman. The Viridians pay well for Maa-Tál. Her scalp will fetch you a gold piece, I’d wager, which is nothing to scoff at. Easy money as far as I’m concerned.”

“What? No. That’s awful,” I replied. “Seriously. Terrible. And I thought you were a Wode?” I asked, eyeing his pale skin and blond hair.

“I am,” he replied, a confused look flashing across his face. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“I thought the Wodes and the Murk Elves were supposed to be in some sort of alliance against the Viridian Empire.”

“Pffh.” He rolled his eyes. “Sure. The rebellion. But here’s another life lesson about Eldgard: you need to look out for you. The rebellion is for the feebleminded and the easily manipulated. For suckers. Me? I’m only worried about my coin purse, and that there”—he hooked a thumb toward the withered, half-dead woman—“looks like a gold piece to me. End of story.”

I shook my head. “I’m not like you, I guess. I can’t just leave her here like that.”

“Fine.” He waved his hand dismissively. “If you really feel compelled to help, check your inventory—which you can access by saying or thinking inventory—while I finish searching the room.” He paused, gaze distant. “There has to be something in here besides this old bag. Has to be.”

He turned away and resumed his quest.

Inventory, I thought, and a semitranslucent interface screen appeared. Aside from the extraordinary graphics on display, the system was remarkably similar to other MMORPGs I’d played.

A lifelike image of myself as a Murk Elf floated off to the left, slowly rotating, showing off my gear, which was extremely basic at this point. On the right was my inventory bag, displaying the items currently in my possession. The inventory wasn’t a slot system like in some games; rather, it looked like I could carry as many items as I wanted, so long as I didn’t exceed my maximum carrying capacity, which was displayed in the upper right-hand corner of my screen.

I didn’t have much to my name, though. Rough tunic (shoddy); rough trousers (shoddy); worn fur boots (shoddy). I did have a few copper coins, though, and I also had one minor restoration potion—worth a whopping 12 silver pieces. I wasn’t sure how far 12 silver pieces would go in this game, but I imagined for a lowbie it was probably a hefty price tag. Maybe Cutter was right. Maybe I should put the old lady out of her misery, then collect her scalp and the bounty that came with it.

Put myself first.

That was the smart thing to do. The practical thing to do.

I only hesitated for a moment. I pulled out the potion, popped the cap, and poured the luminescent red liquid into the woman’s slack mouth.

Maybe I was being a sucker, wasting my time and money, but I couldn’t bring myself to murder and scalp an old lady. Call me superstitious, but that seems like a good way to get irrevocably cursed. Plus, what kind of person would do that? A guy like Cutter, I guess. A Thief or Assassin. And though this was technically a game, this was also far more than a game—this was my life now, and I didn’t want to start my new life as a killer.

The potion emptied quickly, but for a long spell, nothing happened. She just lay there, unmoving. Just when I was about to give up hope, she gasped in pain, her back arching as her arms thrashed and hammered against the table. It was like watching The Exorcist in real time.

SIX: Quest Alert

I lurched back as the wrinkled Murk Elf shot up, her eyes wild, her back straight as a board. She stayed that way only for a moment before toppling back to the crude wooden table with a thud. She didn’t look good—the healing potion certainly hadn’t cured all her ails—but she was alert now and her breathing sounded cleaner, easier, less forced. She stared at the ceiling for a long time, her lips flickering open and closed, as though she were talking or maybe praying, but no words came out.

“Good job,” Cutter said, his words radiating sarcasm. “I think she’s worse now. You broke her. On the plus side,” he said with a grin, “look at this.” He smacked an unadorned section of wall with a curled fist, and the stone clicked and disappeared with a shimmer of light. A secret compartment guarded by an illusion. “A secret room is one thing, but a secret room inside of another secret room is something else entirely. And it means one thing. Loot.”

“You go check it out,” I said absentmindedly, waving him on. “Bring back what you find. I need to figure out what I can do for her.”

Cutter stared at me, eyes narrowed, forehead creased, head cocked to one side. “Obviously there’s something wrong with you. I said there’s loot. Free stuff. Like weapons, armor, gold, jewels—the things that help you to not die. But you’re going to let me, an obviously dishonest thief, go poke through the goodies on the honor system?”

Cutter was right—I was being a moron—but I still edged closer to the semi-lucid woman. “You do what you need to do, Cutter. This is what I need to do.”

He shrugged and muttered a halfhearted “have it your way, idiot,” before disappearing into the secret room. Vanishing from sight.

I placed a hand on the woman’s neck, checking for her pulse. It was there, but reedy and erratic—always a bad sign. “Can you hear me?” I asked, reaching up and gently slapping at her cheek. “Hello, can you hear me?”

She sputtered for a moment longer, then turned her head, fixing me with rheumy, clouded eyes. “You stopped for me,” she said breathlessly. “Why? This is a bad place. An evil place. Why risk your escape, your survival, for an old woman?”

“Well …” I stumbled, caught off guard. I wrestled to come up with a good answer, but there wasn’t one. At least not a logical one. “Because I couldn’t just walk by,” I finally finished weakly. “It seemed like the right thing to do, I guess.”

She regarded me, her cataract-covered eyes boring in, holding me firmly in their steely grip. The strange spell was broken as she fell into a fit of violent coughing, her body tensing as frothy blood dribbled from between her pale lips. “Very well,” she said as the coughing fit subsided. “Regardless of your reasons, I thank you for your generosity, traveler. I fear your efforts are too late for me. The black priest of Serth-Rog has been thorough in his work, and I won’t leave this place. Not alive. Perhaps, though, you would do an old woman a final mercy?”

She reached a shaky, arthritic hand toward her throat and pulled out a leather-corded necklace from beneath her stained and tattered shirt. A strange bronze talisman the size of a quarter hung from the end of the necklace. The coin burned with a subtle, shadowy light—emanating from the image of a raven gouged into the metal. “Please help me,” she said with a grimace as she worked to sit. “Help me get it off.”

As gently as I could, I used one hand to lift her and the other to slide the leather strap over her head, ruffling brittle hair. I dropped the necklace into her wrinkled palm.

“This”—she held up a shaky hand, the talisman dangling from the leather strap—“is a sacred artifact of my people. The mark of a Maa-Tál. Please return it to the chief of my clan, Kolle of the Ak-Hani. Of all the six named tribes, my people are the wariest of outsiders, but you are one of us—even if you are of the Lost Tribe—and with my talisman around your neck … well, they will spare you.” Despite her reassurance, she didn’t actually sound all that sure they would spare me. “Take them the talisman and tell them what you saw here. What the black priests of Serth-Rog are doing. What they did to me.”

“I’d be happy to let them know,” I replied, “but I don’t have a clue what they’re doing here. Can you tell me anything that might help? Why these people captured me? What they want? Why they’re doing these awful experiments?”

She smiled sadly, her eyes fluttering closed, her breathing labored again. She shook her head, the effort clearly a terrible strain. I bent over and urgently checked for a pulse again. I found it—barely there and fading fast.

“In truth,” she wheezed, visibly fighting to open her eyes, “I cannot say what designs Serth-Rog has, because I do not know. But his intentions are truly insidious, this much is plain. Perhaps, if my people know about this place, about the experiments, they will be able to discover Serth-Rog’s purpose. Put an end to the abominations being committed against all the people of Eldgard. Please, do this for me. Take the talisman.” She thrust it toward me, the metal coin bobbing from the tremor in her hand. A prompt followed:

<<<>>>

Quest Alert: Plight of the Maa-Tál

Help a dying Murk Elf Shaman by delivering her sacred talisman to Chief Kolle of the Ak-Hani clan in the Storme Marshes. Deliver the news concerning the shaman’s untimely fate as well as the experiments of the black priests of Serth-Rog.

Quest Class: Rare, Class-Based

Quest Difficulty: Moderate

Success: Deliver the Talisman and survive Chief Kolle

Failure: Fail to deliver the Talisman or be killed by Chief Kolle

Reward: Class Change; Unique, Scalable Item; 15,000 EXP

Accept: Yes/No?

<<<>>>

My jaw almost hit the floor. This was one heck of a quest for a level one player to get fresh out of the gate. In most MMOs I’d previously played, the only quests you got early on were common, generic quests that revolved around killing rats, running pointless errands, or gathering asinine amounts of ingredients for various NPCs. And the rewards for those quests were just as generic and boring. Marginal experience bumps, some common items, and access to other, slightly harder quests.

The quest the old Murk Elf had offered me was an absolute home run compared to the normal lot. I accepted immediately and grabbed the talisman from the woman’s outstretched hand.

“Thank you,” she murmured, smacking her lips, working moisture into the dry skin. I selected the talisman and saw it offered a few bonuses: +5 to Spirit, +1% Spirit Regeneration, +5% to Shadow-Based Skills. I wasn’t sure what Shadow-Based skills were at this point, but I knew this amulet was bound to be better than any of the loot Cutter was turning up in the back room—certainly worth more than a gold mark, which is what I would’ve received for killing the Murk Shaman.

I felt a flash of hot joy—my act of kindness had already paid major dividends.

“My time is short,” the old woman rasped, blinking her eyes open, complete exhaustion evident in every line of her frail body. “But let me offer you one more parting gift—a final thanks for your mercy. Within you, boy, is the Shadow-Spark.”

Her hand lashed out, uncannily quick, and latched onto my arm. “I’ll awaken it inside of you.” Her fingers pressed down into my skin like drill bits, her flesh growing cool, then downright cold. Arctic, even. Icy power soaked through my skin, into my bones, and spread through my body like wildfire. Running along my nerve endings, my body shivering, my teeth clattering in response.

SEVEN: Loot

The chilly energy grew painful, and my flesh cried out in protest as my head began to ache, to pound. Then, in a flash, the hurt was gone, snatching the bone-searing cold with it. The woman’s hand dropped away, her muscles slack, her face lifeless, her eyes clouded with death. I glanced down—on my forearm was a black handprint, branded directly onto my skin like a tattoo. Another new notification popped up, drawing my gaze away from my burned flesh:

<<<>>>

Ability: Shadow-Spark

Only a handful of Eldgard’s natives possess the inborn Shadow-Spark needed to harness the ancient power of the Umbra. Fewer still have that inborn talent unlocked. With Shadow-Spark unlocked, you now have the ability to draw on the Umbra and learn a restricted class of Shadow-based skills.

Ability Type/Level: Passive / Level 1

Cost: None

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

<<<>>>

I read and reread the notification, then dismissed the screen and pulled up the in-game wiki. This couldn’t be normal, could it? I quickly scoured logs and forums, rapidly scanning heading after heading, but so far the information available was severely limited. Not totally surprising, since the game had only been online for a handful of days, and the material world was also on the edge of an extinction-level event. Plus, I had a sneaking suspicion that Osmark Technologies might be suppressing info in a bid to prevent metagamers from taking an unhealthy advantage of the apocalyptic situation.

The scrape of boots over stone floated in from the secret room, and I immediately dismissed the notification before quickly slipping the woman’s talisman around my neck, tucking it beneath the rough fabric of my simple tunic. As helpful as Cutter had been so far, he seemed like the type of person that’d knife me in the back if he thought it would benefit him. He strode out of the narrow opening a minute later, a big grin splitting his face. A wooden shield lay across his forearms, and piled on top were weapons and gear.

He scooted through the doorway and set the precariously balanced pile of loot on a nearby worktable, then let out a groan of relief. He turned, his eyes tracing over the body of the dead woman. “Didn’t work out so well, eh?” he said with a nod to the Murk Elf. “I tried to tell you, kindness is a surefire path to being destitute and dead. But cheer up, friend.” He turned and swept out an arm toward the pile with a flourish. “Maybe your venture in altruism turned out to be an utter pile of rubbish, but I hit pay dirt. Almost didn’t find this stuff. Someone stored it in a chest behind a false wall, but I am damned good at what I do.

“Now obviously,” he continued, regarding me through squinted eyes, “I’m not going to let you claim everything, what with you being a do-gooder dupe, but I’ll let you select a weapon and some armor.”

“Gee, how generous of you,” I replied offhandedly, heading over to the pile.

“Think nothing of it,” he said with a sniff. “Literally. In truth, I’m not doing it to be generous. If you’re equipped, there’s a better chance you’ll make it out alive, which means there’s a better chance I’ll make it out alive.” He tapped at his temple. “Remember, I’m always thinking of number one.”

I grunted noncommittally, otherwise ignoring him, and accessed the gear pile, which immediately brought up my inventory screen on the right and a list of lootable items on the left.

The pile of gear on the table looked deceptively small, especially considering the gigantic number and range of items I could choose from. There was something for just about everyone: bows and arrows, blunt-headed maces and spiked flails, swords and daggers in an assortment of flavors, plus armor. Everything from fur-lined leathers to rusted scale mail. None of it was good, just the crude junk beginners usually got, but it was better than running around weaponless and in tattered linens.

“We don’t have all day,” Cutter said, folding his arms. “Those guards are gonna come back, and it’d be best if we were equipped and long gone by then. Personally, I’d suggest a pair of daggers and some light leather armor. The very best for sneaking and backstabbing, but that’s just me. Which is to say, someone who is smart, capable, and much better looking than you. But you pick whatever you want, friend. You do you, as I always say.”

I regarded the weapons for another second.

True, light armor and daggers would be great for a thief, but the more time I spent with Cutter, the less I thought I’d enjoy his profession. Besides, the idea of taking on one of those massive halberd-wielding [Lesser Fiends] with the equivalent of a kitchen knife wasn’t comforting. My hand hovered over a single-handed bastard sword; the sword was the epic-fantasy weapon. The weapon of heroes. Of knights and warriors. I didn’t know much about Viridian Gate Online, but I knew there’d be some awfully cool swords later on in the game.

Guaranteed.

I frowned and finally decided against it—swords took skill to use, and that was something I didn’t have. Instead, I picked up a one-handed warhammer with a meaty, blunt face on one side and a cruel spike on the other. The warhammer looked brutal and rather straightforward: smash the blunt end into someone’s skull. Not much skill involved in that.

Exactly my speed.

Next, I selected a simple wooden buckler the size of a large pizza, which slipped over my left forearm with leather straps. Not much of a defense, really, but if one of those guards came swinging for me, I wanted something to shelter behind. For a heartbeat, I considering picking the heavy armor for the same reason—better protection in case I got hit—but eventually opted for light brigandine armor with a pair of worn leather boots and a shoddy black cloak. So far, the Stealth ability seemed pretty beneficial, plus in light armor I’d have a much better chance of outmaneuvering and outrunning a big, lumbering opponent in battle.

I certainly wasn’t above running if that’s what it came down to.

Cutter looked at me quizzically, gaze flickering between the light leather armor and the heavy warhammer and shield. “Yep. You’re an odd one, alright,” he declared. “First that thing with the old woman, now this. Are you sure I can’t talk you into something …” He trailed off, lips pressing into a tight, judgmental line. “A little more practical?”

“I’m good,” I said, equipping the items in my inventory screen. “Now let’s move. I want some answers, and I want to get out of this nightmare factory.”

“Fine.” He shrugged and ambled over to the table, retrieving the rest of the gear, then donned leather armor similar to mine. “But if you die horribly, don’t say I didn’t try to warn you.”

We both dropped into Stealth and headed out of the secret room, pausing momentarily at the entrance to the circular room with the large pool of water at its center. Once we were certain there wasn’t a guard patrol in the immediate vicinity, we stole forward, clinging to the shadows and hugging the wall, which turned out to be a smart move. As we neared one of the two sandstone hallways leading away, a fat black tentacle, studded with barbed hooks, broke the surface with a ripple, before dropping back into the black waters.

Cutter and I moved just a skosh quicker after that.

We took turn after winding turn—stopping twice to hide from roving patrols—and eventually found ourselves crouched in the entryway of a rectangular room. On the far side was an exit. Probably. I couldn’t be sure without getting closer, but I’d played enough MMORPGs to know a freestanding portal shimmering with cerulean light had to be important. Unfortunately, the room between me and freedom looked to be a guard barracks. Massive beds of wood and straw lined both walls with crudely made footlockers waiting at the end of each.

Worse, the room was occupied.

EIGHT: Brawl

A trio of guards—Lesser Fiends identical to the menacing goat-hoofed creatures we’d seen on patrol several times—milled about.

Two sported heavy mail shirts and held beefy poleaxes topped with wicked, curved axe heads, which looked equally well suited for blocking an incoming blade or goring an enemy, spilling ropes of intestine to the ground. I blanched at the thought of going up against those monsters, even if this was only a game. The third guard lingered in the back, near the portal. Instead of mail, this one wore rough-stitched robes, a deep cowl drawn up around its inhuman visage. It held a short bronze dagger in one hand and a gnarled staff in the other.

A spellcaster of one variety or other, then.

As formidable as the two poleaxe-wielding creatures looked, I knew the sorcerer in the back was the biggest threat. If we could get to him, he’d probably go down quickly, but at a distance he’d lay down some serious firepower. Maybe literally, if he had access to any flame skills.

“Ready for a brawl?” Cutter whispered, his mouth inches from my ear.

“Can’t we just sneak around them or something?” I asked, quiet as I could manage.

He squinted and rubbed at his chin. “Naw. We need to take this lot. No way around it. So how do you want to play it?”

I stared at the scene. With the heavy beds lining the walls, it would be awfully tough to slip past the poleaxe sentries and take out the caster first … Unless, of course, I caused a distraction, opening the way for Cutter to make a move.

“This is what I think we should do,” I said, leaning into him and outlining my plan. He nodded along in agreement, but a seed of worry bloomed in my chest as I spoke, my eyes unwaveringly fixed on the Lesser Fiends in the next room. I sort of liked Cutter, but I didn’t trust him. Not even a little. My plan might work, but only if Cutter didn’t leave me high and dry.

And he might leave me high and dry. He’d said as much earlier on.

I stamped down that doubt, because really there was no other way. He would come through for me or he wouldn’t. And if he didn’t … Well, I guess I’d find out what dying in Viridian Gate Online was like. “Sound like a plan?” I finally finished, an edge of uncertainty in my voice.

He nodded, slipped a long black-bladed dagger from a sheath at his waist, then shot me a wink as he crept forward, disappearing after he was a few feet away. I had to admit, that Stealth ability was pretty incredible. Because he was a friendly, a ghostly blue glow outlined his moving form, showing me his location, but that was all I saw. He angled right and padded in as close as he could get to the guards, before slipping between a pair of heavy beds and shifting into a low crouch. Ready. Waiting.

I took a deep, shuddering breath, readjusted my grip on the warhammer, then stole into the room, likewise cloaked in Stealth. I inched closer to the guards, step by stressful step, whispering a silent prayer that this all went well. I was about four feet from the nearest guard when I saw the blurred form of Cutter stand—there was a subtle flash of movement, followed by the resounding clang of metal on stone. Both of the hulking, mail-clad figures before me turned to investigate—only to find a cheap knife lying in the center of the room.

Sleight of hand at its finest.

I leapt forward while both guards had their backs turned, lashing out with the hammer, aiming right for the side of a misshapen skull. The heavy face of my weapon slammed into an unprotected temple, clipping the guard on the right with a sickening crack. I’d played a little baseball back in high school and that crack sounded just like a Louisville slugger slamming into a well-placed fastball.

The Lesser Fiend staggered left, a harsh bark escaping its throat as it dropped its poleaxe and groped at its head—trying to stem the sudden flood of rancid black blood. It looked badly wounded, but it wasn’t dead, which is what I’d been hoping for. I raised the hammer again, preparing for an adrenaline-fueled follow-up strike—only to have a stupid notification flash in front of me, obscuring my field of view:

<<<>>>

Skill: Backstab

Those who rely on the backstab skill know fighting fair is highly overrated. Dead is dead, and a blade from the shadows is often far more effective than a sword blow to a well-prepared opponent.

Skill Type/Level: Active / Level 1

Cost: 20 Stamina

Effect: A brutal backstab attack can be activated while an adventurer is in Stealth. 5x normal damage with a knife; 3x normal damage with all other weapons.

Effect 2: 5% increased chance of critical hit while backstabbing.

<<<>>>

I glanced at the screen and dismissed the notice in a second, but a lot can happen in a second. When the notification finally disappeared, it was immediately replaced with the sight of an incoming axe blade heading straight for my face. The first guard was still reeling from my surprise attack, but the second one was all over me. With a squawk, I dropped below the incoming weapon, the blade whipping over me with a whoosh of displaced air. I felt frantic, panicked, but I knew I couldn’t afford to hesitate.

So instead of simply turning tail and running, I darted in, swinging my hammer.

Somehow, my weapon had twisted in my grip, and the railroad spike of metal on the opposite side slammed into the creature’s unarmored knee. Not what I’d been planning, but the move was viciously effective. Bone snapped, blood spurted, and the horned guard dropped with a howl. The wooden shaft of its poleaxe caught me across the forehead, followed by a flare of pain, but I managed to scramble away before the fiend could get me with the bladed bit. Without thinking, I pulled my hammer free and brought it whirling around in a devastating arc.

Busted-Knee collapsed as I caved its head in; the Lesser Fiend dropped fully to the ground with a wet thud. Dead. Of course, yet another notification filled my vision.

<<<>>>
x2 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.

<<<>>>

This one I dismissed without a second look. “Deactivate notifications during combat!” I shouted into the air.

“Alert,” came Sophia’s ever-familiar voice inside my head, “notifications have been deactivated during combat.”

“Down,” Cutter shouted, bringing my attention firmly back to the present.

I looked up just in time to see Cutter sink his black-edged weapon into the back of the spellcaster near the portal. Unfortunately, he didn’t do it before said spellcaster unleased a roaring column of flame my way. I threw my body left, flopping gracelessly onto my side, narrowly avoiding the blast of raw power, which blanketed my skin with unpleasant heat. I landed at the hooves of the still-staggering guard I’d clocked with my stealth-attack blow. Its pointed ears quivered in manic motion as it turned its muddy gaze to me, confusion evident on its blood-splattered face.

I tried to roll left, away from its hooved feet, but I wasn’t quick enough.

This isn’t gonna be fun, I thought as a cloven foot crashed down into my belly, connecting with the force of a car crash. A dull pain exploded in my ribs and radiated into my chest and lungs, making it hard to breath, hard to think—the sheer intensity of the sensation was almost blinding. A red-tinged bar materialized in the upper right corner of my vision. On top of being horrendously painful, that nauseating stomp had also cost me a quarter of my available hit points.

The guard raised its foot, ready to curb-stomp me again—

I acted without hesitation, my survival instinct kicking in. I swung my hammer upward, throwing every bit of strength I could muster into the blow. The blunt face of my weapon collided painfully with the Lesser Fiend’s tender bits, assuming it had tender bits, which had to hurt worse than stumbling face-first into a hornet’s nest. Predictably, the creature lurched, stumbled, lost its footing, and toppled forward as it groped its nether bits.

Unfortunately, it landed right on top of me.

The mail-wearing fiend hit me like a rockslide, its immense weight crushing my chest, its rank stink—a combination of old meat and wet dog—filling up my nostrils. I struggled to fight back, flinching away from its teeth-filled jaws, but quickly realized it was already dead. All hail the cheap shot. Still, even dead, the creep weighed about half a ton, and struggle as I might, I couldn’t get the corpse off of me. My health bar flashed again—my hit points were now down by more than 50% and dropping by the second.

This thing was literally going to crush me to death.

“Hold on, Grim Jack,” came Cutter’s voice as I strained against the corpse, working to flip it off. My health was still falling rapidly and I felt light-headed, probably because I couldn’t breathe. Cutter’s face flashed into view a second later, and then the weight on top of me shifted. Cutter grunted and cursed as he worked. “Am I the only one doing anything here? How’s about you push, princess,” he grunted. I gritted my teeth as black crept into my vision and threw everything I had left at the beefy body. Finally, slowly, the creature slipped to one side, and suddenly I could breathe again.

NINE: Rowanheath

The inrush of air was foul with death, metallic blood, and old sweat, but I greedily pulled in great lungfuls. The corpse still pinned my legs to the floor, but after a few more seconds of wriggling, I managed to free myself and gain my feet. My health bar was at a quarter now and flashing a brilliant red—warning, warning, warning it seemed to scream—but at least its meteoric descent had halted. In fact, it actually looked to be replenishing. Replenishing at the pace of a snail stuck in frozen molasses, but replenishing.

“Thanks,” I said to Cutter, nodding at the blood-covered Lesser Fiend.

“Welcome,” he said curtly, then planted a kick into the corpse’s ribs. “No good, heavy bastard. These things don’t even have the good grace to die without causing trouble. Arseholes all the way to the end. All things considered, though”—he glanced around, a smug grin on his face—“we did pretty good. Nice work with the distraction. That spellcaster didn’t see me until I slipped a blade into his kidney. Now, best we loot this room and move on before any more of these beasties turn up—can’t imagine we’ll fare too well against five or six of ’em.”

Cutter and I quickly broke apart, raiding the three bodies, then ransacking the footlockers at the end of each wood-framed bed.

I’m not sure what Cutter picked up—he was strangely covetous of loot, which seemed odd since I was still fairly certain he was an NPC—but I made out alright. I found a bunch of coins, 40 copper pieces and a handful of silver, plus a few low-quality gemstones. On top of that, I scrounged some crappy starting gear, which I could hopefully sell off to pad my wallet. Lastly, I scored a plain silver ring with a +1 Vitality stat from one of the chests and a rough-worn cloak with a 1% bonus to Stealth from the guard that’d nearly crushed me to death.

Those last two items, I equipped in an instant.

After pilfering what we could, Cutter and I mentally prepared ourselves for whatever threat might be on the other side of the shimmering portal, then jumped through, weapons at the ready. Part of me was expecting the portal to drop us off at the entrance to some new dungeon, full of new enemies we’d have to battle past. I was pleasantly surprised, however, when we ended up in a shallow cave, which exited onto the rocky slope of a forested mountain overlooking a walled city in a valley below.

And it was a city. Not some no-account, backwoods town, but a sprawling metropolis.

A broad river meandered through the valley; scattered farms and small wood-walled homes dotted the green landscape to either side. Beyond those rose a fortified stone wall—an enormous thing, which formed a giant horseshoe across the front of the city proper. The rest of the sprawling city sat in a natural valley formed by a series of treacherous mountain peaks, which effectively enclosed the place in a ring of formidable stone.

Looming high above the rest of the buildings, casting a long shadow over the homes and shops below, was a hulking fortress: all hard lines, gray stone, high walls, and domineering circular turrets carved directly into the mountain face itself. At a glance, the city seemed designed for practicality instead of extravagance. A stronghold built for defense. For war. There was nothing particularly beautiful or majestic about it, but there was a certain harsh beauty to everything.

“Thank the great gods above,” Cutter barked, before giving a rough laugh.

“Good news?” I asked, stealing a sidelong glance at him.

“You’d better believe it, friend. Eldgard’s a big place, after all. That portal could’ve dropped us anywhere. Maybe even someplace over in West Viridia. Yet, fortune smiles on us, because Rowanheath”—he swept a hand toward the sprawl of buildings—“is my home. She was a Freehold city until a couple of years ago when the Viridians finally breached the walls, but she’s still a good place to be. One of the best. About as far from the Viridians’ grubby mitts and unreasonably high taxes as you can get without ending up in the Storme Marshes or the Barren Sands.” He clapped me on the shoulder, then gave another little laugh. “Staring at it won’t get us there, friend. Let’s get walking, eh?”

It was early evening by the time we finally made it past the outlying farms and through the main gate. It’d been a long march—easily four hours of hard walking, which spoke to the sheer expansiveness of the game world. I’d have to find a horse or some other kind of way to speed up travel; there had to be the medieval equivalent of a bus system. I was sure of it.

A mean-looking NPC guard, a [Legionary], sporting vaguely Roman-looking lorica armor—segmented, overlapping leather plates in dark reds and blacks—and a crested centurion helmet, stopped us at the gate. A few quick words for Cutter, followed by a suspicious monetary exchange, almost certainly a bribe, saw us past the looming gate and into Rowanheath.

From above, the city had appeared well organized and orderly, but up close, the place was a chaotic warren of twisting cobblestone streets and dirty alleys. Most of the buildings stood two or three stories tall and were built in a sporadic, haphazard fashion, many leaning drunkenly to one side. The place was a patchwork of homes and shops—some smooth stone, others rough wood, a few a pasty white plaster—which reflected a wide array of backgrounds. Rowanheath certainly wasn’t like any other MMO city I’d ever been to. But despite the chaos, the clutter, and the slapdash clash of cultures, it felt brimming with life and possibility.

So incredibly real.

Cutter took off with a goofy grin plastered in place, his movements sure, confident, and comfortable. He was a man coming home after a long time away. I followed, weaving through a constant throng of foot traffic, mostly composed of burly Wodes in rough, fur-lined clothing and what I assumed were Viridians—men and women with olive skin and Mediterranean features, many wearing long robes trimmed in purple, red, or gold. But I also caught the occasional glimpse of dusky-skinned Murk Elves, like myself, and a spattering of the other races I’d seen during the character creation process.

The strangest thing, though, was that I couldn’t tell which characters were players and which were NPCs.

Cutter led us down the main thoroughfare for a few minutes before slipping into a narrow alley, which connected to a smaller side street of dirt and gravel. We trudged on while hawkers cried their wares—meat pies, knives, skill training, potions, and just about everything else under the sun. For the most part, the vendors ignored us, instead focusing their attention on characters with gleaming, expensive-looking armor or the occasional robe-clad Viridians. With our cheap gear, Cutter and I probably didn’t look worth the effort.

After a few more minutes, we hooked right, cutting through a claustrophobic cross-street, which dumped us onto a wider boulevard of paved stone worn from hard use. Carts lumbered along, drivers flicking crude whips at snorting horses or passersby that didn’t move out of the way fast enough. Open storefronts adorned this section of city; there were tailors, weavers, apothecaries, grocers, fletchers, bakers, and blacksmiths. Wooden signs, decorated with pictures displaying each shop’s purpose, hung above rough doorways.

An anvil and hammer on one, as though the resounding ring of metal on metal weren’t enough. A pair of scissors and a bolt of fabric adorned another.

Cutter paused at the mouth of a shadowy alley, waiting with his arms crossed as a band of soldiers, attired like the Roman sentry at the gate, passed by, escorting a covered sedan chair. Cutter pulled me over and watched the little procession with a phony smile, boarding on a sneer, as the covered chair swayed and bobbed through a sea of grimy bodies. “Worthless, pompous Viridian bureaucrats,” he grumbled under his breath. “Probably some braindead Quaestor, thinks he’s better than everyone else.” He bent over and spit onto the dusty street. “Only thing their kind is actually good at is raising taxes and putting on airs. Stuck-up pricks.”

Despite Cutter’s earlier assertion that he didn’t care about the rebellion, there was obviously a great degree of animosity simmering under the surface. Maybe, buried somewhere deep, deep, deep down in Cutter’s soul, there was a glimmer of human decency—a hope that he wasn’t quite as selfish as he seemed on the surface. Or maybe he just really hated bureaucrats.

Once the procession turned a winding corner and disappeared from view, he grabbed my shoulder and dragged me into the alley, steering me toward an unmarked three-story building of plaster with a black door.

“Welcome to the Broken Dagger, friend.”

TEN: The Broken Dagger

Despite being unmarked and not having a sign, the Broken Dagger was clearly some sort of tavern or inn. A very questionable one, filled with very questionable looking men and women. The interior was murky, thanks to the absence of windows, illuminated mostly by a roaring fire at the far right-hand side of the room. Blue-grey smoke drifted lazily around in great billowing clouds, and the smell of sweat, dirt, tobacco, and stale beer clung to everything. Rough, dirty patrons packed every bench and table—talking, laughing, gambling, drinking—while servers whisked through the crowds bringing full glasses and removing empty ones.

A fair-haired woman with the golden skin of the Hvitalfar, in a gown so sheer it left little to the imagination, sang some jaunty tune in a language I didn’t know, accompanied by the sharp trill of a flute. Cutter draped an arm around my shoulders and dragged me through the muddled interior to a long wooden bar, presided over by an innkeeper with a balding head and a prodigious gut. Cutter shot the man a wink, but then guided me toward a whip-thin guy in black leathers, perched on a stool in front of a door leading to the back.

“Cutter, you sod,” the leather-clad man exclaimed, slapping a hand against his thigh. “Thank the shadow—everyone thought you were dead. It’s been weeks, man. Weeks. What happened?”

“Not dead,” Cutter replied with an easy smile. “Who could possibly shuffle me off this mortal coil, eh? I’m far too good for that. Besides, the gods won’t let me die—I’m too damned handsome to end up in a shallow grave where no one can see my pretty face. As to what actually happened … well, I’ll need to see Gentleman Georgie about that. But my friend and I could use a few drinks first—maybe a bite to eat. But in a private room if you take my meaning.” He nodded at the door behind the man.

“Sure, sure,” the guy said, bobbing his head. “Not a problem. Georgie’s out, though,” he said with a dismissive sniff, “won’t be back for a few days. Still, you and your friend are welcome back.” He stood, pushed open the heavy wooden door, and ushered us through.

We headed into an unadorned hallway, then took a set of stairs down to a basement. My jaw nearly dropped when I saw what could only be a training facility. An expansive complex which featured a sparring area, complete with straw practice dummies, and a full archery range. But those weren’t the only training areas: there was also a room off to the left near bursting with doors and chests, tons of them, lining the walls and littering the floor.

A handful of hooded men occupied the space, fiddling around, deep in concentration.

“Lock pick training,” Cutter said, noticing where I was looking. “All the doors and chests have different levels of difficulty. Good practice for those who are interested. We have everything an aspiring thief or cutthroat might need here.” He swaggered forward as he talked, leading us deeper into the training complex. “In the back, we’ve got a shadow room, designed for practicing Stealth abilities. We’ve got pickpocketing dummies. Heck, we even have our own blacksmith and a fleece who’ll buy and sell stolen goods—for a markup, of course.”

“Is this the thieves’ guild?” I asked as we made for a wooden table in the corner, flanked by a pair of chairs.

“Naw,” Cutter said with a grimace. “Guild is too official sounding. More like a thieves’ union, really. Sort of a loose coalition of likeminded people. Everyone here is concerned with themselves first and foremost. With that being said, it’s a cold, hard world out there, and we recognize there’s a certain strength in numbers. So, from time to time, we work together for mutual benefit and survival. When it suits our individual goals, obviously.”

“Obviously,” I replied. “And who’s this Gentleman Georgie you wanted to talk to?” I asked, plopping onto one of the chairs near the table.

“Well, we’re definitely not a guild,” Cutter said, “but if we were a guild—just supposing for a moment, understand—he’d be the head honcho. At least for Rowanheath. He owns the Broken Dagger, works out petty squabbles, bribes the guards, and takes care of city officials. That kind of thing. Generally, he keeps everything running smooth as a good pint of ale. And speaking of good ale—”

A haggard brunette with purple bags under her eyes stopped at our table bearing a thick platter filled with mugs and plates of food. She dropped them off without a word, then simply stood there, expectant, staring at us with one hand placed on a cocked hip. “Just put it on Georgie’s tab,” Cutter said, then made a little shooing gesture.

Her eyes narrowed into hard slits and her lips turned down in a scowl of disapproval.

A needle of guilt jabbed at me, so I reluctantly reached into my bag and removed a silver mark, which I passed into her hand with a polite smile. She took it, arched an eyebrow, then gave me a gap-toothed grin. “Need to toughen this one up, Cutter. Poor boy is softer than a newly hatched gosling. Thanks all the same, boy-o,” she said, disappearing the coin with practiced ease, before shuffling back toward the kitchen.

Cutter regarded me solemnly for a second, then snorted and took a huge chomp of mutton chop. “Sucker,” he muttered through a mouthful of pulped food. A slight blush crept into my cheeks. Instead of replying, though, I picked up a chunk of seared meat and regarded it suspiciously. The Broken Dagger wasn’t a five-star restaurant by any stretch of the imagination, and I was a little worried the food might give me the VR version of dysentery.

But, as suspect as the meal looked, I was surprised to find I was hungry. Really hungry. Famished, actually. I’d expected there to be food in V.G.O.—most MMORPGs had that feature—but the hunger aspect was definitely a shock. With a grimace, I chomped down on the greasy meat and blinked in surprise as an explosion of flavor ran through my mouth.

Tangy, salty, rich.

Absolutely delicious.

Better than the best steak I’d ever eaten. I grabbed a pint of the copper-red ale the waitress had dropped off and took a big swig. I’ve never been much of a beer drinker, but the sweet, malty flavor with hints of honey tasted like a slice of alcoholic-heaven. A notification window popped up as I savored the food and drink:

<<<>>>

Buffs Added

Mutton: Restore 75 HP over 21 seconds

Broken Dagger Mead: Restore 25 Stamina; Damage Stamina Regeneration 30 points over 60 seconds

Well-Fed: Base Constitution increased by (2) points; duration 20 minutes.

<<<>>>

“Good, isn’t it?” Cutter asked as he tore off a crusty chunk of bread, which he promptly used to wipe through a greasy smear of meat juice on his plate.

I nodded, mouth too full to speak. We ate in silence for a while, polishing off the heap of food and our ale.

“Now it’s time to get down to our real business,” Cutter said as he finished, pushed his plate away, slumped back, and issued an eye-watering belch. “I’m going to shoot straight with you, friend. You seem like a good sort—the kind of person I might be willing to vouch for, if you decided you want to join our informal club here.” He absently gestured toward the training facility.

“There are lots of perks that come with membership. You get a class change for one, which means you gain access to the Thief Kit skill tree, with an option to specialize later. You also get lodging here at the Broken Dagger whenever you need it, discounts on items, plus training, and access to class-specific quests.” He paused, staring at me intently. “You interested?”

I mulled it over for a long while, but eventually shook my head. “I really appreciate the offer, Cutter, and I appreciate all you’ve done for me, but I just don’t think this is a good fit for me.”

He sighed, fingers restlessly tapping against the tabletop. “Can’t say I’m surprised—I figured you were bound for a different path. Knew it the moment you helped that old Murk Elf instead of scalping her like any normal person would do. You’re just too warm blooded for this line of work. Thought I’d offer, though, because you could be a great thief if you could get over that soft heart of yours.”

He paused, rubbing at his chin while he seesawed his head left then right, left then right. “I still feel like I owe you,” he finally said, “and I like to pay my debts. So, how’s about I put you up in a room here for the week, and then, tomorrow morning, I’ll train you up. Get you prepared for the big bad world out there, before sending you on your way. Sound alright?”

I couldn’t argue with that.

Cutter led me back into the bustling tavern front—still rocking and rolling with folks—up a set of creaky wooden stairs, then to a cramped room. There was a twin bed, a nightstand, and a chipped porcelain washbasin with a pitcher of water on a nearby stool; not glamorous, exactly, but not much worse than my IRL apartment. Poverty lends perspective, I suppose. I headed in and dropped onto the bed with a sigh of exhaustion, and I found I really was tired. Weary all the way down to the bone as though I’d just worked a double shift then hit the gym for a couple of hours. As with the hunger, I hadn’t expected this aspect to feel quite so real.

It was almost too lifelike.

“You need anything else?” Cutter asked, lingering at the door. “’Cause if not, I have a very concerned waitress, named Stephanie, who I need to see as soon as possible. Urgent business.” He offered me a sly wink.

“Mind if I ask a personal question before you go?”

He shrugged, nodded. “No skin off my back one way or the other. Just make it quick—Stephanie won’t wait forever.”

For a long second I thought about asking him whether he was an NPC or an actual player. So far, he was the only person I’d had extended contact with since entering V.G.O., and I honestly couldn’t tell if he was a part of the game. It was uncanny. Creepy. I’d played a lot of MMORPGs, but I’d never seen an NPC that could do what he did. I’d never seen an NPC that had his range of emotion or conversational prowess. I had IRL coworkers that seemed less human than Cutter.

“Never mind,” I finally said with a shake of my head.

I wasn’t sure how to ask the question without offending him, and part of me didn’t really want to know the answer anyway. If Cutter was an NPC, that meant he was nothing more than a string of digits existing on some server somewhere. But in another couple of days my body was going to die, and if I survived the process, I was going to be nothing more than a string of digits existing on a server. So, what did that say about my future? If he wasn’t real, did that mean in another couple of days, I wouldn’t be real either?

That was a frightening thought I didn’t much care to dwell on. Besides, I was simply too tired for an existential crisis.

“Alright,” he said, tapping the doorframe, “well, you get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.” He turned and pulled the door shut behind him with a soft thud.

Alone at last, I kicked off my leather boots and lay back on the mattress, which was surprisingly comfortable despite the fact that it looked to be made of straw. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the bed was actually memory foam, regardless of its physical appearance. I knew I needed sleep, but first I needed a distraction from my thoughts. This was the first real break I’d had since entering the game, so it seemed like an appropriate time to check out my character stats and see if I’d missed any other updates since I’d turned notifications off during combat.

With a thought, I pulled up my character menu, then toggled from my inventory to my main menu. A semitranslucent, vertical options menu popped up in the right side of my vision: Inventory, Spellcraft, Skills, Class Abilities, Character, Party, Quests, Map, Message Log, Notifications, Achievements, Auction House. I whistled softly. That was a lot of content to explore. Assuming I survived the integration process, though, I’d have a lot of time to delve into those other features. What I really wanted to see, however, was my character stats, so I selected “Character” from the menu. An extensive table immediately popped up:

I lay there for a while, eyeing everything. Most of the stats looked pretty similar to the other MMORGPs I’d played in the past. Still, it didn’t pay to make assumptions, so I pulled up the game wiki to see if I could find anything. Although I hadn’t had much luck with the wiki so far, I was happily surprised to see information was starting to trickle in on a host of different topics. A variety of users were posting their initial experiences with the game, and one thing was immediately clear.

The startup sequence was different for everyone. Drastically so.

Some people started in holding cells like I had—though no one mentioned a character named Cutter, which led me to believe he was a unique NPC—while others woke up at taverns, in forests, and even, occasionally, in the heat of an ongoing battle. The variety was truly fascinating, but I didn’t want to get bogged down, so I forced myself to close out of the general forum and pulled up a search bar instead. It only took me a handful of seconds to find a whole glut of information on basic character stats, most of it from players, but some of it straight from Osmark Technologies.

By and large, the primary attributes seemed pretty straightforward:

- Strength: increases Attack Strength (AS) and overall Armor Rating.

- Vitality: increases overall Hit Points (HP) and Health Regeneration.

- Constitution: increases Stamina, Stamina Regeneration, and carrying capacity.

- Dexterity: improves reflexes, including chance to evade and chance to block, while also affecting Ranged Attack Strength (RAS) and Attack Strength (AS) for certain classes.

- Intelligence: increases overall Spell Strength (SS) and adds 0.1% to all resistances per point.

- Spirit: increases the maximum Spirit and Spirit Regeneration.

The last stat, Luck, didn’t actually seem to affect any tangible character skills; there was some speculation that Luck influenced dropped items—gold amount or item rarity—but no one seemed to know anything for sure. The material provided by Osmark didn’t offer much clarity, either. There was one thing everyone agreed on, though; luck was a locked attribute, at least for the time being.

At level three, I’d earned 10 points to distribute however I wanted, but since I wasn’t sure what class I’d be taking, I decided not to invest them yet. In every RPG I’d ever played, maximizing your points based on your class and build was key to having a powerhouse character at higher levels. I closed out of the “Character” screen and saw I had a new notification. Apparently I had a PM in my player inbox. It was from a friend of mine, Abby—the game developer who worked for Osmark Technologies. The same developer that’d hooked me up with my NexGenVR capsule in the first place.

<<<>>>

Personal Message:

Jack,

I wasn’t sure you were going to take the leap or not, but I’m glad to see you’re in here. Look, I’ve got a sensitive, ultra-rare quest. It’s sort of a hidden feature created by some of the Devs at Osmark, but I need someone I can trust on this. I need you on this. I don’t want to say too much, but this is big. Could be a game changer for us. I’ve attached a scroll of teleport to this message. Just activate it and it’ll bring you right to the quest location. Please meet me tomorrow afternoon, 2 PM in-game time. This is a time sensitive mission, so please don’t be late.

—Abby

<<<>>>

I fell asleep staring at the PM, wondering about what kind of game-changing quest Abby could’ve stumbled across.

ELEVEN: Training

An alarm blared inside my ear.

Brrp, brrp, brrp, brrp. I shot up in bed, staring around wild-eyed, my hands groping at the straw mattress. Where was I? I blinked bleary eyes, squinting against the feeble sunlight trickling in through a dull, semiopaque window. I frantically searched for the alarm clock—that blaring was driving me up a wall—but as my vision adjusted, I couldn’t find the source of the noise. Nothing looked familiar to me. I’d expected to wake up on my worn couch after a long night of gaming, but instead I was in some sort of Ren-Fest-themed hotel.

And I still couldn’t find that alarm. Brrp, brrp, brrp, brrp.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and stared in shock. I was wearing crude leggings, leather armor, and my skin was a muted gray. My. Skin. Was. Gray. This had to be a nightmare. Did I go out for drinks last night and overdo it? Maybe someone laced my drink with something? I reached up, grinding the palms of my hands into my temples, trying to block out the noise so I could think. That only made it worse, though. It was like the alarm was actually going off inside my head, clanging like a pair of cymbals over and over again. “Someone turn that alarm off,” I hollered.

And just like that, the noise died. “Alarm dismissed,” came Sophia’s comforting voice, also resounding inside my skull. “The current time in Eldgard is 7:15 AM. You have been asleep for approximately ten real-world hours. You have an automated message from the Osmark Technologies Customer Support Team. Would you like to play it?”

I continued to rub at my head, which pulsed with a dull pain, but agreed to listen to the recording.

“Welcome, traveler,” said a friendly male voice, “my name is Matthew and I’m your customer support representative. Our system records indicate you’ve spent your first full night in Viridian Gate Online. Congratulations! Many fellow travelers have reported severe disorientation and head pain after their first night of In-game rest; these symptoms are common and are not a cause for concern. The confusion will pass in a few minutes, and a hearty meal at your nearest inn or tavern will help with any head pain or other lingering aftereffects. Thank you for playing.” The message cut off, leaving me in early morning silence.

I sat there for a few more minutes, disoriented and unsure. Slowly, slowly, it came back to me.

V.G.O. The asteroid. The end of the world. The potential death sentence hanging over my head like the Sword of Damocles.

I shuddered involuntarily as a crushing wave of depression washed over me—all I wanted to do was lie back down and close my eyes until this was all over. Fall asleep until either the world died or I did.

But then I remembered my training appointment with Cutter at 8 AM, and despite how awful I felt, I certainly didn’t want to miss that. So, reluctantly, I pulled myself from the bed with a profound groan, splashed a little digital water onto my face from the washbasin, then headed down to the tavern below for breakfast. The bartender—the same rotund, balding man from the night before—served me a bowl of warm mush that tasted like honeyed oatmeal. He tried to make small talk, but my grunted, monosyllabic replies quickly drove him away in search of more friendly patrons.

Matthew, from customer support, had been dead right about the food though. By the time Cutter strutted in like a garish peacock, my headache was gone, my attitude had improved significantly, and I mostly felt like myself again.

“Sleep alright?” he asked as he guided me back behind the tavern front and into the training room.

“Yeah, slept fine,” I replied with a nod, “but I woke up feeling like someone beat my head in with a brick.”

He nodded. “I’ve heard rumors,” he whispered conspiratorially, “that some travelers experience such symptoms for the first few days here in Eldgard. Something to do with migrating from one realm to another. Some travelers, they don’t adjust well to Eldgard. For whatever reason, they’re incompatible with our world. Assuming your head doesn’t explode in the next three days,” he said, cocking a finger and pointing it at my skull, “the sickness will pass and you’ll be fine. A permanent citizen, like me. Well, almost like me—just uglier. Uglier and less skilled.

“Now, let’s try to make you slightly less terrible at life, shall we?” He winked as he shepherded me into a currently unoccupied room with lots of arrow slits, which let in sporadic spears of brilliant sunlight. The rest of the room, however, was coated in deep shadow. Those shadows, thick as a blanket, seemed to wither and crawl, to reach for me like a forest of dark hands. Something uncomfortable and cold stirred inside my chest, unfurling icy tendrils through my limbs, reminding me of the black handprint branded onto my forearm. Reminding me of the Shadow-Spark ability the dying Maa-Tál Shaman had unlocked within me.

“Welcome to the shadow room,” Cutter said, breaking the tenuous spell as he swept out an arm. “This, Grim Jack, is where we teach rookies like you the fine art of Stealth.” He shuffled through a shaft of light and into a pool of shadow—in a blink he was gone. Disappeared. “Impressive, eh?” he asked, still invisible. “You’ll never be as good as me, obviously, but with a little work, you can probably Stealth your way past a blind guard.”

We spent the next two hours slinking about the room, stealing from one pool of black to the next.

He showed me several different methods to improve my meager abilities. First, he walked me through how to fade, which involved using camouflage and cover to blend into the surroundings and seem innocuous. Then, he showed me how to roll silently and even how to perform quick Stealth dashes, meant to close in on an enemy while their backs were turned. The work was grueling. My thighs and calves burned from the low-squat walking and my shoulders ached from rolling and falling, which were apparently important qualities for someone who wanted to be sneaky.

Cutter was a great teacher, though, and his work paid off.

By the time we were finished, my Stealth ability had increased to level 6, which meant my chance to successfully hide from enemies climbed from 7% to 17%. Not exactly a ninja warrior, but not half bad either. On top of that, I gained a new character level, which brought me up to level four, and gave me an extra 5 points to distribute. Just after 10 AM, Cutter called it quits on the Stealth practice and led me over to a new area—a padded sparring ground with a few straw practice dummies. He removed a knife from the sheath at this side, holding it up in the light, examining its gleaming blade closely.

“Now, I can’t teach you anything about that ridiculous, barbaric club of yours”—he nodded toward the heavy-headed warhammer hanging at my side—“but maybe I can still teach you something. Sure, knife work has its own principles, but the basics of a good scrap are often the same, regardless of the weapons. Now, take out that glorified carpenter’s tool and have at me.”

I pulled out the weapon, hands flexing around the haft, feeling its comforting weight in my grip. Then I charged him, raising the hammer up high and barreling forward with a roar. I swung down in a wicked arc, only to find Cutter tap-dancing away with a little fancy footwork. My attack whiffed completely, and the weight of the hammer carried me forward and off balance—a sharp pain like a red-hot fire poker slipped into my back, near my kidney. I gasped, choked, and stumbled to the ground, dropping my weapon as I clumsily reached for my back.

The pain made me want to vomit.

“Most of the brawlers you’re going to fight out there,” Cutter said, circling to my front, “are gonna be stronger than you. They’re gonna have better weapons. Tougher armor. And even if you end up as a tank, the truth is there’s always someone bigger, faster, stronger. So, you need to be smarter. Misdirection and a well-placed blow can fell even the most imposing warriors. Now, back on your feet.”

For the next two hours we went over basic fighting techniques, first covering a variety of stances, then launching into guards, defenses, and attacks. As tough as the Stealth session had been, the fighting lesson proved to be even more difficult. Certainly more challenging than any MMO I’d ever experienced. In most games, attacks consisted of a few key strokes or the right combination of buttons. Not here. Here I had to actually perform the maneuvers, know the techniques, watch for the openings, and respond with the correct block or counter.

I did seem to be learning the techniques much faster than I would have IRL—it almost felt like remembering something I’d once forgotten, even though I’d never done anything even remotely like this in my life. The fact that Cutter constantly stabbed me when I did things wrong may have also contributed to the speedy learning curve. Once again, though, Cutter’s grueling regimen paid off, earning me another level up, while also unlocking a new skill:

<<<>>>

Skill: Blunt Weapons

Blunt weapons, such as maces, hammers, and clubs, can cause massive damage to foes. Blunt weapons are especially effective against undead creatures and heavily armored opponents. This skill is always in effect and costs no stamina to use.

Skill Type/Level: Passive / Level 1

Cost: None

Effect: Increases blunt weapon damage by 5%.

<<<>>>

We finished up our training session around noon, then beelined for the tavern—lunch time at long last—which Cutter assured me would help with the aches and pains from our practice.

We grabbed a table in the corner, well away from the few other patrons loitering around, and ate some meaty stew with thick gravy and freshly baked bread, warm and fluffy. I was more than happy to admit that Cutter had been right. Just like this morning, the food set me straight in no time, easing my sore muscles as effectively as a great night’s sleep with a couple of painkillers thrown in for good measure. I still had a couple of hours to kill before I was supposed to rendezvous with Abby, but I decided heading over early wouldn’t be a terrible idea.

I could always wander around and grind out some EXP.

“Cutter, you have any plans for today?” I asked off the cuff, eyeing him over the edge of a hefty beer stein.

He shrugged noncommittally and ripped off a chunk of flaky bread. “Nothing official,” he replied, smacking loudly as he chewed. “Why, you got something in mind?”

“A job,” I said curtly. “One from a friend of mine.”

He swallowed, took a gulp of mead, then wiped his face with his sleeve and belched. A real smooth operator. “If it’s lucrative enough, you might be able to twist my arm. What do you have?”

I filled him in on the scant details and watched as his smile grew wider and wider with every sentence.

TWELVE: The Grind

At just after 12:30, Cutter and I teleported into a wide, grassy clearing, ringed by trees on every side. Warm sunlight washed down from above, warming my exposed skin as a cool wind rustled my hair. I turned in a circle, staring at the wildflowers dotting the field, taking in the distant mountain vistas; I halted as the fallen ruins at the northern end of the clearing came into view. A circle of drunkenly leaning stones, remarkably similar to Stonehenge, butted up against the tree line. In the center of the stone ring was a yawning pit with a set of crude stairs leading down toward an elaborately wrought door.

My first real dungeon.

I pulled up my player map to see where exactly this ruin was located. The map came up fine and detailed my surroundings, but it refused to show my in-world location at all, which was odd in the extreme. I could’ve been ten minutes outside Rowanheath or on the other side of the world. “Cutter,” I said, turning toward the Thief, “do you know where we are? My map won’t display the world location.”

“What do you mean the map won’t display the world location?” he replied with an eyeroll. “You’re probably just reading it wrong, because you’re a moron. Give me a second.” His face went strangely blank for a long beat. He stood unnaturally still with his head slightly canted for a full minute before finally snapping out of it and offering a soft whistle. “Bollocks. You’re right. I can’t pull up world location info, which means this is supposed to be a restricted area.” He gleefully rubbed his hands together. “We’re not supposed to be here.” He sounded excited by the prospect.

And for once, I shared his delinquent enthusiasm. My inner gamer was practically doing backflips at the thought of getting the first crack at a new, restricted zone. Maybe Abby really had discovered something game-changing.

“We’ve got a couple hours before my friend shows up,” I said. “Any chance you wanna go out and hunt down some mobs with me? Get a little extra experience before we tackle those ruins?”

He pressed his lips into a tight line and gave me a you-must-be-crazy look. “Yeah, no.” He flopped down into the lush grass and lounged back, lacing his hands behind his head and staring up at the clouds. “As thrilling as hunting down generic forest critters for mediocre loot sounds—and trust me, it sounds great—I think I’ll just camp out here and wait for the real action to start. Keep myself fresh. You understand.” He closed his eyes and smiled, basking in the sunlight.

“Fine,” I replied. “But I’m going on record here—you’re the worst teammate on the planet.”

“You’ll change your tune when we’re in the thick of things, I think,” he said, never bothering to look at me. “Now run along.”

I turned away from the sunbathing Thief and headed east into the forest, grumbling the whole time about how worthless he was. When I finally made it to the tree line, I took a moment to open my limited map, set up a personal quest marker, then set an alarm for 1:30 so I’d have plenty of time to get back to the clearing. With that done, I took off, weaving my way haphazardly through the forest until the ruins vanished completely behind me.

It didn’t take long before I heard something big and heavy rustle through the brush ahead of me.

I pulled my warhammer from the leather frog at my belt and quickly dropped into Stealth, creeping from tree to tree, clinging to the shadows. After a few heartbeats of tense stalking, I glanced around the trunk of a leafy birch and saw the source of the commotion: a pair of shambling creatures, [Corrupt Valdgeist], composed of discarded branches, rotten greenery, goopy black mud, and odd bits of stone or bone. They were bigger than me, broad across the shoulders, and oddly lopsided.

They also looked about as slow as a couple of three-toed sloths, which was good news for me since running was still high on my defensive strategy list.

The pair milled around listlessly and didn’t seem particularly alert. Should be easy game, perfect for a little leveling. Still, a tight bead of fear sat in my belly, spurred on by the memory of Cutter’s painful knife jabs during our training session. I didn’t really know what these things were or what they were capable of, and there was a good chance they’d hurt me. Badly. You’ve got to suck it up and get over the fear, I scolded myself. This was my new life now, and yes, getting injured was unpleasant, but it was also the only path to success.

I steeled myself, resolve sharpening to a knife’s edge, and pushed on, moving forward with only a whisper of sound.

I circled around until I was behind the creatures, then slipped into the open, bringing up my hammer for a brutal killing blow. I lunged into the swing, putting the full weight of my upper body into the strike. The first creature’s head exploded in a shower of forest debris, its legs crumpling as its body dropped to the floor. Critical Hit! Stealth Attack Damage! The words flashed over the corpse, but I paid them no mind, turning my attention to the second Corrupt Valdgeist. I spun just in time to see a huge fist, capped with a wrecking ball of stone, sail toward me.

I saw it, but I wasn’t quick enough to avoid it.

I shuffled back, bringing up my hammer in an awkward block, which diverted the strike. Instead of pulverizing my face, the creature’s rock fist slipped down, colliding into my chest. The sledgehammer hit knocked me back into a nearby pine tree and ate up a fifth of my HP, despite being a glancing blow. I reeled from the vicious thump and lost my footing, hitting the ground with a thud. With a grimace, I clutched at my battered chest and tried to gain my feet, but couldn’t. Something was holding me down.

Roots. Brown snarls of foliage had emerged from the ground, twining around my ankles and thighs, wrapping tight and pulling me into the dirt.

A message flashed in front of me:

<<<>>>

Debuff Added

Rooted: You have been entangled and are unable to move; duration, 30 seconds.

<<<>>>

I beat and clawed at the brown and green tangles of vegetation ensnaring me, but it was no use, and before I knew it, the bulky, slow moving creature loomed over me. A crude, earthen fist cannonballed into my mouth, knocking my head back and conjuring a gout of bloody saliva, which trickled down the back of my throat. I wasn’t sure if I could lose teeth in this game, but I was going to find out. My life bar flashed: less than 10% of my HP remained. That last strike had been a monster.

I frantically fought to bring up both my warhammer and the crude wooden buckler strapped to my left arm—anything to stop or divert another attack long enough for the “root” debuff to vanish.

The Corrupt Valdgeist swatted away my weapon with a lazy backhand, leaving me rooted to the ground, completely defenseless, with next to no HP left to my name. In my gut, I knew I was dead. The creature raised its clubbed fist again, ready to deliver the killing blow. To bludgeon me into a bloody smear.

Cold rage boiled inside me at the thought of dying like this. At the indignity of it. I flatly rejected the idea of having my head caved in by some mindless, muddy shambler in some forgotten backwoods while Cutter sunbathed in a meadow twenty minutes away. Especially since I didn’t actually know how respawns worked here—would I end up back in the meadow or all the way back in Rowanheath? Would it be instantaneous or would it take several hours? I didn’t have a clue, but I absolutely refused to find those answers like this.

A familiar chill radiated out from the blackened handprint on my forearm, roaring through my body, fueled by the sudden flash of anger. The creature’s fist descended, slicing through the air.

“No!” I yelled, throwing one hand forward in a final act of desperation, hoping to somehow halt the attack—

My mouth fell open in shocked surprise as a bolt of angry, withering shadow erupted from my palm, slamming into the creature’s neck like a dull machete.

The creature staggered from the impact, shuffling stupidly, before its head finally tumbled from its lopsided shoulders and to the forest floor. Its body shortly followed suit, collapsing into a heap of sticks and rock and mud. I sat there, staring at my hand, totally flabbergasted.

What did I just do?

Several status windows popped up, one right after the other:

<<<>>>
x1 Level Up!

You have (25) undistributed stat points! Stat points can be allocated at any time.

You have (5) unassigned proficiency points! Proficiency points can be allocated at any time.

<<<>>>

Quest Update: Plight of the Maa-Tál

In an act of desperation, you’ve tapped into your inborn Shadow-Spark ability, drawing on the dark power of the Umbra. In doing so, you have spent (1) Proficiency Point of the Spell Umbra Bolt and initiated the specialized path of the Shadowmancer. In order to unlock the Shadowmancer class kit, speak to Chief Kolle of the Ak-Hani clan in the Storme Marshes and complete the Maa-Tál initiation ordeal.

Quest Class: Rare, Class-Based

Quest Difficulty: Hard

Success: Report to Chief Kolle and survive the Maa-Tál initiation ordeal.

Failure: Die during the Maa-Tál initiation ordeal

Reward: Class Change: Dark Templar, Shadowmancer Kit

<<<>>>

Skill: Umbra Bolt

Launch a fierce bolt of shadow energy that causes damage and also temporarily blinds the target. As your proficiency with Umbra Bolt increases, both damage and the duration of blindness increase. At higher levels, Umbra Bolt also has a chance of causing confusion—your target may become panicked and start to randomly attack friendly forces.

Skill Type/Level: Spell/Initiate

Cost: 75 Spirit

Range: 100 Meters (Sight)

Cast Time: 1.5 seconds

Cooldown: N/A

Effect: Shadow Damage (160% SS)

Effect 2: Blindness, duration 5 seconds

Restriction: Due to current class restrictions, you may only use Umbra Bolt when your health drops below 15%. To remove this restriction, you must change your class to Dark Templar.

<<<>>>

Wow. There was so much awesome I didn’t even know where to begin.

First, I’d reached level five as a result of my training with Cutter, and the last I’d checked, I’d needed almost 3,000 experience points to hit level six. To level up off of two forest mobs was huge. They must’ve been packing some serious EXP, which meant I was in the right place at the right time for some solid grinding.

Second, wow again, I’d just blasted a bolt of deathly shadow from my hand!

Awesome hardly began to cover it. Yes, the Umbra Bolt skill was badly restricted since I didn’t have the proper class yet, but it was still incredibly, wickedly cool. Not to mention, I now had the option to gain the Dark Templar class. I instantly pulled up my wiki, hoping to gather some intel on what type of skills Shadowmancers had, but frowned in disappointment. The wiki was currently unavailable due to my restricted in-game location. Probably the same reason my in-world map hadn’t been working properly earlier on—the Devs didn’t want any information about this particular location leaking to the general public.

Finally, I gained my feet, brushed my clothes free from dirt and dead leaves, and retrieved my warhammer from the forest floor. I took a minute to loot the Corrupt Valdgeist. Each carried 5 gold—but nothing else. Not a huge surprise, considering the creatures were basically trees. Still, 10 gold from two mobs was nothing to scoff at. Part of me wanted to play it safe and go back to the clearing, but the gamer in me screamed that this was way too good an opportunity to pass up. After all, if this was a restricted area of the game, it meant no other players were farming here. Which meant great EXP and decent loot—all good.

So, yielding to the jabbering voice of my inner greedy gamer, I made my way further into the forest.

THIRTEEN: The Hamadryad

I wound my way deeper and deeper into the forest, stealing from one copse of trees to another, encountering larger and more aggressive groups of Corrupt Valdgeist as I progressed. The battles continued to be intense and grueling, but after the first five or six, I started to notice certain predictable patterns in the way they moved and fought. A big haymaker was almost always followed by a short jab and a lunging kick, which offered a narrow opening I could exploit. And exploit it I did: sidestep right, avoid the kick, plant my warhammer into an exposed chest cavity with devastating results.

But those openings and gaffs evolved and changed.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one learning. No, the Corrupt Valdgeist picked up on my strategy almost as quickly as I picked up on theirs, and they adapted accordingly. Just when I found myself falling into complacency, one of the tree creatures would change tactics, lashing out with a surprise uppercut or catching me off guard with a wild blow that’d knock me from my feet. Smart. Dangerous. And even more troubling, the deeper I went, the faster the creatures became, quickly eliminating one of my major advantages. It made things more difficult overall, but also more interesting.

Grinding often got mind-numbingly boring because it was so repetitive, but this was never that. I was never quite sure how things would play out.

It’d been nearly an hour—and about twenty Corrupt Valdgeist later—when I heard the guttural rumble of an inhuman voice coming from a small clearing up ahead. I pulled up my in-game clock and checked the time: 1:25 PM. I frowned. I really needed to turn around and head back if I wanted to meet Abby on time, but my curiosity got the better of me. I crept forward, wrapped in Stealth, cloaked in shadow, feet silent in the undergrowth, and pressed my body up against a tree, stealing a gander around the side of the trunk.

The breath caught in my throat …

I counted thirteen or fourteen Corrupt Valdgeist wandering around in a lopsided meadow—a few shuffled listlessly, a few more were curled into hollowed-out burrows of mud and stone. Fast asleep. Some were even eating, stuffing their misshapen jaws with clumps of dried dirt or munching on handfuls of rotten leaves. This was some sort of den. Strangest of all, though, was the large, gnarled birch tree in the center of the clearing, surrounded by a fairy ring of brown-capped mushrooms.

The tree, labeled as a [Hamadryad], had a face on it.

And not just some crude picture carved into the bark. No, an actual face protruded from the white bark: a bulbous nose of knotted wood, deep-set chestnut-brown eyes, a thin gash of a mouth framed by mossy facial hair. “You make me sick, all of you,” the tree bellowed in an earthy voice. “Why can’t you leave my forest in peace!” His mossy beard fluttered as he hollered. “You come in here and spread your rot around, corrupt my brothers with your presence. A pox on you, on all of you.”

The Corrupt Valdgeist ignored the tree’s accusatory rant, carrying on about their business as though they were alone in the world. None of them went near the tree man though; they avoided the toadstone fairy ring as though it carried a deadly poison. The tree continued his ineffectual muttering, offering up colorful curses, occasionally taking a break to complain about how bad the Corrupt Valdgeist reeked or fondly reminisce about better times, back before the infection in the forest.

It was a strange, surreal scene, and I couldn’t help but think of Courage the Cowardly Dog, screaming and buggy-eyed as he confronted a talking tree. That was my life now. I was Courage the Cowardly Dog.

I didn’t really know what to do here. The RPGer in me screamed there was a quest to be had, but the realist in me said there was no way I could take on that many Corrupt Valdgeist and walk away. I was simply outmatched and too low level. Especially without the benefit of having a class yet.

I pulled up my map and marked the spot with a personal quest marker, then jotted down a note: weird tree-face creature in mushroom fairy ring. I closed out of the map and turned away, ready to hustle back toward the ruined temple, and my alarm went off—the one I’d set for myself as a reminder to wrap things up. The brrp, brrp, brrp was only audible inside my head, but that didn’t keep it from startling the heck out of me. I jumped at the sound, irrationally afraid the Corrupt Valdgeist would somehow hear it.

I managed to dismiss the alarm, but in all my reckless commotion, I’d broken out of Stealth mode.

A fact which was plainly obvious since the host of Corrupt Valdgeist immediately streamed toward me, warbling cries of hate ripping through the air as their lanky limbs ate up the distance between us. Looked like I was going to fight these things after all. The first one lunged for me from the trees, weathered root arms straining to spill my blood onto the forest floor. I ducked beneath the attack and dove into a roll, which carried me just outside its effective attack range. I popped back up onto my feet a moment later, pivoting, spinning, bringing the warhammer around in a vicious swing.

I caught the creature in the back of its neck, dropping it in a single, critical hit blow. I didn’t have time to celebrate my lucky break, though, because three more of the creatures were circling around me, hemming me in. I didn’t have much in the way of hit points, unfortunately, so I really couldn’t afford to take a beating, tank-style. I needed space to maneuver. I feinted left, then shot right, catching one of the Valdgeist in the knee with the spiked tip of my weapon. The creature wobbled, suddenly unstable, so I charged into it, shouldering it aside and bursting into the meadow beyond.

Now in the clear, I sprinted straight for the fairy ring surrounding the strange talking tree.

Another of the root creatures barreled in as I neared the ring, throwing its body forward in an awkward dive. I leapt, feet passing above the outstretched creature—a running back clearing the offensive line for a TD—barely avoiding the tangle of limbs. I landed hard, stumbled, then wheeled around and smashed my hammer into the creature’s exposed head, ending its existence. Finally, I hurled my body inside the protection of the fairy ring, safe at last. At least I hoped my hunch was correct and that the ring would offer some protection.

If I was wrong, my little excursion was going to quickly end with a painful game over.

I waited, shoulders tense, muscles flexed, as the horde of remaining Corrupt Valdgeist circled back around, pressing in toward the ring of mushrooms. One creature, partially composed of rock, twigs and old deer bones, charged my position—only to rebound from an unseen force field surrounding the strange tree. I let out a shuddering sigh of relief.

“Smart thinking, boy,” came a booming voice from behind me. I leapt in shock and spun, hammer raised, though careful to stay inside the ring. “No need for that,” the tree said, gesturing toward my hammer with bushy green eyebrows. “Me thinks we’re on the same side. The real question now is, how do you plan to escape?”

I lowered the hammer and turned back to survey the scene. The tree man had a point. I was safe for the time being, but I was also trapped. Trapped and surrounded on every side. I’d have to leave eventually, but there wasn’t a good way to go about that.

“You see the problem,” the tree boomed sagely. “Not only are we on the same side, we are in the same boat. Exactly the same boat. You see, I erected the fairy ring barrier to keep their infection out”—he nodded toward the Valdgeist, his trunk groaning from the movement—“but, as a result, my influence is confined to this damned circle. A stopgap measure ensuring my safety, but a sure-fire loser in the long run.”

Suddenly a wave of exhaustion hit me and I dropped to my butt, letting my weapon fall to the leaf-strewn ground beside me. Heading for the fairy ring had seemed like such a good idea in the moment. I let out a long, tired sigh and leaned back on my hands. I could jump in and out of the protection of the toadstool circle—try to take them out one at a time—but if even one of them caught me in a root spell, I’d be trapped and dead. Not a lot of good choices.

“It seems to me,” the tree said after several moments of quiet, disturbed only by the restless shuffling of the Corrupt Valdgeist, “that we might be able to help each other.”

“I’m listening,” I replied, glancing over one shoulder at the tree.

“Excellent. Excellent. It might be that I could break this fairy ring and exert my considerable influence to see you safely from this clearing, but in return, I’ll need you to do a somewhat significant favor for me. You see, once I break the fairy ring, I’ll be exposed to the infection plaguing this forest. In time, it will kill me. Or worse, transform me into a [Greater Corrupt Valdgeist]. But if you destroy the evil tainting the forest, it will undo these vile abominations and restore the balance of this land. I help you, you help me. Tit for tat. And if you succeed in this quest, I’ll even grant you the blessing of the forest.” He paused, wooden lips puckered. “So? What say you, boy?”

A new quest alert popped up:

<<<>>>

Quest Alert: Cleanse the Taint

A powerful Hamadryad has requested your assistance in cleansing an evil presence that is tainting the forest, creating a host of Corrupt Valdgeist. Venture to the fallen ruins not far to the west, and destroy the source of the dark taint.

Quest Class: Rare

Quest Difficulty: Hard

Success: Destroy the source of the dark taint within (24) in-game hours.

Failure: Fail to destroy the source of the dark taint within (24) in-game hours.

Reward: 10,000 EXP; Blessing of the Forest: Your relationship with forest-aligned factions will improve from Neutral to Friendly. If you fail, you will receive Curse of the Forest: Your relationship with forest-aligned factions will decrease from Neutral to Unfriendly.

Accept: Yes/No?

<<<>>>

I stared at the screen, reading over the quest once, twice, three times, then checking and double-checking the reward. What were the chances the ruins this tree-guy wanted me to clear were the very same ruins I was already on my way to clear? Pretty good. And though the quest difficulty was listed as hard, turning down a rare quest at this stage in the game—or any stage, really—was stupid. Besides, what other option did I have? If I didn’t accept, the tree wouldn’t help me escape, which was a certain death sentence.

“Okay,” I said somewhat halfheartedly, selecting accept.

FOURTEEN: Skill Bump

“One … Two … Three!” The Hamadryad shouted, his voice nearly deafening up close.

Sweat dotted my brow and a nervous energy caused my warhammer to tremble in anticipation as I stared down the horde of Corrupt Valdgeist barring my path. Even accounting for the three I’d managed to kill, there were still over ten of them. Ten. This seemed like a dumb idea, but I was already committed, so when the tree hit three, I bolted straight out, dismissing the pang of worry nestled in my gut. The root-monsters came for me the second I cleared the toadstool ring, clawed hands extended.

I met their advance with my hammer.

Clocking one in the face with a glancing blow, sending it stumbling away in shock, then smashing a forearm and jabbing the weapon up at an angle into another’s jaw. The damage wasn’t sufficient to put down the Corrupt Valdgeist for keeps, but it did clear a path.

More streamed in from the left and right, though, so unless the Hamadryad came through for me, they were going to shortly converge on me and rip me limb from limb. I tried not to think about that, and instead hunched forward, dropping my head, and kept charging right on ahead. Just as the creatures entered my peripheries, a gigantic snap-boom reverberated in the air as huge tree roots, big as jungle pythons, ripped their way free from the ground, dusty earth raining down.

The tree roots writhed and stretched, curling around the encroaching Corrupt Valdgeist like giant hands, crushing frail bodies and holding them firmly in place. A mega version of the root spell that’d ensnared me earlier. Pretty cool, actually.

For a moment I kept running, eager to leave the clearing behind, but then I came to a stuttering halt. I turned and quickly assessed the scene. The tree-man had managed to snare all of the Corrupt Valdgeist, and although I didn’t know how long his spell would last, for the time being, they were completely defenseless. Helpless. I’d come out here to grind some EXP, and those were basically free points if I had the guts to take them.

I rushed back in with a warbling war cry and went to town, caving in heads with brutal efficiency. They couldn’t move, couldn’t fight back. It was easier than smashing a piñata without a blindfold. The whole process took less than a minute—the Hamadryad enthusiastically spurred me on with hoots of approval the whole while—and before I knew it, I’d killed every creature and cleared a ton more EXP.

I looted the bodies with practiced efficiency and, after another quick “goodbye and good-luck” from the tree-man, headed back toward the ruins and my appointed meeting with Abby. I pulled up my menu as I walked, deciding a little multitasking would save me from the tedium of a long, boring return trip.

First, I checked my new quest and was pleased to find the evil presence tainting the forest was, indeed, located at the ruins I was already scheduled to raid. Two birds with one stone. Next, I toggled over to my “Character” screen, eager to examine the gains I’d made in this little restricted slice of the world.

<<<>>>
x8 Level Up!

You have (65) undistributed stat points! Stat points can be allocated at any time.

You have (12) unassigned proficiency points! Proficiency points can be allocated at any time.

<<<>>>

So far, I’d managed to push myself to level fourteen—not bad the way I figured things. True, there were probably players out there at much higher levels, but I still had some big quests remaining to my name, and those quests came with some hefty EXP bonuses. The biggest problem I had at the moment wasn’t my level, it was my lack of class. Even knowing the Shadowmancer kit likely lay in my future wasn’t much help, since I couldn’t access a wiki or pull up a class description. Without that, I really had no idea what major stats to invest my finite stash of points into.

Annoying, but there was nothing I could do about it right now.

As soon as I wrapped up this business with Abby, though, I was jumping headlong into the quest provided by that Murk Elf Shaman. Satisfied with my progress, I dismissed my character screen and pulled up my inventory. I’d accumulated over a hundred gold coins and almost double that in silver, which was quite the haul, and I’d also managed to get a few item drops to boot.

Though most of the Corrupt Valdgeist only dropped coins, one had dropped a short sword with a +1 to Strength, and another had given me a set of black braided leather leggings with a +1 Constitution bonus and an extra 2% resistance to fire. Despite the sword’s extra stat bonus, I decided to stick with my warhammer—it just felt right in my hands. Besides, during my short grind session, I’d already managed to raise my Blunt Weapons skill to level 4, which added an extra 11% damage to all blunt weapon attacks; it’d be a shame to start over after all of that.

The new leggings, though, were a heck of a lot better than the (shoddy) rough trousers I was currently sporting, so I swapped those in a heartbeat.

With that done, I decided to finally check out my Skills section. After unwittingly spending a point on the Umbra Bolt spell, I had 12 unassigned Proficiency Points remaining, and I wasn’t even sure what they did. When I pulled up the Skills menu, a huge screen spread out before me, with a variety of different Skill Trees splayed out in the air: Blunt Weapons, Bladed Weapons, Archery, Unarmed, Forging, Crafting, Enchanting, Merchant-craft, Heavy Armor, Medium Armor, Light Armor, Stealth, Lock Pick, Mage-craft, Animist, and Healer.

Wow, there was almost too much information to take in. Each Skill had its own unique branch with specialty abilities, which could be invested in by allocating Proficiency Points. Since I was reasonably sure I was going to stick with the warhammer, regardless of which class I ultimately ended up with, I selected the Blunt Weapons Tree to see what kind of cool abilities I could unlock.

At my relatively low level with Blunt Weapons, there weren’t many options available. At the higher levels, however, I could unlock skills like Skull Bash—a special power attack capable of stunning enemies while also ignoring 50% of an opponent’s base armor rating—or the Crush Armor ability, which came with a 250% attack bonus against opponents in heavy plate. Powerful stuff.

Even at my paltry level 4, however, there were a few cool things I could do. First, I invested one point into Savage Blow, an attack that cost 20 stamina, increased damage by 25%, and raised Critical Hit by 15%. I also picked Parry, increasing my chance of blocking without a shield while additionally giving me a 10% chance to counterattack with a 125% movement bonus. That dropped me down to 10 points to invest, but I felt happy with my choice.

I was getting ready to check out what the Stealth Tree had to offer when I broke from the tree line and into the meadow I’d left Cutter cooling his heels in. I paused mid-step and dismissed the menu hovering in front of me. There was a broad-shouldered Risi warrior wearing heavy, black-coated plate mail, and he had Cutter pinned in front of him—a wicked blade held tight against the Thief’s throat.

FIFTEEN: Abby Intrigue

“Don’t take another step,” the Risi warrior growled, fangs barred in a rictus. “Not unless you’d care to see what the inside of your friend’s throat looks like.”

“How did you let him sneak up on you?” I hissed at Cutter, trying to decide what to do. “You’re supposed to be a super ninja thief. That guy doesn’t look all that stealthy.”

“I fell asleep,” Cutter replied through gritted teeth. “Now please do what the smelly thug says, since I’m a huge fan of not dying. My kind doesn’t respawn like you travelers—death is sort of a big, permanent deal for us.”

“So this Thief really is with you,” came a female voice off to the right. In my peripheral vision, a swath of tree line rippled, distorted, then changed, revealing a short, curvy woman with an intricate pile of brown curls. She wore an elegant blood-red robe, studded with shimmering jewels, and carried a sleek dark wood staff carved with ember-red script and topped by a fat crimson ruby the size of a pigeon’s egg.

“Is that you, Abby?” I asked, squinting at her. Abby and I went back all the way to our college days. We’d stayed in touch through a variety of MMOs, but I hadn’t actually seen her IRL in years. The woman over there could’ve been Abby, though. She had the same dark skin, the same frame and build, the same hair, though everything was refined and dusted with the sheen of over-perfect VR.

She nodded and offered me a soft smile, dimples blooming in her cheeks. Those dimples were certainly the same. “It’ good to see you, Jack. Otto”—she turned toward the armor-clad warrior—“you can let him go.” The warrior grunted noncommittally, then removed his blade and gave Cutter a little shove, opening up some distance between the two. “Otto, why don’t you and the thief—”

“Name’s Cutter, not thief,” Cutter interjected.

Abby offered him a tightlipped smile. “Okay. Otto, why don’t you and Cutter get to know each other while Jack and I have a word. Just catch up a bit, then we’ll all be on our way.”

“Of course,” the gruff warrior, Otto, replied, before promptly grabbing Cutter by one arm and dragging him away. “This way, thief.”

Abby came over and pulled me into a tight hug. “It’s so good to see you,” she said, pulling back and regarding me from arm’s length.

“You too, Abby. You too. I can’t believe this place,” I said as an awkward ice breaker. “V.G.O. is seriously incredible—I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Oh, it’s definitely incredible,” she replied, though she didn’t look nearly as happy as I would’ve imagined. If I’d helped to create something as awesome and groundbreaking as V.G.O—even in a small way—I would’ve been through-the-roof ecstatic. “Will you walk with me a bit?” she asked.

I nodded and offered her my arm, a small grin pulling up one corner of my mouth. Back in college, we used to walk between classes like that, linked arm in arm. Those were the days when I thought we might turn into something; though, for whatever reason—timing, romantic complications, geography, career paths—that had never panned out.

“You look good,” I mentioned offhandedly. “Are you a human?”

She nodded. “A Wode. I wanted to actually look like myself, and the human races were the only ones that offered my natural skin tone.” We kept walking, but she gave me a quick once-over from the corner of her eye. “Personally, I’m sort of surprised you went with a Murk Elf. Not that I mind, exactly—you just look so different. I sort of expected you to be human, too.”

“The Murk Elves had some cool racial bonuses,” I offered. We trotted on in uncomfortable silence, feet carving a path through the vibrant green grass. “So, how’s stuff been back IRL? I mean aside from the world ending,” I added weakly. Moron. What kind of question was that? Who would want to talk about real life, what with real life teetering on the verge of total destruction?

She offered me a halfhearted smile and punched me lightly in the shoulder. “Good to see you haven’t changed too much. Still the same old, awkward Jack I remember.” She paused, glancing down, shuffling along. “Truthfully, I’m tired. It’s been a long year for me. A tough year. I lost my dad about six months ago. Large cell lung cancer. Ugly stuff. And with the schedule Osmark had us on, I didn’t even get time off for the funeral.”

“Wow, Abby, I’m so sorry to hear about your dad.”

She shrugged and waved off my comment. “It’s the end of the world, Jack, everyone’s going to lose loved ones. Everyone. But, to really top things off, despite my best efforts, my mom won’t make the leap to Viridian. She says she’s too old to start over, even though she’s only sixty-five. So, I guess it’s been a pretty shitty year, all things considered. How ’bout you?”

“Yep. Pretty much the same,” I said, red rising into my cheeks. “By the way, I never properly thanked you for the capsule. But, you know, thank you—you saved my life, after all.”

“You’re welcome,” she replied, “but maybe you should wait to thank me until you’ve fully transitioned. I’ve seen what happens to people who don’t live through the process, and it’s worse than watching someone die from cancer. I know from personal experience.”

Well, that was certainly off-putting and terrifying. I puckered my lips, trying to think of anything I could say that might salvage this train-wreck of a conversation. I floundered completely. How could I possibly follow up with anything appropriate after a downer like “it’s worse than watching someone die from cancer”? Tough to recover from that. “So, what’s the deal with the tank?” I finally asked just to break the terrible silence, jerking a thumb toward the retreating Risi.

“Otto? Oh, he’s my starting NPC,” she said dismissively, “the one who walked me through my intro to the world. A lot of players end up forming pretty strong bonds with their paired NPC. Is Cutter your starting NPC?”

“Well, he was in prison with me, if that’s what you mean.” I faltered. “Wait, so are you saying everyone starts with their own NPC?”

She nodded, her gaze averted, still deep in thought. “Every player has a completely unique starting scenario with a custom NPC to lead them into the world of V.G.O. The seven Master AI controllers—the Overminds—analyze each user based on that specific user’s internet profile and personal history. Then, the Overminds create a starting NPC guide and a specialized initialization sequence which acts as a sort of hyper-advanced Myers-Briggs Type Indicator. The way each player reacts during the sequence and interacts with their NPC tells the Overmind what type of character class they’ll most likely meld well with.”

“Wow,” I replied, feeling dumb. “That’s incredible. Intense. But it’s also kind of creepy. How does Osmark Tech get away with profiling people like that? Seems like a massive invasion of privacy—aren’t there laws against that kind of thing?”

“Oh, it’s definitely a breach of privacy”—she stole a look at me and bobbed her head—“and yeah, there are totally laws against it, but Osmark Tech gets away with it because players sign an information release in the user agreement. Naturally, the release is written in legalese so dense a team of Harvard lawyers couldn’t figure it out, and then it’s tucked away in print so fine, you’d need an electron microscope to find it. But it’s there, and when you agree to play, you accept Osmark’s terms of service, profiling and all.”

“Man, if players found out, they’d be pissed. Why even go through the hassle anyway?” I asked. “Seems like it’d be a lot easier to just let players choose their class like in every other MMO in the world.”

She shook her head and shrugged. “That’s not my area of expertise, but if I had to guess, I’d say it’s because the VR game play is so intense and personal, that if you played a class outside of your personality tolerance it could have adverse side effects. Or”—she paused, arching an eyebrow—“it could be a marketing gimmick. I don’t know. But then, there’s a lot I don’t know about V.G.O.”

“Hey, out of curiosity, do you know if the NPCs are actually self-aware or not?” I voiced the question since it’d been lingering on my mind ever since meeting Cutter in prison. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say my starting NPC’s a real person. Sort of a jerk, but a fully fleshed out jerk. He certainly seems to think he’s real—but it’s weird, because from what I’ve gathered, he also genuinely believes V.G.O. isn’t a game. It’s really tripping me out, actually.”

“Honestly …” She frowned, hesitated. Trying to decide what to tell me. “Honestly, I’m not sure. No one is. We rushed the testing to get the game online, so I can’t give you a straight answer one way or the other. The NPCs are procedurally generated by drawing on information from all over the internet—history, Facebook profiles, fiction novels, movies, games—which gives them their uncanny realism. I’ve never met an NPC that failed to pass the Turing Test, but whether they’re actually aware?” She shrugged one shoulder. “Time will tell I guess.”

Once more, we lapsed into tense quiet as we edged nearer and nearer the ruins. The more and more I learned about V.G.O., the more I began to wonder what exactly I’d gotten myself into. It was too late to second-guess myself at this point, but it was still disconcerting. Maybe Abby was feeling the same way—it’d certainly explain her attitude. “Well, would you like to tell me about this big secret mission you’ve got for us?” I asked, trying to find any topic that would be a little less heavy. A little less depressing.

She stopped, pulled her arm from mine, and took a step away as she folded her arms across her chest. “Jack, maybe you should just go. It might’ve been a mistake to drag you into this mess.” A tear leaked from her eye and ran down her cheek. She reached up and swiped at it with the back of her hand.

“Abby, what in the hell is going on?” I reached out and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “You’re not a weepy damsel in distress. I’ve never seen you cry, not in all the years I’ve know you. So why don’t you tell me what’s eating at you? Just get it off your chest.”

“It’s bad, Jack,” she said with a slight sniffle. “Bad for everyone. Maybe as bad as the asteroid. Even telling you could land you in a lot of trouble.” She paused, chewing on her lip. “Are you sure you want to know?”

“Abby, tell me,” I replied, much more confidently than I felt. What could possibly be as bad as the asteroid?

SIXTEEN: Bad to Worse

Abby and I sat on a toppled log twenty or thirty feet from the ruins.

“Tell me what’s going on,” I prompted her again.

“It’s hard to know where to even begin,” she said, looking away. “Jack, there’s just so much crazy shit going on. Like mind-blowing, world shaking, secret conspiracy, Illuminati shit. Tin-foil hat shit. And I haven’t shared this with anyone else because I don’t know who’d believe me or who I could trust. Most of my ‘friends’”—she used air quotes—“work for Osmark Tech, and I sure don’t trust anyone there. Not anymore.

“It all started a few months ago,” she continued. “It was a typical day—I was checking a line of code when I ran across an oddity. Someone had added an unauthorized, locked quest, accessible only by special players. There’d been all kinds of other crazy stuff leading up to this, so when this popped up, I decided to take a peek. Thought it might offer some clue about what in the hell was going on around the company. That’s when I discovered there were hundreds of these locked areas scattered all around V.G.O., inserted by Robert Osmark’s inner circle.”

“Are they supposed to be some kind of content for future patches or expansions?” I asked, trying to think of the most reasonable explanation.

“At first, I thought so too, but I kept looking. Digging. Hacking.” She shook her head, her gaze distant. “These areas were never meant for the general player population. These areas were built into the game as rewards for some of the big financial backers of V.G.O.—people with lots of money and lots of power. Here’s the thing, Osmark Tech knew about the asteroid long before the general public ever did. The government didn’t release the info to the masses because they didn’t want to cause premature panic, but my boss, Robert Osmark, knew. I’m sure of it.

“He didn’t tell us peons, obviously, but in hindsight it’s clear. He had us working around the clock, paying out overtime through the nose, rushing through beta trials to get things up and running ahead of schedule. And then his inner circle started adding in all of these extra features last minute. To top things off, a few weeks before the media started to carry the story about the asteroid, Osmark himself dropped the news on us worker bees—sort of an extra work-your-asses-off incentive.

“Now, based on a series of hacked emails I uncovered,” she continued, “I think he had these special areas installed in order to help certain individuals game the system. I personally believe Osmark realized that V.G.O. wasn’t just a video game—not with that asteroid inbound. He realized V.G.O. was the birth of a new world. A new dimension. Initially, the game was set up to put all starting players at the same disadvantages, to level the playing field for everyone. But the mega-wealthy, the politicians, the banksters, people in organized crime, they don’t want a level playing field. They want an edge.

“And all of these new areas were expressly added to give those people that edge. In a couple of weeks, after the asteroid hits and it’s too late for anyone IRL to do anything about it, V.G.O is going to turn into a new feudal dark age, and everyone is going to be scrambling to carve out a piece of this empire for themselves. And the little guys, people like us, are going to get crushed in the mix. People like us are going to end up being the serfs, Jack. The unwashed masses for uber players to lord over. Unless … Unless we fight dirty.”

She fell silent for a time, the distant thrum of birdcalls warbling through the air. I certainly didn’t know what to say.

“This zone right here”—she gestured toward the meadow—“has already been bought and paid for by a South American dictator named Aleixo Carrera. I don’t know what’s buried in these ruins, but I know Carrera paid twenty million for it. Twenty million, Jack. That’s a lot of money for a few strings of digital code, so I’ve got to think whatever’s here is powerful. These entitled assholes are going to have an advantage none of us regular folk get, and in the long run it’s going to turn ugly. And all the chaos coming down the pipeline only accounts for the human elements.

“The AI controllers running this system are cutting-edge beyond belief. None of the Overminds are really conscious, thinking beings—they’re more like forces of nature that maintain the world’s integrity, spawn creatures, create quests—but they’re still dangerous. Really dangerous. I mean, the Overmind responsible for overseeing Serth-Rog and his personal army is run by a repurposed military AI unit. Osmark acquired it from the Chinese military last minute to save time with development. Who knows what that thing might do?” She shook her head.

“Wait,” I said, rubbing at my temples as I mentally waded through the tsunami of info I’d heard so far. “Okay, I can believe Osmark Tech might have the ethics code of a Banana Republic Dictatorship, but here’s what I don’t get. Why sell off V.G.O. real estate for IRL money in the first place? The world’s going to end in less than nine days. So, what’s the point?”

“Well, Carrera didn’t actually pay cash,” she replied urgently, almost fervently. Needing for me to believe her. “Nope, maybe six months before news of the asteroid broke, Carrera selflessly “donated” twenty million worth of essential tech components to help get V.G.O. operational in time. He supplied Osmark Tech with colossal amounts of refined indium, gold, silver, copper, platinum, palladium—all essential components in the physical machinery powering V.G.O. He also supplied cheap labor to help at the NextGenVR capsule facility, churning out capsules at a crazy rate. And Carrera’s not the only one, either.

“US politicians railroaded laws allowing Osmark Tech to bypass testing requirements, they rubber-stamped the import of dangerous and restricted materials, plus about a hundred other illegal things. Osmark even got help from NASA to launch his satellite into orbit. And that repurposed AI I told you about? Another ‘donation’ from Chinese military leaders. The amount of supplies and materials to get V.G.O. up and running ahead of schedule were staggering, I’m sure. And I bet my completely worthless life savings there were people lining up around the block, willing to help in return for future kickbacks.

“I think he’s repaying favors to the powerful people who made V.G.O. possible. Now, I want to give my boss the benefit of the doubt and assume he isn’t actually a monstrous asshole—I like to believe he was just doing what he needed to do to save a lot of people, but he made some really shady deals to do it. And even if he isn’t a monster, I can’t imagine people like Carrera or the CIA or the KGB are going to be beneficent masters. They’re going to amass power for themselves and be colossal dick heads just like they were in the real world, except there’s not going to be a Constitution or police force to keep them in check.”

“But why go through the quest system?” I asked, turning the information over and over in my mind, examining it from every conceivable angle. “Why not just turn these players into in-world gods right out of the gate? Just program it into the system?”

“It’s complicated,” she said, glancing around nervously as though someone might be listening. “After we brought all of the Overminds on line,” she whispered, an edge of fear in her voice, “they closed the system to major changes—they’re calling the shots now. The Devs can only tweak things that’re already consistent with the Overmind directives. Hence using the quest system as a back door.”

I was stunned into silence for a long while, my stomach churning with uncertainty. I bent over, leaning against my thighs as I hyperventilated. Abby had been right, this was some mind-blowing, world shaking, secret conspiracy, Illuminati shit. I knew transitioning into V.G.O. was going to be a humongous, life-altering challenge, but I’d never expected anything like this. I was a thirty-two-year-old EMT from the west coast. I lived in a crappy apartment and made less than the typical burger flipper. I wasn’t the kind of person embroiled in international politics or multi-million-dollar conspiracies, which was definitionally what we were talking about here.

“You okay?” she asked, rubbing a hand along my back.

“Nope, not even a little,” I replied, still hyperventilating a little. “V.G.O. was supposed to be a safe haven,” I said finally, “but if this is true, dying back on Earth might actually be the better option.”

She didn’t answer—probably because she knew I was right. Instead, she sat there, tracing a hand along my shoulders until I could breathe normally again.

“So what are you suggesting?” I asked eventually, pushing myself upright. “We’re nobodies, Abby. We don’t have money or connections or powerful friends. What exactly do you think we can do about this?”

Her face hardened with resolve—gone was the weepy damsel from a few moments ago. “We aren’t nobodies, Jack. We know MMOs better than most of the assholes entering this world, and knowledge is power, too. What I’m suggesting is that we get ahead of this shitstorm while we still can. What I’m suggesting is you and I form our own clan—one that actually has a chance of standing up against the rising powers in this new world. One that can give people like us hope. And we start by stealing whatever’s inside this restricted zone. Whatever Carrera paid twenty million to get his hands on.”

I stood with a groan and headed over to the standing stones; Abby trailed behind me, giving me some distance. I halted at the edge of the earthen pit, staring at the stairs that would take us into the dungeon. Or not. I could walk away. Just pretend I hadn’t heard any of this—write Abby off as a nut job. As a loony conspiracy theorist. I almost wish she were just some crackpot psycho.

But I didn’t believe that.

I opened my mouth to speak, but she raised a hand, cutting off my question.

“Before you say anything, before you answer, I just need to tell you that if we do this, there’s no going back. You need to know that. We’re going to buck the system in a big way and potentially make some very powerful enemies with connections and deep pockets. And they’ll come for us. Sooner or later, they’ll come.” She paused and turned toward me, concern etched into the lines of her face. She was afraid I was going to turn her down and walk away. “Now, what were you going to say?”

“I want to know, why me? This is my life you’re asking me to put on the line,” I said, “and I don’t want to be manipulated into being someone’s fall guy. You could’ve picked anyone, but you came to me with this. So I want to know why.”

She stole another glance at me, teeth working at her bottom lip. She sighed. “Because I trust you, Jack. And because I like you. And because you’re the kind of guy who plays a Cleric instead of a glory-seeking warrior or a flashy mage.”

“Wait. What?” I asked, lips screwing up. “You picked me because I usually play a Cleric? I don’t understand, not even a little.”

“Clerics aren’t about glitz, glamor, flash, or glory. They’re a support class. They end up in the background, and they worry about the success of the team instead of their personal achievement. I thought about reaching out to some of the other guys from the Crimson Alliance”—our gaming group—“but in my gut, I wasn’t sure I could really trust any of them with something this big. At least, not in the beginning. But you’re a good guy, Jack, one who’s always wanted to make a difference. That’s why I worked my magic to ensure you got a capsule well before the news about the asteroid hit. Because I wanted you on my team even then.” She turned on me, pinning me in place with an unwavering gaze. “So, what do you say?”

I looked away, regarding the mountains cutting across the horizon in the distance. “Alright,” I said with a nod, “I’m in.”

SEVENTEEN: Into the Hole

We crept along a musty, downward-sloping passageway, the stone slabs worn smooth from age, the ground damp and soft from accumulated water. Abby’s NPC pal, Otto, took the lead—only natural since he was a hard-hitting melee fighter and a born tank. I padded along in the middle of the column, warhammer out and ready as a backup line of defense, while Abby trailed behind. She was a sorceress, already creeping up toward level thirty, and kitted out as a Firebrand—a type of flame-centered spellcaster—with some cool offensive and team-buff skills.

But, she was also a total glass cannon: one good hit from an enemy was liable to wipe her out completely.

Cutter wasn’t anywhere to be seen. He was scouting ahead, ghosting through the shadows, using his abilities to disarm any potential traps well before we got there, while also keeping an eye out for potential opposition.

The hallway, which dove solidly for thirty or forty feet, eventually leveled out and opened into a wide room with a vaulted ceiling, which might’ve been a grand entry hall at some point in the far distant past. The place was all stone walls, massive earthen columns, and partially dilapidated statues marching along either side of the room. For all its former glory, though, time had really done a number here. Moss clung to most surfaces, creeping tree roots dangled from the ceiling in spots, and piles of rubble and debris littered the floor.

Despite the decrepitude, however, I could tell the place was currently inhabited.

Weak firelight, obscured by a hulking column in the center of the room, illuminated the far end of the chamber. A second later, Cutter stepped from a pocket of shadow, urging us all to silence with a finger raised across his lips. “Unfriendlies, up ahead,” he whispered as everyone pulled in close to hear him. “I disarmed several very nasty traps on the way in—spring-loaded spikes, a plate-triggered flame wall, a ceiling mounted buzz saw big as a horse. Someone definitely does not want visitors.”

“What about the unfriendlies?” I asked, still searching the room for any signs of movement.

“Tough. Not your typical brainless cave dwellers. These are real guards. Mercs. They’re sitting around the fire gabbing and eating, but they look dangerous.” He knelt down and began to trace a rough map into the dirt with a finger. “There’s a trio of plate-armored warriors, nearest to us”—he made three quick Xs in a rough semicircle—“a Ranger with a mean looking bow, on the left.” A hasty circle marked the Ranger’s position. “Plus two spellcasters, one might be a priest or a Warlock of some kind, here and here.” Two triangles, tucked away behind the Xs, entered the fray. He paused, turning his eyes on Abby. “What’s the plan, flame-lady?”

Otto turned, sharing a brief look with Abby, then nodded even though no words were spoken. “We’re going to play this one straight and simple. You and you”—he pointed to me and Cutter—“will Stealth out. Thief, you target the sorcerer. Grim Jack, you take the Ranger. I’ll give you both a fifteen count to get into position, then I’ll blunder out and draw their focus. Once the fighting begins, Abby will lay down wholesale suppressive firepower. Straight, simple, easy.” His speech was delivered coolly, practically, like a well-seasoned field general with a thousand engagements under his belt. “Well, don’t just stand there, move,” he barked.

Otto’s sheer confidence was more than enough to convince me, so I nodded and dropped into Stealth mode.

Cutter broke right and vanished, while I went left, slipping from broken statue to statue, maneuvering ever closer to the other end of the chamber. It didn’t take me long before I spotted the hostile party for the first time: Cutter hadn’t been joking, these guys looked tough as old boot leather. Two of the three melee fighters were hulking, muscle-laden Risi warriors in heavy plates that gleamed like polished onyx. The third, similarly attired, was a stocky female Dwarf with a blunt-faced mace at her side. A Templar or a Paladin of some kind, if I had to guess.

The sorcerer was garbed in fine battle robes of heavy blue silk. Flares of fanciful silver scrollwork ran over the outfit in elaborate swirls. The priest, a Dawn Elf, wore plain brown robes, but the heavily worked staff he carried suggested he wasn’t a lightweight either. Last was the archer, decked out in muted black leather armor; she was the only one not crowded around the fire. Instead, the vigilant huntress leaned against the far wall, a pair of large brown wings folded up behind her, her hawkish eyes roving ceaselessly over the terrain.

I gulped. She was my mark.

Truthfully, the thought of merking these guys made me salivate—I bet they had some phenomenal loot. Only part of me felt that way, though. The other part of me felt terrified, because even a casual glance at the party told me they were way out of our league.

I fidgeted with my warhammer, adjusting and readjusting my grip as I stalked my victim, carefully placing every foot, checking every step so I wouldn’t alert anyone prematurely. If Cutter and I lost the element of surprise and the backstab bonus that came with it, we didn’t have any shot at all. At one point, just a few feet away from the archer, I put a foot down on a piece of stone which made a barely audible clack. I froze, because as soft as the sound had been, the Ranger’s eyes locked on my position like an owl spotting a field mouse.

For a long, tense beat I stood there, unmoving, unbreathing, sweat rolling down my face and slicking my palms.

Then her gaze softened and shifted as a noise came from the front of the cave—the clomp of heavy footfalls on damp earth. Otto. Thank god.

The group of NPCs mobilized in a heartbeat, standing from their spots around the fire and moving almost as one toward the center of the chamber. The winged Ranger glided past me, her eerie yellow eyes fixed dead ahead, the tip of one wing almost close enough to graze me. I wheeled about, bringing up my hammer, preparing for my strike, but stopped just shy as Otto came into view.

Curiously, the hostile NPCs didn’t attack. Rather, the priest in the burlap-looking robes shouldered his way to the front of the party, his head canted to the side, his face screwed up in a picture of puzzlement. “Who are you?” he asked at last, his voice a resonant baritone. “How did you get here? You don’t have the seal of Lord Carrera, yet here you are in an area reserved for him. Explain yourselves or perish.”

I held my hammer in upraised hands, trembling with indecision. What’s going on here? What should I do? Strike or hold?

Abby stepped forward from the entryway tunnel, her heavy cowl obscuring her face completely. “We are servants of Lord Carrera, the owner of this reserved area,” she replied smoothly, confidently. I knew Abby well enough to hear the bluff in her voice, but it was still a convincing performance. “I wasn’t told to expect your party,” she continued, hands carefully smoothing out her robes, “so can you please explain what you are doing here? What is the role and function of your group?”

“We’re the mercenaries,” the priest replied, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Mercenaries hired to lead Lord Aleixo Carrera through this dungeon, to help him and his party power-level and claim the treasure at the dungeon’s end. That is the nature of our contract. If you are Lord Carrera’s servants, why aren’t you aware of these details?” On some unspoken cue, the mercenary warriors pulled free their weapons, the rasp of steel on leather hanging in the air. “Unless, of course, you are schemers and connivers.” The words oozed scorn like venom. “Give me the pass code. Now.”

The priest’s tone said no nonsense or further delays would be tolerated.

Abby hesitated for a second longer, her body tight with indecision. Otto solved the problem for everyone by charging forward with a bellowing roar, his meaty sword flying from its sheath as he moved. The Ranger drew an ebony recurve bow and sighted in—

It was now or never, I knew. So I leapt, bringing my warhammer down before she could unleash a volley of arrows at Otto and Abby.

EIGHTEEN: Firestorm

I drove the nasty spike of my weapon into the Ranger’s back, aiming for one of her feathered shoulder joints. And I triggered my Savage Blow skill as I did it, increasing both my critical hit chance while adding a whopping 25% increased damage to the attack. Her bowstring snapped as she unleashed an arrow, but the shot went wide as she fell under my hammer, shrieking from the pain of my surprise attack. The spike punctured feather, skin, and muscle with ease, and the sheer force of the strike snapped the base of her wing bone with a sharp report that almost sounded like gunfire.

Her HP bar dropped below 50%—a critical hit combined with the added damage of a Stealth attack and my special blunt weapon move. A brutal combination.

I yanked my weapon free as she wheeled toward me, slinging her bow in one practiced movement, then drawing a wickedly sharp knife. She lunged at me with an enraged shriek, lashing out with a lightning quick thrust. I dropped back, raising my dinky wooden shield in a sloppy attempt to block, which I knew from the get-go wasn’t going to do me a lick of good. And I was right. She was far too quick, shifting her weight as she moved, sidestepping right, then hooking the blade past my guard. The razor slid into my gut as though I were wearing a silk nightshirt instead of leather armor.

I staggered under the terrible blow, the pain a hot poker wriggling inside me, making it hard to think. I sputtered, red burbling from between my lips and dribbling down my chin. She pulled the knife free with a grunt, my blood gleaming along the edge, and jabbed upward with a merciless heave, the tip aimed at my neck. With a desperate jerk, I batted away the incoming blade with the shaft of my hammer, diverting the potentially deadly thrust. She didn’t seem to mind, though; she simply spun, catching me in the jaw with an elbow, before dropping low and slashing her blade across my exposed thigh.

Totally outclassed.

I went down like a sack of concrete, my bleeding leg refusing to support my weight, while my health bar flashed like an angry strobe light. With gritted teeth I pushed away from her, using my elbows to scramble back, to gain some extra distance. She moved forward with a feral sneer, her blade upraised—a mountain lion, preparing to maul some weak, injured deer. I fought to bring up my buckler, knowing it wouldn’t do any good against an opponent like this, but doing it anyway. I wasn’t going down without a fight. I flinched as she lunged, steeling myself for the agony of a killing blow—

A wall of super-hot air thumped into me like a giant unseen hand as an explosion ripped through the chamber. A deafening boom, which sent rocks scattering as great gouts of fire snaked and twisted around me.

The sheer force of the detonation slammed me back, my head slapping up against a piece of rough stone. With all that said, the brilliant wave of flame didn’t actually do any damage to my HP meter, which meant Abby had to be the caster. When I finally mustered the strength to lift my head, the Ranger was no longer looming over me. Instead, she was rolling on the ground a few feet away, trying desperately to extinguish the hungry red flames crawling over her body, chewing mercilessly at her skin and hair. Her feathered wings were completely gone, now, replaced by blackened nubs jutting from her shoulder blades.

It was an awful scene to witness, game or not. The medic in me demanded I check her breathing, get some pressure dressings on those horrendous shoulder wounds, and slap some WaterJel on the burns for pain relief. Every instinct in my body said that’s what I needed to do. Instead, I accessed my inventory, drained a health potion, then hastily gained my feet as the elixir went to work, knitting my torn flesh back together.

Mustering as much speed as I could, I padded over to the dying bird-woman and brought my hammer down on her throat with a sickening thud.

For a long moment I just stood there, staring down at the body, staring at the woman’s crushed trachea, fighting the terrible urge to vomit onto the floor. This was the first human I’d killed since entering V.G.O., and it was awful. Why would someone design a game like this? A game that’d force office workers, schoolteachers, and retail clerks into situations where they’d be forced to murder people in gory detail?

Another brilliant lance of flame streaked across my vision, jarring me from my own thoughts.

On instinct, I pulled my hammer away and took a quick survey of the room: the spellcaster was already dead by Cutter’s hand, and one of the melee warriors was down as well, his head nearly cleaved off by Otto’s vicious sword blade. That left the priest and two other fighters. Abby was going to town with her magic—slinging powerful and flashy spells at the enemy swordsman—while Otto and Cutter fought the beefy Templar woman head-on. Otto drew aggro as Cutter danced around her in a whirl of steel, his blades flashing out in streaks of silver, drawing blood with every swipe.

That left the priest, who was currently in the back, chanting some sort of divine spell.

A chanting priest was too dangerous to ignore.

I tried to slip back into Stealth, but failed. My stamina was too badly depleted from my scuffle with the Ranger.

So instead, I broke into a sprint—low-grade panic spurring me on—ducking past the brawlers before throwing myself at the priest. I sailed through the air like a cruise missile and hit him around the waist, driving a shoulder into his gut. We both went to the ground in a tangle of limbs. He landed with a muffled curse, dust mushrooming up around him in a puff, while I ended up on top of him. A relieved smile broke across my face—I’d managed to interrupt his spell, even if my tactic hadn’t been elegant or graceful.

The priest awkwardly flailed at me with his staff, but without distance and leverage, the attacks were merely a nuisance instead of actually being harmful. Unfortunately, the same thing applied to me. Straddling the guy didn’t offer me much opportunity to use my hammer. I let the weapon clatter to the floor and promptly laid into him with my fists, working over his face and torso until he finally stopped struggling. Not dead—his health bar still had over 25%—but stunned. Even after he stopped resisting, though, I kept hitting until someone finally dragged me off the bloody priest.

“You’re good, Grim Jack,” Cutter murmured, his arms wrapped around my chest, restraining me.

“But he’s still breathing,” I snarled, straining toward my hammer, ready to kill the priest. To finish him for good.

“We know,” Abby said, strutting over and kneeling next to the downed man. “And that’s a good thing. Hard to get a dead prisoner to talk, and I’ve got a feeling this guy has a few more things to tell us before his usefulness is exhausted.” She ran her hands over the priest’s downed form, palms a few inches above his body, while she chanted in some archaic language. Tendrils of fire, most as thin as my pinky, spread over him, wrapping him in a tight, brilliant cocoon of flame. Suddenly he lurched upright, lifted from the ground by Abby’s magic, though he was still unresponsive.

“Flame of Holding,” she said, glancing at me over one shoulder. “This’ll keep him immobile while we question him.” Next, she stood and pulled a red vial from her bag, identical to the one I’d chugged a few moments before. She regarded the glass bottle, before uncorking it and dumping the liquid into the priest’s slack mouth. After a long moment, the Dawn Elf sputtered and coughed, his body shuddering and shivering as he opened swollen eyes.

“Good work, Jack,” she said, patting me reassuringly on the forearm. “Now we don’t have much time—Aleixo Carrera and his thugs could show up any moment—so Otto and I are going to interrogate our friend here. See if we can’t get a heads-up about what we’re going into. In the meantime, you and Cutter loot these bodies. Sound like a plan? Oh, and you can keep whatever you find.”

She didn’t even wait for me to respond. Instead she offered me a dimple-cheeked smile and dragged the priest off with Otto’s help.

Cutter finally let me go, offered me a hearty slap on the back, then swaggered over to the body of the mage he’d killed and began searching the bloody corpse. Happy as a kid on Christmas morning. I shuffled from foot to foot as I eyed the brutalized and smoldering Ranger. The last thing I wanted to do was go and pick over her charred and battered body, but loot was loot. Still, it felt dirty. Wrong. But, loot was the goal of these kinds of games, I reminded myself. Cheap loot meant money in the bank. And good loot meant life. Good loot meant power. Influence. Status.

Good loot reduced the chance of being killed or feeling the pain of this place.

With a sigh, I headed over, squatted down, then began checking her person.

Thankfully, like with the Corrupt Valdgeist, I didn’t actually have to search her pockets or rip the armor from her body. An inventory menu popped up in front of me, displaying my spoils. I whistled. Very impressive. The boots were standard leather, though of “superior” quality, which meant they were a heck of a lot better than what I was currently sporting. I slipped them on without a qualm, then turned my sights on her armor, which was truly a cut above:

Night Blessed Armor.

Dark black leather covered in swatches of ebony ring mail in the most vulnerable places—like along the shoulders, across the stomach, and down the spinal column. It was medium armor, instead of the light armor I’d used up to this point, which offered better defense, though slightly reduced speed, movement, and evade bonuses.

<<<>>>

Night Blessed Armor

Armor Type: Medium; Modified Leather

Class: Rare

Base Defense: 62

Primary Effects:

- +5 to Constitution
- +15% Resistance to Piercing Damage
- +15% Resistance to Slashing Damage

- +10% Resistance to all Elemental and Arcane-Based Damage

<<<>>>

I threw the armor on and instantly felt stronger, more resilient, less tired. Lastly, I snatched up a beautiful recurve bow with a +10 Dexterity boost and a 10% increased chance to evade, worth a staggering 150 gold, and also pocketed a small bag of silver coins.

I moved on to the next body, one of the warriors Otto had killed, and began the process all over again. This time rummaging through the belongings of a butchered NPC didn’t bother me quite so much, which was a little troubling in itself.

In the end, I walked away with another 225 in gold, a Ring of Slaying—+5 to Strength—and Heavy Firesteel Gauntlets, worth another cool 75 gold. I hadn’t been to a proper store yet, but I imagined these kinds of weapons and armor weren’t the types of gear lowbies were supposed to get. I wasn’t sure what else awaited us inside this dungeon, but if these were the door prizes, it had to be something epically awesome.

NINETEEN: The Long Road Down

We moved from the entry chamber into a circular stairway that drilled into the earth. The steps were slick stone; vines and strands of moss hung down from ancient archways, constantly brushing up against me as I moved. Once more, Cutter was gone—scouting—and Otto was out in front, treading carefully, searching for anything our resident Thief might’ve missed. This time, though, we had a new member to our party: the burlap-robe wearing prisoner, who turned out to be a mercenary Warlock, not a priest.

That’d be the same burlap-robe wearing Warlock I’d almost bludgeoned to death. He was still bound by the Flame of Holding, and he floated along between Abby and me—carried by a simple levitation spell.

So far, we’d made our way through passageway after passageway, always winding deeper into the heart of these old ruins. We’d run across tons of deadly rigged traps in just about every variety and flavor, but so far Cutter had proven to be as good a thief as he kept claiming. And he claimed to be the absolute best in Eldgard often and loudly. We’d also tangled with a near-endless horde of Corrupt Valdgeist, though no more NPCs, which I was silently grateful for. Surprisingly, the Corrupt Valdgeist were pushovers one and all.

Superficially, the creatures looked identical to the beasts I’d tangled with in the forest beyond the ruins, but that’s where the similarities ended.

These things moped about aimlessly, only attacking when you were in spitting distance, and even then a strong breeze would knock them over. Pitiful, really. The strangest thing of all, however, was the amount of EXP each one had: easily 8,000 apiece, which was larger than some low-level bosses. Yes, we had to split the EXP between four, but that was still 2,000 points per head, and we must’ve killed sixty or seventy of the things. Since we were in an almost constant state of combat, I didn’t take the time to pull up my character stats or check my skill notifications, but I was sure once I finally had some time to look them over, I was going to be as pleased as a cat with a ball of yarn.

The Corrupt Valdgeist didn’t drop much by way of gear, just like their counterparts topside, but they practically exploded with gold. Each kill netted us 50 gold—50 gold each. Most also carried a potion or two, which were certainly a nice bonus.

“So this is some kind of quick and easy grind for the uber rich, huh,” I mused out loud after collecting my share from yet another group of shambling mobs. At this point, I wasn’t really worried about making noise since the resistance here was basically nonexistent.

“Yeah,” Abby said from behind me, a slight note of scorn in her voice. “Doesn’t seem fair, does it? Everyone has to start off fresh in a new world, but guys like Carrera still find a way to game the system in their favor. It’s incredible.” She shook her head. “Really pisses me off, you know?”

“But you’re benefiting,” our hostage Warlock replied, “and you don’t seem to be complaining.” Other than the terse answers he’d provided during the interrogation, he’d been silent up until now. “If you were really so noble,” he said, “you’d leave this place untouched. Just turn around and walk away. The fact that you’re continuing onward suggests you don’t mind the benefit so long as it’s directed at you.” He sounded smug all the way down to his toes. The worst part was, he was sort of right. I shared an uneasy look with Abby.

Are we really doing the right thing here?

“It’s different with us,” she replied, a bit unconvincingly. “We’re doing what we need to in order to make it in Eldgard, and we’re going to help other people. To benefit the people who couldn’t afford to pay to cheat their way to the upper echelons in this new society.”

“Ahh,” the mercenary said with a slick grin, “so you’re an ends-justify-the-means kind of lady.”

“No. You’re twisting my words and skewing the situation out of context,” she protested. “All I’m saying is this stuff is here, and that means someone is going to get it—and I’m just saying it’s definitely better for people like us to get it than some cocaine-financed dictator.”

“Yeah,” I said, nodding in agreement, working to convince myself. “Besides, what’s it to you anyway?” I asked the merc, my brow furrowed in annoyance. “You’re a mercenary who works for the highest bidder—I don’t think you’re in a position to judge us on issues of ethics.”

“No judgement,” he replied with a tight shrug, made awkward by the bands of fire encircling him. “You’re right, I’m a mercenary. Personally, I think your logic is flawless, but then I regularly do questionable things for money. I only bring it up because I think there might be an opportunity for us to work together in the very near future, supposing you all can get past your veneer of self-righteous hypocrisy.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“You’ll see soon enough,” he replied, once more overflowing with smugness.

Abby gave him a hard look, her lips puckered into a tight line, and suddenly the priest had a gag of flickering fire in his mouth. It didn’t seem to hurt him, but it certainly prevented him from speaking further. “That’s enough out of you,” she mumbled, gaze downcast. She looked guilty. Maybe the mercenary’s accusations had gotten under her skin.

They’d certainly gotten under mine.

After a time, the hallway morphed into a natural underground cavern with jagged walls and a small burbling stream, studded with large boulders, that zigzagged its way through soft black earth. Bioluminescent moss clung to the ceiling overhead, shedding a pale green light that reminded me of a toxic waste spill. We walked on in silence for a bit longer, following the stream.

“I wonder why they didn’t give the mobs here even more EXP?” I asked idly, just trying to break the thoughtful quiet. “Not that eight thousand a pop is bad,” I said, “but if cheap leveling is the name of the game, it seems like the Devs should’ve just dumped a bunch of Corrupt Valdgeist with like, I dunno, a hundred thousand points apiece or something crazy like that.”

“I’m sure they would if they could,” Abby replied, the sound carrying over the muted clomping of our feet and the burble of the water. “Trust me on that. But the Devs only have so much control. Early on maybe they could’ve done something like that, but not now. Now, the Overminds are the real power in V.G.O., and once they were up and running, we could only tweak relatively insignificant things. Really, the Overminds do all the heavy lifting—they generate content, creatures, quests, everything—they’re basically in-game gods.

“Each Overmind has an underpinning of base directives that govern their ‘character’—keeps them from going completely rogue, but it’s like holding a lion in check with a leash made of bacon.” She paused and fidgeted with her robes, smoothing out fabric that didn’t need it. “Anyway, one of those essential directives is to prevent hackers and game modders from tinkering around in unsanctioned ways. Cheating the game, specifically. And this”—she swept a hand around the cavern—“almost qualifies.”

The cavern ended at a small cliff, the water from the stream cascading over the side and disappearing into a cavernous black pit without end. There was, however, a rocky slope that led to a dirt path running along the base of the cliff. Otto surveyed it for a moment, but since there was no sign of Cutter or any enemies, he quickly began picking his way down the rocky slope and to the path below.

“So to get around the rules and the Overmind screening protocols,” Abby continued as she followed Otto down, “I think the Devs probably created these restricted areas with a carefully balanced ratio of EXP, loot drops, and mob difficulty. I’ll bet a thousand gold the algorithm they came up with skirts just below what the Overminds will flag as unsanctioned modding. It’s still cheating, obviously, but it’s really smart cheating. The kind of cheating only insiders could come up with.”

After a little maneuvering, we made it to the bottom of the treacherous slope, passed behind the cascading waterfall, and started trekking along the path, which led into another natural cavern. One littered with torches, burning merrily on the walls. “We’ve got something strange up here,” Cutter called, his voice echoing and bouncing from ahead, oddly distorted by the stone walls. We all picked up the pace a bit, following a natural bend in the cavern, only to stop suddenly in our tracks. Cutter was dead ahead, squat down on his haunches, one hand rubbing at his chin while he regarded a colossal set of double doors at the end of the earthen chamber.

They were huge wooden things, studded with bronze fastenings and carved with complex runic symbols. I’d played enough MMOs to know we’d finally arrived at the boss’s lair. No doubt in my mind.

“Can you ungag him?” I said, hooking a thumb toward the Warlock.

Abby nodded and complied.

“I’ve got a question for you—what were you and your team doing here?” I asked, sudden worry tugging at my mind. “Anybody could work their way through this dungeon without the help of a mercenary team,” I said, “so why were you put here?”

The Warlock smiled, a malicious glint in his eye. “We were specifically contracted to help with the thing beyond that door. Before this mission, my team and I were briefed about this dungeon. And your friend is right, this is a very special place. Drastically underpowered mobs scattered throughout—easy kills for weak players, granting significant EXP—but the tradeoff is a dangerously overpowered Guardian. One so powerful it raised the difficulty level of the dungeon as a whole.” He paused and offered a sly sneer.

“And I happen to know that without me, you don’t stand a chance of getting into that room”—he nodded toward the door—“and even if you do somehow manage to find a way in, you’ll never get out alive. But, as I mentioned earlier, I might be willing to help, assuming of course you can find it in your hearts to work with someone like me. And assuming you’re willing to pay my price …”

TWENTY: Boss Battle

“Everyone ready?” the mercenary Warlock called out.

I took a deep, calming breath and stole one last final look around me. Cutter was invisible, as was I—both of us cloaked in Stealth. Abby was at my back, Otto my front, with a slew of conjured creatures flanking him on either side: a few walking skeletons with worn swords and basic long bows; a spattering of earth and flame elementals; plus, one very angry-looking demonic lord with blackened, heavy-plate armor and glowing red eyes. Minions, summoned by our Warlock friend, and future cannon fodder for whatever boss lurked in the next room.

“We are as ready as we will ever be, mercenary,” Otto replied tersely. “One thing though,” he added, turning and glowering at our former prisoner. “If you betray us as you betrayed your former master, I will find you. And I will end you. One way or another, I will end you.”

“Keep me well supplied with gold,” the mercenary Warlock said, “and we won’t find ourselves at cross purposes.” He paused, offering the Risi warrior a tight, feral smile. “Now, shall we?” He swept one arm out, muttering some strange spell, a ball of glowing blue light forming around his hand.

The massive door—which boasted a complex and unpickable lock—swung open on silent hinges. The Warlock hadn’t exaggerated in his claims; we literally couldn’t have gotten into the boss’s chamber without his help. Apparently, the Devs for this area had fitted the dungeon’s door with one final safeguard, ensuring that only the right person got through. And that safeguard was a custom key, soulbound to the mercenary leader. It was a stroke of blind luck that I hadn’t killed him, or I would’ve doomed this operation before it ever got off the ground.

We were luckier still, because it turned out the Warlock was willing to sell his loyalty, along with the key, for gold. A bunch of gold. A small mountain of gold. But that was one thing we weren’t in short supply of thanks to the easily dispatched Corrupt Valdgeist.

The doors finished opening with a resounding boom, which echoed around us like a warning siren. Otto bowed his head and muttered a quick prayer before heading in, accompanied by the Warlock’s conjured minions. As soon as they were through the grand entryway, I forged ahead, skirting around a flame elemental and a skeleton, stealing up the left, positioning myself so I could sneak attack when the moment was right. The door let out into another natural cavern—this one dotted with ancient stalactites and stalagmites so large they were nearly columns—which quickly gave way to the ruins of some sort of temple:

A massive circular chamber of roughhewn stone blocks liberally carved with runic symbols and horrifying pictographs, most of them involving human torture and dismemberment in one form or fashion. Bones, yellowed with age, littered the floor like trash on a highway. Weak sunlight streamed in from a jagged opening in the ceiling that revealed a glimmer of blue sky. Below, in the center of the temple ruins, illuminated by a single shaft of sunlight, lurked a twisted tree. A bent, bone-white thing like an arthritic finger, its stunted branches devoid of leaves or life of any kind.

At the base of the tree, surrounded by knobby roots, sat a heavy wooden chest heavily tooled with gold and bronze script.

Whatever was in the box was the real reward we’d come for, but the question was, where was the chest’s guardian? Where was the uber boss?

I moved further into the room, creeping slowly, continually scanning the space, looking for some telltale sign of our opponent. The room didn’t have any nooks or crannies a hulking super-guardian could secret away in. As I crept closer, I caught sight of a crude stairway at the back of the temple proper, jutting from the stone, winding its way up to a partially hidden tunnel high in the temple wall. The stairs were partially outlined in purple, meaning my Keen-Sight skill had kicked in.

I was pretty sure that passageway would, almost impossibly, connect back to the beginning of this dungeon. That, or let out directly into the wider world of Eldgard. The game Devs for this kind of RPG knew how tedious it was to backtrack all the way through an already completed dungeon, so they often built in a secret exit for player convenience.

I caught a brief flash of movement over by the right wall—Cutter, positioning himself just to the side of a toppled column. Still, though, I saw nothing else. So I crept closer and closer, moving toward the stairs. By now, Otto and the minion squad were almost to the treasure chest, their movements marked by nervous anxiety.

“Where’s the boss?” Otto demanded, glancing over one shoulder at the Warlock. “I told you betrayal would be met with swift violence, sellsword.”

The Warlock shrugged. “Just because I was hired for this quest doesn’t mean I know what we’re up against here. Not the specifics, anyway.”

“The chest, Otto,” Abby called. “Open the chest and I’ll bet we flush this thing out.”

The Risi warrior offered a grunt and a curt nod, turning back toward the tree. “Everyone take your positions,” he ordered.

Cutter and I were already in place, but the minions reacted as one, spreading out in a loose arc. The bow-wielding skeletons moved back a few paces so they’d be able to sink in a volley of arrows. The flame elementals, also ranged attackers, took up positions near the left and right walls, giving them a clear line of fire for whatever might appear. The conjured demon and the earth elementals—hulking things of stone and mud with gleaming obsidian spikes protruding from their backs, shoulders, and arms—made a tight circle around the tree.

They were the frontline defense.

Otto surveyed the scene with a practiced eye, grunted his approval, and edged past the demon and the earth-hulks. He knelt in front of the chest, rubbed his hands together, then extended one trembling limb toward the box. The second his thick fingers touched the clasp, the room exploded with movement: the ground trembled, the walls rattled, small baseball-sized stones clattered down from above, while that bone-white tree began to sway and surge upward in herky-jerk lurches.

Earth and dirt fell away in a shower as a massive something pulled its way from the ground of the temple.

The stunted tree rose into the air, directly attached to a bulbous, misshapen head covered in maggot-white flesh, which was larger than a gas-guzzling SUV. The creature, a Greater Corrupt Valdgeist, sported a single bulging eye, milky and dead, situated above a monstrous maw riddled with jagged fangs. Its misshapen head sat perched atop a host of octopus-like tree root limbs covered in thorns the size of meat hooks, while more fat tentacles whipped and writhed in the air, sprouting from every free patch of skin.

Whatever Dev had designed this thing deserved both an award for horrific creativity and also a year-long voucher for psychiatric treatment.

Everyone stared for a tense moment, held captive in fascinated horror. That uneasy truce ended abruptly as the creature spread its massive jaws and issued a defiant roar, which rocked Otto back on his heels and sent a tremor running through the floor and up into my teeth. Then the creature surged forward, lashing out with a massive limb, smashing Otto in his breastplate. The Risi warrior let out a rumble of pain as he popped up into the air, cartwheeling head over heels before finally landing in a heap ten feet away.

“Attack,” Abby screamed, a thread of fear weaving through the words.

The Warlock’s minions responded to the command.

In an instant, everything was pure chaos—all manic motion and whipping tentacles, intermixed with the ring of steel on stone and the blaze of magical power. The Warlock’s hard-hitting melee minions threw themselves at the creature: skeletons unleashed a hail of arrows, flame elementals hurled fire balls, earth elementals charged the thing with spiked fists upraised, while the demon laid into the freakish beast with its massive two-handed sword. The fury of the Warlock’s summoned help was truly impressive, but the Greater Corrupt Valdgeist seemed to shrug off most of their attacks without sustaining much damage.

A tornado of flame engulfed Abby, swirling around her as she chanted, arms upraised. A vortex of red, orange, and blue light radiated waves of heat as she blasted out continuous balls of flame, which lit up the room like a shower of falling stars. I just stood there, unsure what to do, how to act. Despite my increasing proficiency with the warhammer, I wasn’t a brawler—one hit from those tentacles would likely put me out of the game. The only thing I really had going for me was my Stealth attack bonus, and pragmatically that was a one-off ability, so I needed to deploy it wisely.

Still invisible, I hustled left, behind a fire elemental, then scurried up the winding stairs at the rear of the temple.

Otto was back in the fight, hurling himself into the fray, a whirling tornado of steel, his sword flashing out faster than my eye could follow, shearing through a forest of the smaller tentacles with a lazy ease. The Warlock also began launching a direct assault, planting his feet shoulder width apart and machine-gunning his arms like a boxer working a heavy bag, bolts of angry-green light flying from his palms. The tentacle beast staggered from the blasts, but fought on, finally turning the earth elementals into rubble piles.

I was halfway up the staircase—a solid ten feet above the hulking monstrosity—when I caught sight of Cutter sailing through the air, materializing as he slammed into the side of the Greater Corrupt Valdgeist’s head, plunging his blade into the beast’s single eye. A gout of sickly green gore spewed from the puncture wound like projectile vomit, showering down onto Otto and the summoned demon. Cutter’s Stealth attack achieved a critical hit and nearly halved the boss’s health points, dropping him below 60%, but the Thief wasn’t done yet.

As he dangled from the creature’s eye, he pulled a second dagger free and slammed it in next to the first, a snarl on his face.

The boss reared back, shrieking in pain and defiance, violently shaking its head, flinging Cutter away like a dog shedding water. The Thief tumbled through the air, slamming up against a toppled column with a terrible crack. He wasn’t on the ground for more than a heartbeat before a host of wriggling white roots erupted from the floor, ensnaring the combatants below. The creature bellowed again, but this time, the bone-shaking noise was accompanied by a creeping green cloud. An area effect spell. A combat notification popped up in the corner of my eye:

<<<>>>

Debuffs Added

Rooted: Your party has been rooted and is unable to move; duration, 1 minute.

Toxic Cloud: Your party is poisoned: 10 points of stamina damage/10 secs; 20 points health damage/10 secs; duration, 2 minutes.

Death Cloud: Instantly kill all summoned creatures.

<<<>>>

My jaw fell open in shock. Yep, we were dead. So, so dead.

The Warlock’s remaining creatures keeled over, dropping to the ground, each dissolving into a pile of harmless dust. The rest of my teammates were on the floor downing potions to fight off the Toxic Cloud’s effects, battling to stay alive. I, however, wasn’t affected. My elevation above the fight kept me clear of the deathly green fog and the ensnaring tree roots. That was a huge break, but it also meant this fight was now firmly on my shoulders—if I didn’t do something, my party was toast.

But what could I do against a thing like that? If I headed down into the thick of things, I’d likely be poisoned, rooted, and killed. And, since I couldn’t access my Umbra Bolt skill, I didn’t have any kind of range attack to employ.

I wrestled with what to do for a beat longer, knowing every second I wasted could mean the difference between life and death for someone below. Then it occurred to me—there was one thing I could do. One reckless move that might pay dividends …

I threw myself from the edge of the stairs without a second thought, falling like a stone, slamming the spike of my hammer into the boss’s skull as I landed on top of its head with a wet thwack. I threw my whole body into the strike and unleashed my Savage Blow attack. That, combined with the added damage from the Stealth Attack, dropped the creature’s HP to 35%. Once more, the Greater Corrupt Valdgeist began shaking its head, whipping back and forth, trying to buck me to the floor where it could crush me underfoot.

Try as I might, I couldn’t keep my feet and before I knew it, I landed on my belly, clinging desperately to the warhammer still lodged into the creature’s skull, using it like a climbing pick. The beast bellowed again, bucking up, then slamming down, but I refused to let go. Refused to be shaken. To fall. To fail.

The chaotic bucking seemed to last forever, my body flopping like a rag doll, and just as I thought my grip was going to give out, the beast settled back down, returning his attention to my teammates as his “root” spell wore off. Otto and Cutter were still down and chugging potions, but Abby was somehow back on her feet, throwing fireball after fireball, shaving off points with every hit. With the creature’s focus once more elsewhere, I clumsily crawled to my knees and pried my weapon free with a jerk. Fetid gore, dark and viscous, oozed from the wound.

Then, while the creature swayed and fought, I started hammering at the withered tree trunk protruding from its skull. Pounding over and over again with the face of my hammer. Thud. Thud. Thud. Each blow, though clumsy and ungainly, knocked off a noticeable chunk of its hit points.

Finally, a weak spot.

All bosses had a weak spot, and usually it was in the most annoyingly difficult place to reach. Like a gnarled tree on top of the boss’s head. I sunk my hammer home one more time, twisting my torso, throwing all my weight into the blow—a crack reverberated in the air as the trunk shattered and tumbled. The creature bucked below me one last time as its HP bar hit zero, before pitching forward like a felled tree.

Unfortunately, despite my victory, there was no graceful way off the boss’s back.

The fall flung me into the air, my arms flailing as I flew, the ground rushing toward me at an incredible rate.

“Don’t worry, friend,” Cutter called out, stepping into view, a devilish grin plastered all over his face. “I’ve got you.” He thrust out his arms as though to catch me, then, at the last moment, stepped aside. I face-planted into dusty earth, stars exploding in my eyes as a “stunned” debuff flared in front of me. Ouch, did that hurt. My head ached, my ribs were tender from top to bottom, and generally it felt like someone had pushed me down the side of a steep mountain.

I coughed, rolled over, and grimaced as Cutter offered me a hand. “What I meant,” Cutter said, “is let me help you up.”

“Thanks, jerk,” I muttered, reluctantly accepting his hand, letting him pull me to my feet.

He clapped me on the shoulder, grin widening. “You’ll be fine, Grim Jack. Besides, what do I look like, that meathead over there?” He motioned toward Otto, just now pulling himself from the dirt and rubble. “Me? I don’t catch falling damsels in distress,” he said, “I rob them and sell their jewelry to the highest bidder. On an unrelated note, good work with the boss.” He clapped me on the shoulder again. “You’re not as completely worthless and incompetent as you look, which is truly the highest praise I can give someone.”

“Wow, Jack!” Abby ran up to me and hit me with a fierce bear hug that hurt my already tender ribs. “That was incredible. Seriously. How did you ever think of that?”

“Lucky guess?” I offered, carefully prying her arms off my torso.

“Well”—she beamed at me like a ray of sunshine—“I don’t care how you did it, that was a brilliant move. Seriously epic.” She leaned in and pecked me on the cheek. “I knew I picked the right guy for this. Now, let’s go see what’s worth twenty million dollars.”

Our party—bruised, battered, but alive—headed over to explore the vanquished boss. I was dismayed to find he didn’t have anything on him except a tarnished gold key, which I assumed went with the chest. I was sure whatever was in the chest was totally worth all this trouble, but I still felt a little disappointed; bosses were supposed to drop the best loot. That’s just the way it worked. Anything else was an abject failure in the system.

Abby held the key in trembling fingers, her eyes fixed on the piece of metal like it was the Holy Grail of gaming. After a moment, though, she sighed and turned toward me, extending the slip of gold. “Why don’t you do the honors,” she said with a sad smile.

“You sure?” I asked.

She paused, twitched her nose, then nodded halfheartedly. “I think it’s for the best. Besides, you deserve first crack at the goodies—you did save the day this time around.”

I shook my head, finally clearing the “stunned” debuff from my fall, then accepted the key and meandered over to the chest, excitement filling my belly. I brushed past Otto and dropped to a knee, sliding the key home, then gave the thing a jiggle and a tug. The lock dropped away and the chest creaked open, an inventory screen popping into view before my eyes as it did. I heard a chorus of whistles echo all around me—apparently, the whole group was seeing this same screen.

And they had good reason to celebrate. There was something for everyone, and it was all Ancient Artifact gear.

TWENTY-ONE: Faction Seal

The loot ended up being fairly easy to distribute, since most of the items were class-restricted. Staff of the Enchantress and the Ring of Insight for Abby. Blade of the Ancients and the Amulet of Bloodletting for Otto. Cloak of the Nightborn and the Ice Prick—a sleek deadly dagger that radiated unnatural cold—for Cutter. Even the Warlock got something: a legendary, scalable helm called Frightful Visage. My gear wasn’t class specific, a good thing since I currently lacked a class, but somehow the AI seemed to read me like a book and provided just what I needed.

First came my new and improved weapon, the Gavel of Shadows, a wicked looking warhammer of black forged steel with shadowy runes of violet power crawling up the haft of the weapon and twirling around its blunt face. A cruel hooked spike, serrated on one side for sawing, extended from the back, while a second, smaller spike jutted from the top of the weapon like a pointing finger. The thing seemed to radiate dark energy, to pull at the shadows around me and draw them in tight. To harness them.

And the stats were as impressive as its formidable appearance.

<<<>>>

Gavel of Shadows

Weapon Type: Blunt; Warhammer

Class: Ancient Artifact, Two-handed

Base Damage: 47

- 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

- 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)

<<<>>>

I also snagged the Ruby Ring of Foxfen, which offered me a 12% increased chance to receive a magical item drop, +8% critical hit chance, +10 to all primary attributes (minus Luck), and +1 to Luck. These prizes were a truly huge find, certainly the kind of thing only the highest-level players were likely to stumble upon, and then only after murdering a major level boss. Still, as great as all of the loot and easy EXP was, it hardly seemed like the kind of gear that’d run someone twenty million real world dollars. Which meant the EXP and loot had to be the frills.

Bonuses to sweeten the pot, but not the major ticket item.

The only other thing in the chest, though, was a worn gold talisman the size of an antique CD with the image of a noble-faced man in profile on one side and a huge tree on the other. The metal trinket was inscribed around the edge with the Latin phrase Imperatorius Factio Signum on the top and Domini est Terra on the bottom. The dual phrases appeared on both the front and back. Otto succinctly informed us the words meant Imperial Faction Seal and Lord of the Land; the only problem was no one knew what it was for. The NPCs had never heard of the thing, and Abby, an actual game Dev, had never seen the feature either.

A true mystery, only bolstered by the fact that the item came with exactly no description whatsoever. Despite that, it was clear the strange talisman was the real prize, since that was the only item no one could place.

The mood of the party was equal parts excited and subdued as we made our way up the stairs and through a long, boring stone passage, which dumped us back at the dungeon’s entry, via a “secret” door panel. Typical. We headed up topside, everyone letting out a collective sigh of relief as fading rays of warmth washed over us and a cool breeze lapped at exposed skin. We’d only been in the dungeon for a little over four hours, but it felt much longer. A short lifetime. Being out in the rolling expanse—with the sky stretching endlessly above and the mountains cutting across the horizon—I felt free. Safe.

“Well,” Abby said, shuffling over to me, eyes downcast, hands clasped in front of her. She glanced up at me, the ghost of a smile lingering on her lips. “I think it might be time for us to part ways for a bit.”

“Wait. What?” I asked, genuinely taken aback. “Why would we do that? We worked great together as a team. Jack and Abby all the way,” I said, with a smile and a fist pump. “We rocked it down there.”

“I know.” She nodded, before reaching up and tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “And this isn’t over. But right now, I think it’s best if we divide and conquer. Otto and I, we need to go see some people. Ask around about that weird disk we found. See if we can find out what its purpose is.” She rooted around in her bag for a moment before fishing out a curled scroll, bound shut with a loop of red silk. “A portal scroll to get you home,” she offered. “This’ll take you to your bind point, wherever that happens to be.”

I slowly accepted the proffered paper, then opened my inventory bag and removed the golden disk. I turned it over in my hand, studying both sides of the strange talisman before holding it out to her.

She grimaced and shook her head. “Better not,” she replied. “I think it’s safer with you for the time being. I stumbled on this info by snooping around in company records that, strictly speaking, I wasn’t supposed to have access to. By which I totally mean I hacked them. So, when Aleixo Carrera shows up here and finds this place empty, he’s going to start asking questions over at Osmark Technologies, and those questions will likely point to me. It’ll take a while before they find out about you, though.”

Her reasoning made perfect, logical sense, but there was something off about this whole thing. The way she stood, back slightly bent, hesitant to meet my eye. Abby was a tough woman—you had to be to make it as an IRL girl in a lot of gaming circles—and this didn’t seem like her at all. She seemed sad.

“I hear what you’re saying, Abby, and I believe you. I do. But there’s something you’re not telling me. Some piece of the puzzle you’re purposely leaving out.”

She paused, chewing at her lip, then nodded. “I’m coming up on my third day, Jack. Just a few hours away, now. That’s why I needed you here so quickly. Statistically, one in six die during the transition, which means in another five or six hours, I could be dead. Gone”—she snapped her fingers—“just like that.

“I don’t want to put you through that, Jack. I know it probably doesn’t make much sense, but if it’s my time to go, I want to be alone. So, I’m going to head back to Harrowick, get a good, hot meal, and go to sleep. If I wake up”—she shrugged narrow shoulders—“then I guess I survived and I’ll PM you. If not … well, know that I wish the absolute best for you.”

I wanted to hug her, to tell her not to worry, that things would be okay. They had to be okay. I couldn’t, though, because they might not be. She was right after all: one in six died. Statistically, there was a decent chance we would both be dead in another two days. So instead of offering her meaningless platitudes, I tucked the disk back into my inventory and asked her what I should do in the meantime.

“You need to get a little rest,” she replied, “and then you need to acquire a class, Jack. As is, if you weren’t reasonably smart and passably good-looking, you’d be entirely useless to the party. So, while I do the legwork and turn up leads about what that trinket does, you find out what kind of character you’re going to be and start maximizing your stats. I have a feeling things will get really intense around here before long.”

She smiled again, a small sweet thing, and turned to go. She faltered a step away, spun back, and pulled me into a tight hug. “I know we didn’t work out in college,” she whispered into my chest, “but if we both live through this, survive the next few days, maybe we can do things differently this time around.”

She tilted her head up and drew me into a soft kiss, her lips warm against mine. “In case this is our final goodbye,” she murmured as she pulled away. She patted me on the cheek, wheeled around, and left.

Otto, the taciturn warrior, offered us a grim nod before stalking off after her, leaving me alone with Cutter and the mercenary Warlock. A second later there was a flare of brilliant light—a portal—which fizzled and faded. Vanished.

It was distinctly possible I’d never see her again.

“Unless you plan on killing me,” the mercenary Warlock pitched in a second later, “I, too, shall depart. Time to spend a little of this hard-earned money.” He tapped a fat coin purse at his side, the clink of gold carrying in the air.

“We’re not going to kill you,” I replied halfheartedly, still thinking about Abby. “You were good on your word, and we really couldn’t have done it without you. Thanks. I mean it.”

The Warlock seemed to struggle with something for a moment, uncertainty playing out across his rough features. “You and your friends aren’t so bad, either,” he said, “for being hypocrites, obviously.” He faltered, fingers restlessly drumming on his coin purse. “Listen, if you ever need the hand of an experienced mercenary, you can find me at a tavern in East Harrowick—a place called the Drunken Donkey. Ask for Morgan, and you’ll find me. I don’t work out of the goodness of my heart, mind you, so make sure you bring gold.”

<<<>>>

Recruit Follower

You can now recruit Morgan Sellsword as an in-game follower. You can find Morgan at the Drunken Donkey in East Harrowick, and hire him as a loyal companion for (5) gold a day.

<<<>>>

He didn’t linger long after that.

“What about you?” I asked, turning to Cutter. “You gonna take off, too?”

“Pffff.” He folded his arms across his chest. “You must be positively mental if you think I’m going anywhere. First you helped me break free from that hellhole of a prison, and now, after one mission, I’ve pocketed more gold than I’d normally see in ten years. You’re my lucky charm, Jack.” He shot me a wink. “You’ll literally have to beat me away with a stick if you want me gone. Otherwise, I’m gonna follow you around and scoop up the loot you leave in your wake until I can retire fat and happy on a mountain of gold, surrounded by beautiful women.”

“How altruistic of you,” I noted, face deadpan.

“You know, that’s what everyone is always telling me—‘Cutter,’ they say, ‘you are one of the shining jewels of humanity.’ True story.”

“Yeah, I bet,” I replied with an eyeroll.

He grinned. “So, where to now, lucky charm?”

“I’ve got a quest to turn in,” I replied.

TWENTY-TWO: Downtime

Cutter and I threaded our way through the forest, backtracking along the path I’d taken earlier in the day, making light conversation as we went. I filled him in on the Cleanse the Taint quest details, then fell silent as he prattled on about beer and gambling, telling me all about how his father had taught him knucklebones before he was old enough to walk. Once more I was dumbstruck by the depth of Cutter’s character: his memories, his mannerisms, his humor. He seemed more alive, more real, than the majority of my real-world friends.

I listened more than talked, constantly scanning the forest for any sign that the Corrupt Valdgeist I’d killed earlier had respawned. With the Greater Corrupt Valdgeist dead deep in the heart of the ruins behind us, however, the forest seemed to be free from the twisted taint. After twenty minutes of hard trekking, we broke into the clearing with the Hamadryad that’d offered me the temple clearing quest.

“The hero of the hour,” the old tree boomed, mossy mustache fluttering as he spoke. “I had my doubts about you, boy. Even felt guilty sending a whelp such as you out to contend with an evil as powerful as that which dwelt in those accursed ruins, yet here you are. Returned a conqueror.” He smiled big and wide, revealing a mouthful of acorn teeth. A laugh followed, a hearty thing that sounded like a clap of distant thunder.

“I can already feel the difference,” the tree continued. “The goodness in the land returns. The earth cries out in joy, the trees shiver in relief. Even the air tastes cleaner as it rushes through my leaves. A genuinely great day for the forest. A great day for me and my kind.” He laughed again, stirring up a chorus of happy birdsong all around us. “Now, I know you’re likely eager to get along. You mortals are always rushing about—sprinting from place to place—so quick to move on to what is next, to what is new. So, let me see you properly rewarded before you go.”

I cast a glance at Cutter, letting him know to stay back, then edged closer to the towering tree. On the ground, directly in front of the Hamadryad, a green shoot sprouted from the ground, curling up and out, reaching and yearning for the fading sunlight; vibrant green leaves and barbed thorns bloomed along the stalk. I dropped to one knee, admiring the magical sight, watching raptly as a petite bulb blossomed into a rose so blue it was nearly black, its petals unfurling in triple speed time.

Absolutely stunning.

When the flower finally opened all the way, I saw the gleam of metal within: a silver cloak brooch in the shape of an intricately worked warhammer with a fat emerald the size of a dime at the center. The tree nodded at me, take it, take it. Tentatively, almost uncertainly, I reached out and plucked the brooch free—the little trophy came away with ease, but an unseen thorn bit into my finger. I hissed as a bead of blood welled at the tip of my digit then dripped, splat, onto the flower below. The plant trembled in pleasure, pulsing with an eerie light before promptly withering—decaying as fast as it’d been born. After a moment, nothing remained of the strange flower but a withered pile of mulch.

<<<>>>

Quest Alert: Cleanse the Taint

You have vanquished the evil presence tainting the forest and earned the thanks of a powerful Hamadryad. In return, as your reward, you have received 10,000 EXP and the Blessing of the Forest, which instantly improves your relationship with forest-aligned factions from Neutral to Friendly. You have also been awarded 100 renown—in-world fame—for completing this quest. Greater renown elevates you within the ranks of Eldgard and can affect merchant prices when selling or buying.

<<<>>>

The tree sighed, content. “Thank you again, traveler,” he said. “We trees are a close-knit group, and I will spread the word of your help. Even the lesser tree-folk, those who cannot speak, will treat you as a friend.”

The brooch, called Blessing of the Forest, didn’t seem to have any stat bonuses besides improving my relationship with forest-aligned factions, but interestingly it was also a soulbound item, meaning I couldn’t drop it. Not even if I wanted to. I nodded my thanks as I pinned the metal brooch in place, then wished the tree a final goodbye and activated the scroll Abby had provided for our return.

The portal dropped Cutter and me off in the alley outside the Broken Dagger. Guess that was my bind point—must’ve been some kind of automatic feature, since I certainly hadn’t set it there.

It was full dark in Rowanheath, the moon was a ghostly sliver in the sky overhead, and a chilly breeze cut through the narrow alley, sending a shiver up my spine. At this point, all I wanted to do was sleep for the next few days straight, but first, I needed food. My belly felt like an empty hole and now that I wasn’t preoccupied with other things—like not being murdered—the shooting pangs of hunger were almost unbearable. Curious, I pulled up my character screen and accessed a menu that listed any current active effects. Aside from all the active buffs granted by my gear, I also had a small list of status debuffs:

<<<>>>

Current Debuffs

Tired (Level 3): Skills improve 15% slower; Carry Capacity -25lbs; Attack Damage -10%; Spell Strength reduced by 25%

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 1): Goods and services cost 5% more; Merchant-craft skills reduced by (1) level

<<<>>>

I grumbled in mild annoyance. What kind of demented person would’ve thought to add in those types of features—to actually penalize characters that didn’t eat or sleep enough?

Cutter pushed his way into the tavern; music, laughter, and the warmth from the roaring fireplace washed over us like a soothing balm. Cutter was apparently suffering the same negative debuffs as me, because he immediately sauntered over to the bar and ordered us food and a round of drinks, then promptly acquired us a table near the stage performer—tonight it was a fresh-faced bard wearing a puffy-sleeved jacket. The bard chanted a story, going on and on about some long-forgotten battle while a quartet of colorful balls twirled and spun through the air.

I gratefully took my seat and remained quiet, lost in the bard’s performance, waiting for our food, which came a few minutes later. A hearty meat pie filled with tender lamb chunks and bits of roasted vegetables, all slathered in thick gravy. Sensing my subdued mood, Cutter kept quiet for a change, eating in peace, though occasionally chuckling at the performer or clapping his approval between heaping mouthfuls of stew. It only took me a handful of minutes to devour the food and down a few pints of the Broken Dagger mead, which wiped out the Thirsty and Hungry debuffs, leaving me in slightly better spirits.

Still, I felt tired to the bone. Not to mention, depressed.

So far, it’d been easy to forget about the relatively high mortality rate for people transitioning into V.G.O. permanently, but knowing Abby could be dead in a few hours was an uncomfortable and sobering thought.

What I really needed right now was to be alone and to get a little sleep. So, with a few quick words, I excused myself from the table and headed up to my room.

“Hey, Grim Jack,” Cutter called over the music as I made for the stairs. I turned back toward him, and was shocked to see something that might’ve been concern in his face. “Everything’s gonna be alright,” he said. “You’re gonna get through this, one way or the other. And tomorrow, I’ll head out with you, help you find a class that’ll fit you like a glove. Considering your disposition, I’m thinking servant girl might be a good place to start”—he flashed me a toothy, asshole grin—“but we can talk it over in the morning.”

I nodded and smiled back, in spite of my disheartened mood. When you got past his rough edges, Cutter was okay. I caught a whiff of myself on the way up the stairs—a pungent mixture of sour sweat and dirt—but decided I could figure out how to bath in the morning. I’d done enough for one day.

My room was empty, the bed freshly made, the pitcher filled with clear water, a clean length of towel lying beside the basin. I shut the door with a kick, beelined for the basin, and splashed my face, rubbing wet hands over my cheeks then down onto the back of my neck. It did nothing to the Unwashed debuff, but boy did it feel good. With that done, I headed over to the bed, shrugged out of my boots and armor, and stripped all the way down to a pair of woven undershorts. The only gear I left on was my pieces of jewelry. I flopped back onto the bed, letting the mattress pull me in as I sprawled, stretching my back with a groan.

God, what an amazing bed. Whatever evils the Devs had done, this bed almost made up for all of them. Almost.

Following my ritual from the night before, I decided to take a few minutes to look over my stats and notifications, even if to just clear things out. With another groan, I laced my hands behind my head and called out into the air, “Sophia, please bring up my user interface.”

“Of course, Jack,” came the comforting voice of my digital assistant.

The semitranslucent screen popped up in front of me. “Notifications,” I mumbled. The menu interface was promptly replaced by a long list of boxes:

<<<>>>
x7 Level Up!

You have (100) undistributed stat points! Stat points can be allocated at any time.

You have (17) unassigned proficiency points! Proficiency points can be allocated at any time.

<<<>>>

Skill: Stealth

Skill Type/Level: Active / Level 9

Cost: 15 Stamina

Effect: Stealth 23% chance to hide from enemies.

<<<>>>

Skill: Backstab

Skill Type/Level: Active / Level 5

Cost: 20 Stamina

Effect: A brutal backstab attack can be activated while an adventurer is in Stealth. 6x normal damage with a knife; 4x normal damage with all other weapons.

Effect 2: 7% increased chance of critical hit while backstabbing.

<<<>>>

Skill: Blunt Weapons

Skill Type/Level: Active / Level 8

Cost: None

Effect: Increases blunt weapon damage by 19%.

<<<>>>

Skill: Medium Armor

Though medium armor doesn’t offer the same defensive benefits of heavy plate, it is far less bulky and heavy, granting the wearer decent protection while simultaneously offering a greater range of speed, dexterity, and maneuverability. Perfect for classes that rely on speed and brutal surprise, but also aren’t afraid to fight close in—at least for short periods of time.

Skill Type/Level: Passive / Level 2

Cost: None

Effect: 10% increased base armor rating while wearing Medium Armor.

<<<>>>

I read over the various boxes, spending a few extra minutes on the “medium armor” section, then closed out of my notifications. As tired as I was, now that I finally had access to the game’s wiki again, I really wanted to look for information on my future class. “Sophia”—I stifled a yawn—“please search for any information on Dark Templars or Shadowmancers,” I muttered, both too lazy and too comfortable to switch over to it manually. The screen blinked and changed without a word of reply.

A long list of forum topics populated, but it was the page entitled “Dark Templar Class Kits,” that immediately caught my eye. Bingo. I pulled up the screen and began scanning the information, courtesy of an Osmark Tech Admin by the handle of JACOBPAIGE:

<<<>>>

Lore

The mysterious Dark Templars, also called the Maa-Tál in the Dokkalfar tongue, serve as the enforcers of the Shadow Pantheon—the native gods and goddesses of Eldgard. Like the Holy Templars of the Viridian Empire, the Dark Templars are often defenders of the downtrodden, fighting against injustice and upholding the traditions of Eldgard’s natives with both dark magic and cold steel. Unlike Viridian’s Templars, however, Dark Templars rely not on the power of holy light but on the sinister and pervasive strength of shadow.

Game Play

Dark Templars are a hybrid class available to Wodes, Dokkalfar (Murk Elves), and Accipiter. Essentially, any natural enemy of the Viridian Empire is eligible to receive this class. Unlike many other classes, players seeking the path of the Dark Templar must locate a Shadow Pantheon trainer and undergo an initiation ordeal to be accepted into the ranks. If they fail the ordeal, the class becomes permanently blocked.

If selected, there are five class kit specializations—Shadow Knight, Plague Bringer, Umbra Shaman, Necromancer, and Shadowmancer—which allow Dark Templars to fulfill a variety of roles, depending on the chosen kit. Becoming a Dark Templar instantly grants the player a “dark” alignment, which is not the same things as an “evil” alignment; possessing a “dark” alignment does, however, instantly lower the player’s relationship with all Viridian-aligned factions to Unfriendly. In return, all Dark Templars receive a 10% damage bonus against “light”-aligned players and NPCs, making them valuable assets within the Eldgard Rebellion.

<<<>>>

Hmm, very interesting. Sort of like a Paladin class, then, but with a “dark” alignment. Next I pulled up the page on the Shadowmancer kit in particular, since that seemed to be the path I was headed for:

<<<>>>

Shadowmancer Kit Specialization

Though all Dark Templars have a certain affinity for shadowmancy—the magical manipulation of void and shadow energies—Shadowmancers specialize and thrive in this arena. Like other Dark Templars, Shadowmancers can have powerful melee abilities, but unlike other Dark Templars, Shadowmancers cannot wear heavy plate armor, which can make this kit particularly tricky to play. Because of kit restrictions, Shadowmancers don’t make good tanks, relying instead on speed and stealth in physical combat; they also possess a wide variety of spells that can inflict medium to high single-target damage. Additionally, spells such as Umbra Bog, Plague Burst, and Night Cyclone offer Shadowmancers some formidable crowd control capabilities.

- Advantages:

+5% faster movement rate (+1% per 4 Character Levels)

+10% Stealth (+1% per 5 Character Levels)

Immune to Morale Failure

+10% damage bonus against “light”-aligned players and NPCs

+20% resistance to shadow damage

Access to Dark Templar and Shadowmancer Restricted Skills

- Disadvantages:

Race Restricted (Wodes, Dokkalfar, Accipiter)

“Dark” alignment

Can use all weapons; can only specialize in Blunt Weapons skills

Cannot wear Heavy Armor

Shadowmancer spells have a high Spirit cost

Weak against Holy Damage

- Typical Skill Allotment:

Dexterity: Attack Strength is calculated as a “Rogue” class

Intelligence: Increases Spell Strength

Spirit: Increases Spirit supply

<<<>>>

I felt extremely optimistic after reading through the limited information I could get my hands on, and it was good to finally have some kind of idea where I should start sinking my attribute points. I quickly pulled up my Character stats and decided to allocate the bulk of my undistributed points. I dropped 5 points each into Strength, Vitality, and Constitution—just so I wouldn’t have a completely lopsided character—then 25 points into Dexterity, 25 into Spirit, and 20 into Intelligence. That left me 20 points in reserve, just in case I needed to tweak things after I finally meet with Chief Kolle, who I assumed was my Shadow Pantheon trainer.

I took a look at my character stats with my new skill allocations:

I closed out the screen and brought up my Skill section. Until I found Chief Kolle, I couldn’t access my specialized class skills and abilities, but there was still plenty I could do in the general skills department. Although I already knew most of the areas—Heavy Armor or Bladed Weapons, for instance—weren’t going to factor into my character build, I decided to look through each and every tree, just so I’d have a solid idea of what kind of skills and abilities other players might have. After spending more than an hour reading through everything, I realized there would never be a “standard” build—there were just far too many skill and general specializations to choose from for that to ever be the case.

Finally, I homed in on the skills that seemed pertinent to the Shadowmancer.

First, I focused on Blunt Weapons, adding another point to Savage Blow, which had been a lifesaver more than once, and one more to Parry. Since I’d reached level 8 in Blunt Weapons, there were now several new skills available to me as well. I dropped one point into a passive ability called Trauma, which allowed all Blunt Weapon attacks to ignore 15% of an enemy’s armor. I also put a point into a skill called Featherweight, which increased attack speed by 10% and critical hit by 2.5%.

Unfortunately, Medium Armor didn’t offer anything until I hit level 3, so I headed over to the Stealth skill tree instead. I was a little reluctant to invest too many proficiency points into this tree without first acquiring my main class, but since the Shadowmancer class came with a +10% bump to Stealth, I figured Stealth was going to be an important part of my overall game strategy, which meant my points wouldn’t be wasted. And besides, at level 9, there were lots of cool extras to pick from.

I immediately dropped two points into a passive ability called Whisper Step, which reduced the noise I made by 30%, making me much harder to detect while in Stealth. One point went into an active technique called Camouflage, giving me a 20% better chance to blend into my surroundings—even in bright lighting conditions—and one more went into Deadly Grace, reducing the weight of my armor, allowing me to be lighter and quicker on my feet.

By the time I was done, I had to fight to keep my eyes open, so I finally dismissed my player interface, offered a silent prayer for Abby—hoping I would wake up tomorrow morning with a PM from her, knowing I might not—and closed my eyes. I let the weight of my exhaustion draw me down, down, down into a restless sleep filled with horrific half-seen visions of Abby screaming, convulsing, dying as fiery slabs of space rock peppered the Earth.

TWENTY-THREE: Rise and Shine

Brrp, brrp, brrp, brrp. The shrill alarm exploded in my ears, clanging like a gong magnified by a bullhorn.

I shot up and instantly began rubbing at my temples, trying to beat back the skull-splitting headache—it felt like Donkey Kong was trapped inside my head, desperately trying to smash his way free. I swung my legs off the bed and hunched forward, dropping my elbows onto my thighs as sweat cascaded down my face and my heart pounded sporadically in my chest. Everything was oddly blurry and my lips and hands felt dull, numb. I wheezed, sucking in giant lungfuls of air, frantically trying to control my labored breathing.

“Sophia … turn the … alarm off …” I forced the words out between strained gasps.

“Alarm dismissed,” Sophia replied calmly, unmoved by the fact that I was dying. “The current time in Eldgard is 7:15 AM,” she droned. “You have been asleep for approximately nine real-world hours. You have an automated message from the Osmark Technologies Customer Support Team. Would you like to play it?”

“In a … minute,” I slurred, which wasn’t a good sign. The confusion and disorientation weren’t nearly as profound as the day before, but the physical symptoms were a hundred times worse. If I’d been back IRL, I would’ve called for an ambulance already. Currently, I was experiencing physical symptoms that related to both a heart attack and a stroke. But this was V.G.O., and I was well beyond the help of ambulance techs or modern medical treatment.

Maybe I should try to find a priest or healer?

No, I dismissed the thought.

My HP bar wasn’t affected by whatever was happening, which meant I was likely experiencing actual pain from my actual body. Theoretically, I had another day before my transition would be complete—either that or I’d die—but this sure seemed like dying. I sat that way, bent over, struggling to breathe for a minute, then two, then five, before the sensations finally began to recede. “Sophia, play the message,” I finally barked as my heart rate dropped to something sort of resembling normal.

“Good morning, traveler,” came an overly perky voice. “This is Matthew, your customer support representative, and our system records indicate you’ve successfully spent your second full night in Viridian Gate Online. Congratulations! Since you’re hearing this, I have some great news for you: your overall chance of surviving the transition has increased from approximately eighty-three percent to nearly ninety percent. With that said, you’re likely feeling extreme physical discomfort, but those symptoms are to be expected and should not be a cause for concern. Make sure you stop by your nearest inn or tavern and eat a hearty meal. Thank you for playing.”

The message faded, died.

I grumbled. Stupid Matthew. Intellectually, I knew poor Matthew was probably just some underpaid worker bee reading from a script, per Osmark Tech’s instructions, but his naturally perky and energetic nature really made me want to punch him. I’m not a violent guy by nature, but just then I wanted to show him some extreme physical discomfort.

Muttering disgruntled curses under my breath, I crawled from the bed, tossed on my armor and gear, then hit up the washbasin, splashing water across my face, trying to clear away a few of the cobwebs clogging up my brain. I grabbed the towel and patted at my eyes, which is when I remembered Abby. Frantically, I dropped the bit of damp cloth into the wash water, not caring, and pulled up my player interface.

“Woo,” I shouted with a fist pump, startling a fat pigeon sitting on the ledge outside my window. “Hell yeah,” I yelled again, doing a victory jig, boots click-clacking on the wooden floors. I had a message from Abby—the subject head simply read: I’M ALIVE!!!!!

I pulled up the message, a giant grin running from ear to ear.

<<<>>>

Personal Message:

Jack,

I made it! I’m alive! I’d kiss you if you were here. Honestly, I feel awful—it’s like someone dipped my insides in fire ants. No joking, this is the worst experience of my life, but I got a message from a Customer Service Rep saying that’s normal and that their systems indicate I’ve transitioned! I’m supposed to stay off my feet for the next couple of hours, but then Otto and I are off to the Grand Archive in Alaunhylles (it’s basically a giant library over on the West Viridian side of the continent). If anyone’s going to know about that seal we found, it’ll be one of the Loremasters at the Archive. But I’m temporarily going dark—no wiki, no PMs, no in-game connectivity—since it’ll be harder for Carrera and Osmark Tech to track me down. It’ll be a couple of days until you hear from me again, but in the meantime, you get a class, and grind out some more levels.

Best,

—Abby

<<<>>>

With a sigh of relief, I pulled open the door and headed out. Cutter was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, leaning casually against the wall, his arms folded, his head back. He looked relaxed, at ease, but something was subtly off about him.

“Morning. Care to have breakfast with me?” I asked.

“Naw,” he said with a shrug, “busy day today. Lots to do. I think it’d be best if we picked up something from the street vendors. Just about no better place to get questionable street food than Rowanheath. A little fried rat on a stick is exactly what you need to set you straight this morning.”

I paused and frowned, brow wrinkled. Fried rat? Was he being serious? After a second, I decided it wasn’t a good idea to ask questions I didn’t actually want answers to.

He slung an arm around my shoulders when I reached the bottom of the staircase and gently guided me toward the exit. He smiled the whole time, trying to play it cool, but even in the short time that I’d known Cutter, I knew this wasn’t normal. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Cutter was nervous—except Cutter wasn’t the kind of guy to get nervous. Greedy? Yes, obviously. Sneaky? Without a question. Cocky? Probably his middle name. But not anxious.

Despite my achy muscles and awful headache, I put on an easygoing grin as we walked. Didn’t want to draw any extra attention in case something was up.

We made it out of the Broken Dagger without being accosted, but the second we cleared the door, Cutter picked up his pace, quickly heading onto a busy thoroughfare, then weaving through a bustling crowd. “What’s wrong?” I hissed at him, before glancing over my shoulder, expecting to see someone following us.

Except no one was.

“In a minute,” he replied, dragging me past a rolling wagon and into a pool of deep shadow. He paused, tense, regarding the roadway, before urging me into motion. We moved with speed and purpose, though not so quickly as to draw unwanted attention. Ten minutes and fifteen switchbacks later, he finally slowed his manic pace, leading me over to a rickety wooden cart near an open fire pit with skewers of meat lazily spinning above the flames, greasy juices dripping down into the dancing fire. With a few muttered words, Cutter snagged us five or six spits of meat-on-a-stick.

“Sorry for the cloak-and-dagger shite,” he said, handing me a too-hot skewer.

I regarded the seared meat—it did look an awful lot like rat.

At this point, though, I was so hungry I didn’t even care. I took a disgruntled bite, thinking about the honey porridge I could be eating at the Broken Dagger, but quickly revised my opinion. A buff popped up, alerting me that the [Rat Skewer] was restoring 50 HP over 35 seconds, but it hardly mattered because the meat was delicious. A little spicy, with the smoky flavor you only get when cooking over an open flame. Even better, my headache vanished almost at once, a wave of sweet relief cascading through my body.

I finished the first skewer in a few wolfish bites, and immediately started in on a second one. I began to eat a third as I walked, trailing Cutter down a wide cobblestone street bordered mostly by narrow plaster-faced houses instead of shops. A residential section of the city, by the look of it.

“So?” I prompted around a mouthful of rat meat. “Care to tell me what that was all about?”

The Thief regarded me out of the corner of his eye. “There’s something wrong with Gentleman Georgie,” he said at last.

“What do you mean, there’s something wrong with him? I thought he was gone on business or something?”

“I’m getting there if you’d give me a chance,” he replied with an eyeroll. “Apparently, Georgie’s been gone for almost a week, but he turned up early this morning. Naturally, I sought him out. Wanted to tell him about the incident with Serth-Rog’s acolyte, but there was something wrong with him, Jack. He looked like Georgie—identical down to the last detail, at least physically—but that man wasn’t Georgie.” He paused, running a hand through his blond hair, then rubbed at the back of his neck. “I’m sure of it.”

“In what way?” I asked, before taking another mouthful of rat meat.

“It was just little things, I suppose,” he replied. “His mannerisms were slightly off. His eyes were hazy, distant. It’s hard to put my finger on exactly. But in my gut, I know he’s not the same. Georgie took me in after my father passed, taught me most of what I know about thieving and killing. The man was like family to me, and whoever I met today?” He shook his head, worry lingering in his eyes. “It wasn’t him.”

I nodded, trying to be supportive.

We hooked a left onto another cobblestone boulevard, this one filled with robe-wearing Viridians and armor-clad travelers in a variety of stripes and races. This road held stone-fronted shops edged with intricately carved wood and studded with large, shiny windows. I hadn’t been here before and I immediately felt out of place. These stores seemed far swankier than anything I’d seen so far, and the customers looked like the kind of people who could afford the finer things in life. Despite the few awesome items I’d acquired, I still sort of looked like a down-and-out drifter.

“So, what’s the plan, exactly?” I asked, finally done with my rat skewers. “Do we kidnap fake-Georgie? Try to dig some answers out of him, maybe?”

Cutter shook his head, once more looking worried, frayed around the edges. “Honestly, I’m not sure what to do. If it were anyone else, I’d go to Georgie with my suspicions, but who can I go to about Georgie himself? He’s at the top of the food chain—no one’s going to believe me over him, and even if they do, no one would dare make any kind of overt move against him. That’s a surefire way to end up in a ditch with your throat slit.

“And kidnapping him?” he continued. “No, he’s surrounded by covert bodyguards thick as flies in a shitter. Worse, I think not-Georgie might be on to me. Until I can come up with some kind of plan, I don’t think it’s safe to head back to the Broken Dagger. Thought I might stick around with you for the time being, help you find a class while I think through things. Try to come up with some options. Assuming it’s all the same to you, of course.”

A quest box popped up:

<<<>>>

Quest Alert: Imposter Georgie

Cutter suspects that something is wrong with Gentleman Georgie, the unofficial head of the Thieves’ Guild in Rowanheath. Help Cutter get to the bottom of the mystery.

Quest Class: Unique, Personal

Quest Difficulty: Hard

Success: Help Cutter get to the bottom of the mystery surrounding Gentleman Georgie’s sudden personality change.

Failure: Refuse to help Cutter or allow him to die before the mission is complete.

Reward: ?

Accept: Yes/No?

<<<>>>

“How could I say no to you?” I asked, sarcasm oozing through my teeth as I accepted the quest he’d just provided to me.

“Precisely,” he replied with a grin. “My charm is rather irresistible. Besides, let’s face it, you wouldn’t survive a day without me. But still, thanks all the same,” he mumbled weakly, refusing to meet my eye. We walked for a few more minutes in relative silence. “Ahh, here we are,” he said eventually, stopping and sweeping an arm toward a thickly carved wooden door. A sign above the building read Trajan’s Emporium.

TWENTY-FOUR: The Emporium

I stared at Cutter, the question evident on my face, then shifted my gaze to the storefront.

“If we’re going to do any more strenuous adventuring,” he said, “it’s time you properly equipped yourself. Sell off all that junk loading you down and pick up some nifty trinkets that might keep you breathing. This place”—he nodded toward the shop—“is a bit pricey, but, assuming you can afford it, it’s a one-stop shop for just about everything you’ll need. Weapons. Armor. Potions. Spells. Whatever.” Without further comment, he shoved his way in, a tiny brass bell ringing out, announcing us to the shopkeeper.

I followed, not sure what to expect.

The inside of the emporium looked like a cross between a posh antique store, a new-age bookstore, and a medieval armory.

Expensive rugs and fanciful tapestries littered the floors and walls. Rows of bookshelves, laden with old tomes and rolled scrolls, lined the right wall. Dark wood tables, polished until they shone, were loaded down with glass vials and a hundred different types of herbal ingredients, presumably used for potion creation or alchemy. A huge array of weapons and armor crowded the left-hand side of the shop. There were polearms, axes, swords, and maces: some cheap and plain, but most covered with silver and gold runes or studded with precious stones.

The armor was equally diverse and abundant. Black plate mail hung on training dummies while intricately tooled leather armor dangled from the walls. Helmets with horns or horsehair crests decorated more tables, while boots sat neatly lined on the floor below the tables. And there were lots of other knickknacks too—like sturdy utility belts, studded with pockets and pouches, or boot-sheathes made to conceal an extra dagger.

A ridiculously short man with phenomenally broad shoulders and a long, wispy beard waddled out of a storage room and toward a service counter near the back of the shop. He looked like a squat cube of muscle, and his steps were slow and plodding: a man built for power, not speed. A Dwarf, then, his features weathered with age, his skin wrinkled like dried leather. He slipped behind the counter, only his head visible for a moment, before he clambered up onto something—maybe a stool or a chair—allowing him a clear view of the shop.

“Welcome to Trajan’s Emporium,” he grumbled, his voice gruff, a perfect match for his homely face, “the finest importer and exporter of all your adventuring needs.” He paused and squinted at us, lips transforming into a hard, thin sneer. “Cutter.” He said the name like a curse. “You know I don’t buy your pinched goods, thief. Go to that fence of yours—Jorgen, Jensen, Jabsor, whatever the hell her name is—you’re not welcome here, you uncouth miscreant.”

“Trajan,” Cutter said with a smile and a clap of his hands. “Is that any way to greet an old friend, eh?”

“You, sir, are no friend of mine. You’re a barbaric, foul-mouthed hoodlum, and you’ll leave before I summon the guards and have you clapped in irons.”

Cutter waved off the Dwarf’s protests and pulled me over to the counter.

“Allow me to introduce a friend of mine, Grim Jack.” He stepped aside and waved at me with a flourish and a bow. “He’s a traveler, new to our lands.”

“Then take him over to Poor John’s and see him outfitted there,” the Dwarf glowered, folding beefy arms across his chest in disapproval.

“Nonsense,” Cutter said, “my friend is practically royalty.” His hand flashed beneath his leather armor, and in a blink, gold appeared in his hand. Cutter dropped the pile of glittering coin onto the glowing wooden countertop with a subtle clink-clink-clink. The Dwarf’s eyes bulged, staring at the gold with hungry greed. “And that’s only the tip of the iceberg, Trajan,” Cutter said, one eyebrow cocked.

The Dwarf leaned in. “How much gold are we talking about, you unwashed filth?” he whispered, though not so quietly that I couldn’t hear him.

“His nickname on the street is Grim Jack Money-Bags,” Cutter replied with a shifty wink in my direction.

Suddenly, the Dwarf was all smiles and bows, issuing a host of profound apologies and hasty welcomes. “Please, good sir, come and peruse my wares. I have the absolute finest goods in all of Rowanheath. The absolute finest.”

Hesitantly, I meandered toward the Dwarf. A popup inventory window appeared before me as I drew up to the counter. The Dwarf’s inventory floated on the left while mine floated on the right. I quickly scanned over the Dwarf’s goods and nearly choked at the prices. Not because they were high, but because they seemed rather low. I’d made out pretty good yesterday—even after paying the mercenary Warlock, I’d walked away with a little over 2,200 in gold—and that wasn’t counting the items I still had left to sell, which would probably bring in another 300 gold.

But even the most expensive items the Dwarf had to sell didn’t cost more than a paltry 20 gold.

Mentally, I pulled up a game wiki, trying to figure out how much a gold coin could get you in V.G.O. It didn’t take long before I found a page with a table laying out how V.G.O. coinage compared to real-world currency. Each copper coin corresponded to roughly one US dollar, and there were 10 coppers per silver and 10 silvers per gold, which meant each gold mark was roughly equivalent to a hundred IRL dollars. That meant after I finished selling off the items I’d acquired, I’d have damn near a quarter of a million in my account. That was more money than I’d ever dreamed of seeing back in my old life.

Suddenly I felt faint, my legs weak, my arms shaky. I was rich. Well, relatively speaking. But certainly rich-ish. Despite everything else that had happened, I found myself grinning like a maniac—time for something I’d never been able to do IRL: an impulsive shopping spree. First, though, I needed to get rid of all the junk weighing me down.

I pawned the Ranger’s bow with its +10 to Dexterity and 10% increased chance to evade, netting me 175 gold. The short sword with the +1 Strength modifier and the Heavy Firesteel Gauntlets brought in another 120. The other items, a crappy assortment of starter weapons and shoddy armor, brought in a small bagful of silver; more importantly, though, selling those items relieved me of some significant dead weight. With that done, I started combing through the Dwarf’s wares. I already had a bunch of Health, Stamina, and Spirit Regen potions, so I focused instead on filling in my missing armor items.

Assuming Cutter was on the level, and the Dwarf’s wares really were the best I could find at the moment, I still knew it was likely lowbie crap. Even though I was something of a casual gamer—at least compared to some of my hardcore friends—I knew you only got the really good drops from raids or off the player auctions. Still, I was in desperate need of gear, so this was better than nothing.

After a little strenuous haggling with the Dwarf, I picked up a pair of medium armor gauntlets (superior), a Belt of Agility—which granted me +7 to Dexterity and also allowed me seven quick access slots—and a Helm of the Owl, which increased my Night Eye ability by 15%. That ran me 11 gold and change, not even a drop in the bucket, though the Dwarf seemed pleased as punch, despite the fact that I’d talked him down by nearly half. My Night Blessed Armor and Gavel of Shadows were way better than anything the Dwarf had on display, but my little wooden buckler was desperately in need of an upgrade.

I sold it for a measly 2 silver, but quickly replaced it with a bronze buckler that increased Block Chance by 10% and doubled my total Block Amount from 25 points of damage to 50. Another 5 gold down the drain, which I considered a laughably small amount considering that shield might prevent someone from splitting my head in two.

I already had two rings equipped, but I still had six more ring slots available, not to mention two earring slots and two bracelet slots. Most of the jewelry was crap—generic +1 items not worth spending any money on—but I did find one ring, called the Scholar’s Signet, with a +5 to Spirit and a +6 to Intelligence, which I snatched up in a heartbeat even though the Dwarf flatly refused to drop the price. The little band of iron practically screamed Shadowmancer at the top of its lungs, and somehow the Dwarf seemed to know I wasn’t going to pass on the item. A real huckster, that one.

The rest of the gear was subpar, but there were still a few essentials I needed badly. I closed out of the Dwarf’s gear menu and headed over to his arcane wares.

He had a variety of tomes and scrolls obviously designed for wizards and priests—Fireball, Ice-spike, Lesser binding, Power Word: Barrier—but nothing that catered to my end of the spectrum. Not that I actually expected to find anything. Since Dark Templar was one of the few classes requiring practitioners to actively seek out a trainer, I’d already come to terms with the fact that I wouldn’t find anything in the normal stores. That was fine, though, because the Dwarf did have what I’d been looking for. At the bottom of his inventory, he had a Tome of Return: a permanent spell allowing the caster to teleport to their bind point, so long as they weren’t in battle or surrounded by hostiles.

That would be the Broken Dagger, in my case. In light of Cutter’s suspicions, however, I’d have to figure out how to get that changed. Truthfully, though, I couldn’t really think of any other place that’d be better. Though I’d been playing the game for two solid days, I didn’t really know much outside the Broken Dagger. Another worry to add to the list. Last, I headed over to the miscellaneous items and grabbed a “camp set”—which amounted to a small tent, a cook pot, and a fire-starter kit—then picked up some rations: water, bread, cheese, cold mutton.

By the time I was done, my coin supply had dropped by another 22 gold, leaving my fat coin purse virtually untouched. Assuming Aleixo Carrera or his cronies didn’t disembowel me, I was really going to have to thank Abby again.

Business done, I closed out of the buy menu and took a moment to equip my new gear. I certainly didn’t look all that heroic yet, but I felt much better. Then, before closing out of my interface, I toggled over to the Tome of Return and selected it.

<<<>>>

Using this item will destroy it, permanently removing it from your inventory. Are you sure you would like to learn Tome of Return?

<<<>>>

“Yes,” I said to the empty air. There was a pop and a flash of light, a small tornado swirling around me in a rush of warm air.

<<<>>>

Skill: Conjuration

Conjuration is one of the nine branches of magic: Abjuration, Enchantment, Divination (Divinus), Conjuration, Transmutation/Alchemy, Invocation, Illusion, Light, and Dark. Conjurers are masters at manipulating, distorting, and transforming the Astral Fabric; using their power, they may manifest Astral energies, summon creatures and other beings through the Aether, or rend the Astral Fabric in order to travel great distances in a single step.

Skill Type/Level: Passive / Level 1

Cost: None

Effect: Casting cost for spells in the Conjuration School are reduced by 2%

<<<>>>

I shook my head, dismissing the notification.

Cutter was leaning on the counter, picking his fingernails with the tip of his knife. “Good?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“Good as I’m gonna be. Now let’s go see some swamp folks.”

TWENTY-FIVE: Storme Marshes

I stepped through a shimmering portal and directly into a fetid puddle of ankle-deep water bordered by boggy, squishy marshland. The cloudy sludge, oddly warm, immediately rushed into my boots, swirling between my toes, bringing a grimace to my face.

“Eww,” Cutter remarked as he followed me into the pool with a squishy splat. He paused, looking left, then right. “What an awful place,” he grumbled, continuing his scan of the area.

So far, in my brief relationship with Cutter, there wasn’t a lot I could agree wholeheartedly with him on—but for once we had common ground. Wet, squishy, disgusting common ground. At my core, I was a city boy, far more familiar with the backstreets of L.A. than the backwoods of anywhere, so this place put me well outside of my comfort zone. Something large, green, and covered with eyes buzzed by my face, before vanishing into a swatch of gnarled trees protruding from the water. Yuck.

I turned in a slow circle, splat-squish-splat-squish, surveying the thick warren of trees and waterways stretching off in every direction. We were in a mangrove swamp—a tangle of dense vegetation surrounded us on every side, a host of fat roots plunging into the water. The leafy canopy overhead blocked out the sunlight, casting everything in perpetual gloom and deep shadow. After filling Cutter in on my class quest, we’d headed over to The Mystica Ordo—V.G.O.’s version of a Wizards’ guild—and I’d paid a sorcerer to port us to the edge of the Ak-Hani controlled territory in the Storme Marshes.

I’d expected to end up on the edge of a village or outside the gates of a Murk Elf city. I hadn’t been planning on stepping into a gloomy bog with no sign of human habitation.

Anywhere.

“Perfect,” Cutter uttered again. “This is exactly the way I wanted to spend my day. Tromping around in nature’s version of a toilet. Yes, perfect.”

I waved off his objection as I pulled up my user interface and checked my map. This place was obviously in the middle of nowhere, but thankfully a quest marker populated, giving me a rough idea of which way we needed to head. I turned, rotating slowly until I was facing the marker, then dismissed my interface. The section of swamp directly in front of me didn’t look any different from the rest of the boggy wetlands, but that was our heading. “This way,” I said, setting off, my pace drastically slowed by the treacherous mud sucking at my boots.

Every step was a tremendous effort.

I took the lead, checking my map every few minutes to keep my bearings, while Cutter trailed behind, grumbling disgruntledly with every single step. The walk was torturously sluggish, the endless minutes filled with sludgy goop and a never-ending swarm of biting insects, constantly circling my head like planets orbiting a sun. Their bites and stings didn’t actually deplete my HP bar, but they were still irritatingly painful, and it seemed like no matter how many I swatted into bug paste, there were always replacements ready to fill the void.

After twenty or thirty minutes of hard trekking, we reached a little spit of land extending into the water. Finally, a small break. Not that moving onto land did anything about the awful bugs. If anything, the swarms intensified, a cloud of black, buzzing bodies so thick it was a challenge to see through. It came as an immense relief when the annoying critters finally thinned into a tolerable trickle ten or fifteen minutes later. The shift came as the marsh gave way to a more traditional forest full of twisted oaks, creeping ferns, and squat palm trees with broad-leafed fronds.

The ground here was still muddy, but a spattering of dead leaves and old, decaying vegetation made it a little easier going.

I checked my map again, once more readjusting my position—angling slightly left—then pushed on, deeper into the wood, Cutter following sullenly at my back. We saw our first signs of genuine habitation a few minutes later; unfortunately, it wasn’t human habitation: thick swatches of silver webbing decorated tree branches and trailed down from the dense canopy above, snaring birds and fat, low-flying insects. Maybe there was a good reason the annoying swarms had let us be—this place looked like certain-death incarnate. The webbing even coated the ground in areas, huge patches of silver covering yawning holes gouged into the earth.

“You’re sure this”—Cutter swept an arm toward the expanse of webs—“is the right way to go?”

I nodded and pulled out my warhammer, borrowing courage from the comforting weight of the weapon.

“Yes. Obviously. Of course it is,” Cutter replied with a shake of his head while he drew dual daggers, giving each a nervous spin. “Well, let’s just get it done, eh?”

I nodded again, resuming our trek.

At first, the forest was strangely silent—no chirping birds, no chittering squirrels, just the sound of our muted footfalls on damp earth, the occasional leaf crunching or twig snapping. As we got deeper, though, beyond the point where we could head back for the mangrove swamp, I heard a soft but persistent rustle. The sound of sandpaper sliding over a piece of fabric. The sound of a fall breeze stirring a pile of dead leaves. That noise put my teeth on edge, set the hairs lining my neck to stiff attention.

There was definitely something in here with us, and despite seeing nothing, it wasn’t hard to guess what it was.

“Stealth?” I whispered over my shoulder to Cutter. “Maybe try to slip away while we still can and find a different way?”

“Yeah, Stealth,” he replied, barely constrained fear creeping into his voice.

I immediately dropped into a crouch, subconsciously activating my Stealth. But instead of blurring into the shadows, a notification appeared:

<<<>>>

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

<<<>>>

I gulped and shared an uneasy look with Cutter. “I failed. You?”

“Same,” he said, uncharacteristically terse.

So much for that plan.

The rustling increased with every passing minute—at one point something flashed by on my right, a blur of movement too quick to follow. I spun, eyes flicking over the creepy, web-strewn forest, but whatever had been there was long gone, vanished back into the deep shadows cast by the canopy. I did notice, however, that the path we’d just come through was now crisscrossed by thick strands of silvery silk, barring our way back. I gulped, a nervous twitch running through my hand, but at this point we could only move forward.

“Why do you think they haven’t attacked yet?” Cutter asked, his voice a low whisper, his eyes constantly roving.

“They’re afraid, maybe?” I offered weakly, knowing that was pretty implausible.

“Keep telling yourself that,” he replied, dropping into a low crouch, ready to move in any direction. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Grim Jack.”

The rustling increased until it was an almost constant background drone, the noise scratching at my ears; and as the noise grew in intensity, so too did the flashes of movement. Just a half-seen glimpse of a long arachnoid leg, a bulbous belly, or the glint of a dark eye. We were being stalked and hunted, a truly unnerving sensation that left me increasingly on edge. The tension mounting in the air—the promise of swift and sudden violence to come—was worse by far than just having something leap out at me.

“Just attack us already,” I finally yelled, my challenge bouncing off the trees, then dying, swallowed by the thick shrubbery.

Nothing responded. But that rustling almost sounded like laughter now. The spidery freaks were mocking us. That had to be it. Or maybe the paranoia was starting to get to me.

Eventually, we broke through the claustrophobic tangle of trees and webs, emerging only to find an enormous concave pit set into the forest floor. The colossal divot was as big around as a subway tunnel and covered with layer after layer of thick webbing. Towering trees—old, dark, twisted things—ringed the pit, and dangling from the mammoth branches high above were silken cocoons. Some the size of small forest animals, skunks or racoons, while others were easily as large as a full-grown man. The rustling seemed to build to a crescendo, the trees shaking and pulsating with the sound.

But I still couldn’t see our enemies.

Quickly, I pulled up my area map and immediately felt my stomach sink: this was a marked location, similar to a dungeon. The marker read Lowyth the Immortal Orbweaver of Hellweb Hollow.

Which is why it didn’t surprise me at all when the ground started to quiver beneath me as something giant dragged itself from the center of the pit. A pair of enormous legs came first, long black things with too many joints, covered in bristling red hairs. More legs joined the first two, followed in short order by an enormous head the size of a slugbug, with about a thousand gleaming eyes and a set of barbed fangs, more closely resembling swords than teeth. After a second, more legs broke into the air, clawing at the sky like monstrous fingers, before the rest of the body finally pulled free.

The creature flexed its legs and stood, its terrible head affixed to a ginormous black thorax tattooed with looping swirls of neon red, which pulsed with uneasy light.

As the massive [Spider Queen] finally emerged, the ceaseless rustling around us seemed to shift and strengthen as a flurry of brown forms appeared between the trees or rappelled from the canopy above on fat strands of silk.

“Well done, my children,” the nightmarish uber-spider bellowed. Her voice was like the drone of an entire colony of wasps, though there was a decidedly feminine quality to it. “These two will make a fine hatchery for the new wave of young ones,” she buzzed. The Spiderkin encircling us broke into jubilant celebration at her declaration, many raising their front-most limbs high into the air, while others rubbed their rear legs together—the source of that terrible rustling. Like crickets, only way, way bigger, and way, way grosser. “Catch them,” the Queen buzzed. “String them up, but keep them alive—the younglings will need living flesh and hot blood to feast on when they hatch.”

The spider jubilation continued for another moment, growing in fervent intensity, and then suddenly the first spider broke—charging us from the left with an inhuman and inarticulate screech. The rest followed, crashing toward us like a tsunami of legs and fangs and hair.

TWENTY-SIX: Legs, Legs, Legs

On instinct, I turned to retreat the way we’d come—any direction away from the massive Spider Queen—but the passage was already blocked with both strands of heavy webbing and fat spider bodies. There was no going back—these things had herded Cutter and me into this hollow with the express intention of sacrificing us as an offering to their disgusting matriarch. They certainly had no intention of letting us slip away now. Cutter seemed to come to the same realization, his normal cocky smile gone, his jaw tight, his eyes filled with a claustrophobic terror.

“This way,” he shouted, bolting right, heading for a small, undefended gap in the tree line—

A bloated spider, larger than a beefy Rottweiler, sensed Cutter’s trajectory and scuttled to intercept while more of its hairy-legged kin pushed in around us. Cutter—always one for dramatics—leapt into the air like an acrobat, twisting and turning in a graceful flip, before landing on top of the spider’s swollen thorax, sinking both of his daggers through chitinous flesh. Driving the blades down to the hilt. Green blood, sludgy and putrid, bubbled up as the spiderling reared back in pain, thrashing left and right in an attempt to throw the Thief.

With its front legs up and waving manically in the air, its soft underbelly was temporarily exposed.

An easy target I didn’t want to squander.

I sprinted forward, canting my weapon to the side as I ran. I closed the distance in a few long strides and lashed out, driving the hammer face forward and up, battering into the spider’s sensitive underside like a wrecking ball of steel. The blow smashed through the creature’s brown flesh, sinking in with a spurt of green goo. The creature convulsed as I tore my weapon free; its belly ruptured under the sudden strain, a mass of glistening gray intestine spilling from the ugly wound and onto the ground.

The [Spiderkin] let out a final shriek of rage and pain before collapsing, dead.

Unfortunately, that creature was only the tip of a giant, horrific, many-legged iceberg.

“Cutter, keep going,” I hollered, wheeling around to face the rest of the incoming Spiderkin. “Don’t worry about me,” I screamed as I lunged forward, thrusting my weapon upward at an angle, sinking the spiked top into an encroaching spider. “Just keep going.” I didn’t know if he was behind me or not, and I couldn’t spare even a single second to check, but I sure hoped he’d taken my words to heart. Obviously, I wasn’t too keen on experiencing death-by-spider—after all, spiders were well known for stringing their victims up before sucking them dry like a juice box—but, no matter how terrible the death, I would respawn.

Cutter wouldn’t.

I shuffled back a few paces and turned my mind fully back to the brawl as three more spiders converged on me. I shifted right and brought up my buckler as a spider lunged in, curved fangs flashing out. I bashed the creature in the mouth with the tiny shield, absorbing the damage, before stepping through, swinging my hammer into the side of the creature’s head. Its skull caved in, its eyes flashing momentarily before going dull and lifeless.

Unfortunately, the maneuver opened me up on the right, leaving my back partially exposed and vulnerable. Another of the Spiderkin seized the opportunity, charging me in an eyeblink. A heavy body slammed into my side, knocking me sideways as a pair of fangs, like butcher knives, sank into my chest. I screamed and thrashed, bringing a knee up into the Spiderkin’s jaw, knocking it back a step as I twirled my warhammer, bringing it down on top of the spider’s skull—using it like a sledgehammer to drive a stake into the ground.

I unleashed Savage Blow, and the spider’s head exploded like a rotten pumpkin; shards of bone, strings of gristle, and gelatinous green blood splattered everywhere. I grimaced and backpedaled, clutching at the puncture wounds in my chest, which were making it terribly difficult to breathe. A combat notice flashed in my peripheral vision:

<<<>>>

Debuffs Added

Punctured Lung: You have suffered a punctured lung; Stamina Regeneration reduced by 15% for 5 minutes.

Orbweaver Poison: You have been poisoned: 1 HP/sec; duration, 10 minutes or until cured.

<<<>>>

Crap, that wasn’t good. The DPS on the poison was relatively low—60 points a minute—but over ten minutes, that’d cost me 600 HP. Far more than I had even at full health, and I wasn’t anywhere close to full health.

I stole a glance over my shoulder—the narrow opening in the trees was still clear, though Cutter was nowhere to be seen—and backtracked in a slow retreat, still clenching at the puncture wounds, feeling my life and strength leak away one ragged breath at a time. I wasn’t optimistic about my chances. These Spiderkin were tough and vicious, and the few I’d managed to put down were hardly a drop in the bucket. I caught sudden movement on my left and wheeled just in time to get blasted with a stream of sticky webbing. Yet another debuff:

<<<>>>

Debuff Added

Snared: You have been snared by Web Vomit, slowing your movement by 50%; duration, 3 minutes.

<<<>>>

I fought at the gossamer material binding my legs and clinging to my arms, working to tear my way free of the stuff even as I shuffled toward the tree line at a snail’s pace. A loose ring of the Spiderkin were now arrayed before me in a horseshoe, but instead of charging me, they bided their time, waiting for something. A moment later, I found out what: one of the shifty, long-legged jerks had strung a trip line of spider silk directly behind me. My already tangled feet caught on the taut line and suddenly I was falling, arms flailing as I fought to keep upright.

A useless effort.

I hit with an umphf of expelled air, landing near the stinking corpse of the first spider Cutter and I had managed to take down. The horde of Spiderkin didn’t waste a heartbeat, rushing in, jostling each other in order to get first crack at me. A particularly beefy sucker won the battle and scampered over me. I expected it to strike in an instant and send me for respawn, but instead, it repositioned its bloated belly and began to blast my feet with a thick stream of webbing. I began to panic, recalling the words of the Spider Queen: “Catch them … string them up … keep them alive—the younglings will need living flesh and hot blood to feast on when they hatch.”

It was cocooning me, preparing me for later consumption. Oh my god, this game was awful. Osmark Technologies was lucky players were stuck in V.G.O. permanently, or they would’ve had a slew of lawsuits on their hands—filed by traumatized players who would never have a peaceful night’s sleep again.

The creature’s abdomen continued to pulse, swelling and contracting as it spewed ever more webbing onto my body, working its way up my legs. At this point, I was thinking the poison coursing through my veins was actually a blessing—if I didn’t do anything to stop it, the poison would kill me, which was the best option.

Still, I couldn’t just lie there, waiting to die, so I raised my hammer, preparing for a last-ditch assault.

Before I could strike out, however, the fat Spiderkin hovering above me reared back, issuing a horrendous shriek of angry disapproval. I glanced at my warhammer, trying to figure out what I’d just done and how, but then Cutter’s face flashed in front of mine.

“Hang in there, Grim Jack,” he said, prying his hands into my armpits and dragging me away from the howling spider and into the relative safety of the trees. He lifted my bulk with a grunt and gracelessly tossed me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes so my torso dangled down his back. “I think we’ve overstayed our welcome,” he yelled as he broke into a lurching run. The ride was far from pleasant—each step sent a lancing pain up through my stomach and into my punctured lung.

Another round of terrible spidery yowls brought my head up. We were being pursued, a small pack of the creatures scuttling through the foliage, leaping from tree to tree, closing the distance in a hurry. My health was still dropping by the second, but I hesitated to down one of the Health Regen potions at my belt. Quick as Cutter was moving, those things would overtake us in no time, unless I could find a way to slow them down …

“Faster, Cutter!” I hollered as I flopped up and down, gritting my teeth as his shoulder dug into my gut.

My health bar began flashing an angry, infected red as it dropped to 15%, but a sweet flood of arctic cold filled my limbs in an instant. With my life hanging in the balance, I had access to my otherwise restricted Umbra Bolt ability. I lifted my right hand, envisioning a burning ball of shadow forming in my palm. Something inside me moved, shifted, and suddenly the cold congregated to my outstretched limb, seeping from my skin, wreathing my hand in flickering shadow.

I grinned and willed the Umbra Bolt out.

Light erupted, streaking away, slamming into one of the pursuing arachnoids. The creature exploded in a ball of violet shadow, hissing and stumbling, both hurt and temporarily blinded. I pumped fistful after fistful of shadow power at the Spiderkin, keeping one eye on my health bar as I worked. This was a fine balance—I could only access the Umbra power with my health below 15%, but I didn’t want to die either.

I clipped one of the creatures in mid-leap, swatting it from the air and amputating the majority of its legs in the process. Another went down for good as I scored a critical hit in its horrifying face, turning its eye-studded head into a disgusting spray of green mist. At 75 Spirit per shot, the barrage of Umbra Bolts quickly ate through my Spirit supply, but thankfully a purple potion at my belt restored me to 50%, giving me another four or five blasts. My health was still plummeting, but I didn’t want to waste my limited opportunity to use Umbra Bolt.

I sent out a few sporadic shots, kicking up dirt, and felling a palm tree, hoping to slow our pursuers down. One particularly well-placed shot—by which I mean lucky—knocked a scurrying Spiderkin from the side of a tree; the creature fell directly into the path of several other arachnoids, tripping up one while being trampled by the other. With my Spirit once more low and my health hovering at around 5%, I finally pulled a health potion from one of my belt slots and downed the thing in a single pull, the taste of cherry-flavored medicine burning across my tongue and down my throat.

About as pleasant as real-world medicine, but it worked much, much faster. My health bar almost immediately jumped to 25%, saving my skin, but robbing me of my death-dealing Umbra Bolt spell, which was problematic—especially since even more spiders were scuttling out of the woodwork, joining the hunt. And they were close now, ten or fifteen feet away.

“Faster, Cutter, faster!”

“I’m moving as quick as I can go, fatty—you weigh a lot more than you look!” he shouted, huffing and puffing. We rounded a bend, slipping between several trees, and then we were temporarily airborne as Cutter leapt over a meandering stream three or four feet wide, landing on a narrow dirt trail on the other side. We didn’t come down easy—the pain redoubled in my middle—and worse, the rough landing also cost us precious seconds. When I glanced back up, though, I could only stare in slack-jawed amazement; the spiders had stopped.

Just stopped.

They were lined up along the edge of the stream, staring at us with malicious, greedy eyes. But they made no move to cross the slow-moving water.

Why in the world would these things stop? They couldn’t be scared of a shallow stream, could they?

That’s when I caught sight of the totem. A crudely carved log jutted from the ground near the path. The wooden post was covered in harsh, angular script and topped by the yellowing skull of a spider, decorated in swirls of red paint. We must’ve entered some kind of safe zone, though a small part of me wondered what a horde of Spiderkin had to fear. That thought fled, however, as the ground gave out below Cutter and me, and we plummeted into a gaping hole, the bottom lined with jagged wooden spikes.

We’d carelessly run into a trap.

I flipped forward, head over tail, screaming as I braced for the impact to come. As I prepared to be impaled through the chest, stomach, neck, or face. That was a bad way to go, but still probably better than being cocooned alive as a late-night snack for a bunch of hungry spider babies. I smashed hard into the ground, landing on one shoulder; an assortment of dirt, twigs, leaves, and gravel chewed at my skin like sandpaper as I flipped and rolled.

I finally came to a jerky stop on my back, hurt, but surprisingly free of spikes. I pushed myself up onto my elbows and stole a look around. I’d landed on the edge of the pit—one of the only areas devoid of the angled wooden spears sticking up from the ground like rusty nails. Cutter hadn’t fared so well. He lay just a few feet to my right, whimpering softly as he stared at a bloody spike piercing one thigh clean through. He slipped trembling fingers into a pouch at his belt and pulled free a health vial, uncorking it with his teeth, then taking a long gulp.

“Bollocks,” he grunted at me through gritted teeth, his brow coated with sweat, his face stained with dirt. “This wazzock arsebadger right here”—he slapped at the gore-tipped spear in his leg—“is preventing me from recovering. It’s gonna keep on sapping my health until I can get it out.”

I pushed myself upright with a groan, downed another health potion myself—I wouldn’t do Cutter any good dead—then wobbled over, took a knee, and began examining the wound with gentle fingers. The shaft was really lodged in there, and I couldn’t see an easy way to get him free, which was probably the whole point of the trap: someone falls in and slowly bleeds to death no matter how many health potions they have in their inventory. There was only one thing I could do—I needed to break the shaft.

“This might hurt a little,” I warned as I stood and spread my feet, hammer raised.

Cutter grimaced and nodded. “Do it.”

He flinched as I laid into the crude spear. My hammer thudded into the wood a few inches above his leg, and he cried out in protest. All that vibration couldn’t feel good, but this was the only way. Again and again I smashed at the wood, chips and chunks flying away as Cutter screamed. After a few minutes, the spike finally broke in two, which allowed me to wiggle his leg out, revealing a ragged hole the size of my fist running clean through his upper leg.

It was bad and graphic, but I’d seen worse IRL. Though not often.

With that done, I dragged him over to the side of the pit, away from the death spikes, wadded up an extra shirt from my pack, and applied pressure to the wound on instinct. Not sure if it made any difference—probably not—but between that and a few more health potions, Cutter was more or less back to normal in a few minutes. By that time, both of my spider-induced debuffs had also faded, meaning we were in the clear, healthwise. The only problem was, we were now stuck in a hole twenty-five feet deep, without a foreseeable way up, while the already gloomy forest was moving toward genuine night.

Far from an ideal situation.

I scooted back and flopped down, leaning against the sheer earthen wall behind me, sudden exhaustion starting to set in. I wasn’t quite sure how the “Tired” debuff worked in V.G.O.—was it related simply to the sleep versus wake ratio, or were there other factors to consider, such as physical effort and injuries? I didn’t have an answer, but I was tired and also hungry. I opened my pack, removed the campfire kit I’d picked up at Trajan’s, and coaxed a little flame to life using some kindling and the split spear end I’d smashed to pieces.

Cutter watched me in silence.

Next, I dug into my pack and removed some of the food I’d picked up for this expedition—bread, cheese, mutton. The food appeared in my hands—the bread a little too hard, the mutton cold—but a few minutes over the fire warmed the meat right up. I distributed the meat once it was done, dripping hot grease to the ground.

“Don’t suppose I ever told you how much I hate spiders, did I?” Cutter said around a mouthful of mutton, eyes watching the fire as the night grew damp and a smidge chilly.

I shook my head and tore off a chunk of pungent cheese.

“Well, then let me go on the record and say it. I royally hate spiders. Miserable bastards, the whole lot of them. They always turn up in the worst situations, too. One time—several years back this was—I’d fallen into a bit of a tough financial bind, so I agreed to clear a dungeon as part of a merc team. Picking up a little extra coin on the side to repay some outstanding debts I owed to an unfriendly fellow with a penchant for leg-breaking.

“At any rate”—he waved a hand through the air, the gesture saying the backstory wasn’t important—“while scouting out traps, I stumbled into a room filled with the leggy buggers. Not quite so aggressive or large as these, but very unfriendly. They swarmed me in a blink and had me strung up before I knew what hit me. My team rescued me before the creepy-crawlies could turn me into a meal, but I haven’t been able to stomach the sight of ’em since.” He shivered at the memory.

“Speaking of,” I said, suppressing a yawn with one hand, “thanks for coming back for me. With the spiders, I mean. I know I can respawn, but I sure wasn’t looking forward to being lunch for the Queen.”

His face grew dark. “I’m not what anyone might call a moral man, but I couldn’t leave you to that fate, even if you’d eventually recover.” He shook his head. “And, so you know, she wasn’t going to eat you, Grim Jack. She was going to string you up, cut you open, then load you full of eggs. You’d live in total agony for a week or so, right up until those eggs hatched and the baby Spiderkin ate their way out of your body. Nasty as they come.” He arched an eyebrow. “I suppose she might’ve ate what was left of you, though.”

I sat in quiet horror for a spell.

Again, under normal circumstances, this game was a lawsuit waiting to happen. “Wow. That’s total nightmare fuel,” I said, leaning my head against the dirt wall. I closed my eyes for a moment, a giant yawn escaping my mouth. Then, despite the day’s experience and the fact that I was dirty and in a pit, I somehow dozed off.

TWENTY-SEVEN: Captives

Someone urgently shook my shoulder, roughly jerking me back and forth. “Wake up, Jack,” a vaguely familiar voice whispered at me.

I shrugged and tried to turn away. A bright flare of pain exploded in my cheek as an open-handed slap smashed into my face, knocking my head to one side. Begrudgingly, I cracked open my eyes: Cutter loomed over me, gaze swapping back and forth between me and something up on the edge of the pit. “Wake up, you moron,” he fervently hissed again, jostling my shoulder. The fire had burned down to red embers, blanketed by a coat of gray ash, and the sky was still dark above. At most, a couple of hours had passed.

It took my eyes a handful of seconds to adjust to the dim light, but when they did, I easily spotted the quartet of strange specters regarding us from the top of the pit.

Lean, humanoid figures—two men, two women—with chalky white skin, decked out in crudely stitched armor, soft boots, and bracers lined with gleaming razors. The gear was studded with chunks of bone, ferocious teeth, and feathers in a myriad of colors, giving our onlookers a feral and dangerous appearance. I could tell they were watching us, but it was impossible to guess their thoughts or intentions since their faces were covered by horrifying masks, crafted from animal skulls decorated in a similar manner to the spider head I’d seen affixed to the totem marker by the river.

“These blokes don’t look particularly friendly,” Cutter said, glancing over his shoulder, “but if I had to bet, I’d say this is the lot we’re here to find.” He stood slowly, raising his hands skyward, showing he held no weapons.

“Hello there, friends,” he said with a wave toward the figures. “Not sure if you understand me or not, but I’m hoping you do. Me and my friend here have come in search of Chief Kolle of the Ak-Hani clan. Don’t suppose you fine folks would be willing to give us a hand out of this pit, then point us in the right direction, eh?”

The masked faces regarded us for a long minute, then disappeared, retreating from view.

“Good work, Cutter,” I said, pushing myself upright, then brushing the flaky earth from the seat of my pants with one hand. “You scared them off.”

“As long as they don’t murder us,” he replied, voice drawn and worried, “I’ll consider that a win … Unfortunately, I don’t think we’re going to get that lucky,” he finished as the masked faces appeared once more.

“Chief Kolle,” one of them said, his voice deep and gruff, “where did you hear this name? Who told you to come to the lands of the Ak-Hani? And speak true, outsiders. If you lie, we will find out and you will suffer. Lie, and we will personally ferry you back across the stream and into the many arms of the Mairng Mong—the Spider Queen and her brood.”

For a long stupid moment, I looked to Cutter, expecting him to take the lead and answer. Instead, he stole a glance at me and planted a sharp elbow into my ribs. “You’re on, Grim Jack. These are your people, your quest, after all.”

I gulped then reached a hand into my tunic, pulling the leather thong the dying Murk Elf had entrusted into my care—the mark of the Maa-Tál, embossed with a raven. “My friend and I”—I hooked a thumb toward Cutter—“were taken captive by a black priest of Serth-Rog,” I began, then, as quickly as I could manage, I spooled out the tale, recounting our escape and my subsequent encounter with the dying Murk Elf. “So,” I concluded, “she gave me this talisman as a sign of my trustworthiness, and charged me with bringing word of her death to the chief of the Ak-Hani.”

They were silent for a moment. “I don’t like it,” a woman said, giving a shake of her head, the great horns of her mask swishing and swaying. “They are outsiders, Baymor, and he”—she nodded toward me—“is of the Lost Tribe. Everyone knows the Lost Ones cannot be trusted. How do we know they are not merely Viridian sympathizers? Sympathizers looking to curry favor by mapping our lands or assassinating Kolle? The human has a certain sneaky look to him. Is it so hard to believe he could be Sicarii?”

“And what of the talisman?” the man asked in return, more statement than question. “Does that not merit some small measure of trust?”

“No,” she replied flatly. “It is unwise. What if they captured this missing Maa-Tál, tortured her to learn the name of our chief, then stole the talisman? It is not beyond belief, Baymor. The Viridians’ shame and indecency know no bounds. Caution is better here, I think. Smarter. Let us kill them and wash our hands of this.”

“Amara makes a good argument,” said a different masked man. “These are evil days, after all. We’ll give them quick, clean deaths, then hang their bones by the path as a deterrent against other interlopers. This is good, I think.”

“Whoa boy, this is about to turn ugly,” Cutter whispered sharply in my ear. “Do something. Anything. This is your show, Jack. You’re the Murk Elf.”

The four on the ridge spread out, and suddenly each held a short curved bow, carefully knocking arrow to string. Oh no. They were going to execute us on the spot.

“Wait,” I shouted as a bout of inspiration struck. “The woman, the Maa-Tál who gave me the talisman, she gave me something else, too.” I whipped open my inventory and hurriedly removed my leather bracers, then hastily rolled up my left sleeve. I held my forearm up like a shield, the black handprint standing out in sharp relief against my gunmetal gray skin. “She marked me with this.”

For a long beat, nothing happened—which was both good and bad, considering the circumstances—but eventually, one by one, they lowered their raised bows. “He has the mark,” the man, Baymor, said. “Is there some explanation for this, Amara?” he asked, tone slightly accusatory.

“No,” the woman replied with a sigh. “No Maa-Tál would offer the mark unless the Shadow-Spark is present.” She paused, slung her bow, then crossed her arms as she regarded us. “I suppose the truth of his story is for Kolle to decide. We could still kill the human, though,” she offered with a shrug. “He has neither the talisman nor the mark. Truly an outsider. What say you, Lost One?” she shouted down to me. “Will you allow us to kill this traveling companion of yours to spare your life?”

Cutter stole an uneasy look at me, a nervous grin stretching across his face. “Don’t hang me out to dry here, Jack. We’re in this together, eh?”

I smiled, shook my head, and slid right, repositioning myself in front of Cutter. Using my body as a shield. “No,” I replied to the Murk Elf woman above. “Either you offer us both safe passage, or you kill us both.” I drew my warhammer from the frog at my belt. “But, word to the wise, we’re not going to go easy.” That wasn’t true—if they decided to kill us, we’d fold like a bad hand, but maybe they wouldn’t know that.

The four Ak-Hani suddenly broke into a chorus of chuckles and hoots. “Good answer,” Amara replied. “Perhaps you have what it takes to be Maa-Tál, after all. We will take you and your friend to see Kolle, but be warned. If there is deceit in your heart, Kolle will know, and what he will do to you will be far worse than death by spider.”

With the threat made, the four Ak-Hani quickly lowered down a pair of ropes and hauled Cutter and me out of the pit. It wasn’t all hugs and high fives after that, though. No, in short order, they bound our hands behind our backs with chafing strips of rope, then fitted us both with metal collars affixed to chains so they could drag us along. The collars, aside from being positively frigid, offered a string of terrible penalties:

<<<>>>

Debuffs Added

Bound: Movement rate reduced by 10%; duration, indefinitely.

Drained: Health, Stamina, and Spirit Regeneration reduced by 30%; duration, indefinitely.

Inhibited: Carry Capacity -40lbs; Stealth is 50% more difficult; all spells have a 50% increased chance to fail; duration, indefinitely.

<<<>>>

Assuming Cutter and I lived through this, I’d need to get my hands on a few of these collars—they’d sure come in handy against the enemies I’d made for myself over the past couple days.

“If you fail to keep up,” the woman said, rounding on me, “I will sling you over my shoulder and carry you all the way to Yunnam like a mewling child. And you”—she gave the chain attached to Cutter’s collar a stiff yank—“will keep up, or I will slit your throat and leave your remains for the crocodiles. Now move.”

TWENTY-EIGHT: Chief Kolle

It took two or three hours of hard walking to get to the Murk Elf city, Yunnam. At first, the path was easy to follow, but the further into the forest we went, the more often the trail veered into thick tangles of swampy vegetation or hooked through shallow bogs, which made moving nearly impossible. Our guides, though, walked the route with the confidence of people who’d made the same trek a thousand times before. They seemed to know every pitfall, every stone, and their steps always found the stable rock in the mud or the dry patch of grass in the otherwise mushy marshlands.

Not that they shared any of that information with us. They were an abnormally tight-lipped group, and our time passed in silence, with the exception of the occasional muttered curse from Cutter.

Eventually, we started to see subtle signs of habitation: at first it was guard towers, built into the branches of spreading trees. The towers were nearly invisible, heavily camouflaged with mud, sticks, leaves, and vines, but my Keen-Sight ability quickly outlined the blurred edges of the structures. Then, after a time, I noticed the jungle had been cleared back in places to make room for the increasingly broad dirt path, which almost resembled a crude road. After even more walking, the dirt path finally morphed into a cobblestone street, made from dark worn river rock.

The stone walkway carved through the trees, twisting and winding this way and that, following the natural contours of the land. We rounded a corner, identical to a thousand others before it, and suddenly found ourselves at a wooden palisade with a rough gate, already open, waiting to receive us. The town beyond the gate was a far cry from what I’d experienced in Rowanheath. While the Wode city vaguely resembled a mix between medieval Europe and the ancient Roman Empire, this place didn’t look like any city I’d ever seen—in real life or on the big screen.

The town was built among twisted, moss-covered trees, the urban sprawl taking great care to give the towering plants room to grow. The buildings were built from an amalgamation of wood, mud, and palm fronds, all joined together with odd bits of leather, tangles of luminescent green moss, and gobs of silvery spider silk. Not a lot of curb appeal—no cozy little townhomes I could see myself settling down in—and also, no actual curbs to speak of. All of the buildings towered high above the ground, raised up on dark wooden struts, giving the homes a strangely arachnoid appearance.

Considering we were in a swamp that probably received a fair amount of rainfall—this area was likely called the Storme Marshes for a good reason—I guessed the elevation was for flooding. It was still weird, though. Our guards pulled us through the center of town, the residents staring at us with hard, guarded gazes. I saw more than one Murk Elf parent usher kids up rickety stairs and into homes at our passing. So far, I didn’t know much about the Ak-Hani clan, but one thing was readily apparent.

Outsiders were really, really, really not liked, which didn’t bode well for us.

Yunnam was also radically smaller than Rowanheath, so it took only a handful of minutes before our escorts dragged us to a halt at our final destination. A massive and twisted tree. The thing was fat and gnarled, with giant boughs branching off from the trunk, reaching for the sky like a hundred broken fingers. Great ropes of moss clung to every branch, to every twig, pulsing with a soft light. A set of weathered stone steps climbed up the the tree’s face, dead-ending at a squat door inset directly into the trunk, flanked by a pair of circular windows shedding weak yellow firelight.

One of the guards—a man who hadn’t spoken more than a dozen words—loosened my hand restraints, removed the metal collar from my neck, then gave me a little shove toward the stairs. “I thought you said we were probably assassins,” I commented, rubbing at the raw skin around my wrists. “Aren’t you worried I might try to do something?”

“We said he might be Sicarii,” the still-masked Amara replied, with a nod to Cutter. “You? No, I don’t think so. Besides, we are at times overprotective of our chieftain. He is a great warrior and a powerful Necromancer of the Maa-Tál. Try anything and he’ll rip the soul from your body. Now”—she paused, staring at me through the mask slits—“up you go.”

“What about my friend?” I asked.

“He does not bear the talisman,” she replied, deadpan. “Nor does he have the mark. So”—she paused, and it almost sounded like she was smiling—“he will remain in our custody until Chief Kolle determines your intent. If he declares your innocence, you and your friend live. And if he finds you guilty?” She shrugged, unconcerned by the prospect. “Our pigs are always hungry.”

“Don’t screw this up,” Cutter called as the guards dragged him away, deeper into the village. Amara, however, accompanied me to the top of the stairs, then pounded on the door with a closed fist, thunk, thunk, thunk.

“Enter,” boomed a deep, masculine voice that sounded like a cement mixer loaded down with bricks. Amara opened the door and rudely shoved me through, before slipping in herself.

Despite the foreboding exterior, the tree’s interior was beautiful, well lit, and clean. There wasn’t much by way of furniture, but what I saw was all finely made and polished to a dull glow. Elegantly curved bookshelves lined the walls and were heavy laden with thick leather-bound tomes and a host of arcane potions and ingredients. Chief Kolle lounged on a pile of colorful pillows at the far side of the room, thumbing through a dusty book laid out on a squat, rectangular table in front of him.

After seeing the elaborate and terrifying attire of the Ak-Hani Rangers, I’d come expecting a nightmare shaman looming on a throne made of human bones. But the chief was none of those things. He was large and heavily muscled with black hair, heavily streaked with gray, and wore plain clothing that would’ve let him pass unnoticed in Rowanheath. His bushy eyebrows nearly climbed into his hairline as his gaze flickered between me and my guard.

“I see your patrol has yielded some interesting results,” he said, closing his book and rubbing absently at his chin.

Amara bowed formally, removing her mask in the process. She had the same gray skin as the rest of the Murk Elves, short black hair, shaved down to the skin on one side, and a few swirling tattoos covering one cheek. She was younger than I’d expected—late twenties, early thirties—but just a glance at her violet eyes told me her years had been hard and painful. Filled with violence, bloodshed, and loss.

She rose from her bow and immediately launched into the details of the expedition, giving a terse, no-nonsense report—the spiders were encroaching again, there was sign of Imperial soldiers moving along the northern border of the marshes, the Moss Hag had struck again—then offered an account of finding me and Cutter stranded in the death pit. The chieftain listened placidly, little emotion displayed on his face, then dismissed her from the room, before turning his gaze on me.

“Well,” he finally said as the door shut, “what do you have to say for yourself, boy?”

I fidgeted nervously, clearing my throat as I tried to figure out what to say. Truthfully, Amara had summed everything up much more efficiently than I ever could have. I struggled for another few seconds, the silence turning into an uncomfortable weight around my shoulders. Then, the chief did something to break the tension. He smiled, a wide grin missing a few teeth.

“Relax, boy,” he said with a bark and an eyeroll. “You and your friend are safe. You are no Viridian cutthroat come to collect my scalp, even a blind man could see that. Some of my clan—like my daughter, Amara, whom you’ve had the pleasure of meeting—can be a little zealous in their disdain for the empire. At times, a bit overzealous perhaps. Such passion is both the blessing and curse of youth.”

I gulped, feeling weak in the knees. That crazy, mask-wearing woman was his daughter?

“I, on the other hand,” he said after a pause, “have the benefit of many years on my side. Such time often brings a certain degree of wisdom and discernment. As a result, I am not quite so quick to rush to judgement. This gift of time also allows me to use my eyes.” He paused, grinned, and tapped at the corner of one eye. “Not only do you not look like a cutthroat, you bear the Blessing of the Forest. Only the mighty tree-kin can issue such trinkets, and the trees have far better discernment than even the oldest of our kind. If one of the elder tree brothers thinks highly enough of you to give you such a gift, I can at least hear you out. So please, come, sit, relax, and tell me your tale.”

I let out a huge sigh of relief and my legs seemed to move me forward as though on autopilot. Before I knew it, I was seated on the floor across from the chieftain, spilling my story.

I told him everything. Waking up in the cell. Finding the old woman. Giving her the potion, trying to resuscitate her and failing. He listened thoughtfully as I talked, nodding or frowning in all the right places. I told him what I knew about the black priest of Serth-Rog, which didn’t amount to much. Still, he seemed to absorb the details with great meaning, as though finally fitting some long-missing puzzle piece into place.

“Well,” he said as I finished, folding his hands in his lap, “that certainly clears up a few things.”

“Does that mean you know what that priest was doing, then?” I asked, genuinely curious about the mystery.

He canted his head to one side, brow furrowed, and nodded.

“There is still much I do not know,” he said gravely, “but this is not the first such report to reach my ears. Folk from all six named clans have gone missing over the past several months. Many never to reappear again. A few, however, have returned, but they are different from when they left. To the undiscerning eye, these doppelgangers may go unnoticed—but I have noticed. Their bodies are whole, but they are absent a soul. Or, at least their soul. These dark priests are hollowing people out and replacing them with corrupt spirits from Morsheim, the realm of Serth-Rog. To what end this is being done, I cannot yet say …”

A notification popped up as he thoughtfully trailed off:

<<<>>>

Quest Update: Imposter Georgie

Chief Kolle of the Ak-Hani clan has informed you that the black priests of Serth-Rog are replacing people with convincing doppelgangers, though he doesn’t know why. Tell Cutter about the new revelation in order to get to the bottom of Gentlemen Georgie’s strange shift in personality.

Quest Class: Unique, Personal

Quest Difficulty: Hard

Success: Help Cutter get to the bottom of the mystery surrounding Gentleman Georgie’s sudden personality change.

Failure: Refuse to help Cutter or allow him to die before the mission is complete.

Reward: ?

<<<>>>

“That aside,” the chief continued, “I truly cannot thank you enough for fulfilling the final wish of our dear departed sister, especially at such great risk to yourself. You do not know this, but one of our elders, Larriet Shadowrunner, went missing near a month ago, and we’ve been urgently searching for her. That talisman you bear belonged to her. Her passing is a terrible thing, a deep loss to our people, but better to know than to suffer in uncertainty.”

He was silent for a long time, staring at me, jaw clenched tight, forehead creased, eyes unfocused, as though he were seeing something far off. “That talisman she gave you—I think you should keep it. Larriet would’ve liked that. Besides, you may find use of it yet, since this is not the end of your journey among us, but rather the beginning. I am Maa-Tál myself—the Chief Dark Templar of the Ak-Hani—and I can see the Shadow-Spark burning inside you. I can see the mark Elder Larriet left upon you. It is possible you are destined to become one of us, boy. If, that is, you have the mettle to endure what is to come.

“But”—he paused, rubbing a hand along his jaw—“it is late and I can see you are tired, so for tonight, I will have you and your friend put in guest quarters. In the morning, we’ll discuss your induction into the esteemed ranks of the Dark Templars.” He frowned again, lips curling into a thin line. “But sleep, first.” He shook his head and looked away. “I don’t envy you, boy. Not at all.”

A level up notification and a quest update appeared as the chief dismissed me.

<<<>>>
x1 Level Up!

You have (25) undistributed stat points! Stat points can be allocated at any time.

You have (10) unassigned proficiency points! Proficiency points can be allocated at any time.

<<<>>>

Quest Update: Plight of the Maa-Tál

You have informed Chief Kolle of the Ak-Hani clan about the awful experiments of the black priests of Serth-Rog and successfully delivered the sacred talisman of the dying Murk Elf, Larriet. In return, you have received 15,000 EXP. In order to fully complete this quest and receive the reward—[unique, scalable item]—and the Shadowmancer class kit, you must complete the Maa-Tál initiation ordeal.

Quest Class: Rare, Class-Based

Quest Difficulty: Hard

Success: Survive the Maa-Tál initiation ordeal

Failure: Die during the Maa-Tál initiation ordeal

Reward: Class Change: Dark Templar, Shadowmancer Kit; Unique, Scalable Item

<<<>>>

I gave them a cursory scan without much enthusiasm. I should’ve been stoked beyond belief—after all, I’d survived finding Chief Kolle, picked up another level, and was on the verge of unlocking my game class. So yeah, I should’ve been stoked. But instead I just felt exhausted beyond belief and sick. Really sick. My head throbbed, my muscles were suddenly as limp as wet noodles, and freezing chills and flaming nausea racked my body in turns.

I found the ever-friendly Amara, who was wearing her mask once more, waiting to escort me outside the building. She guided me through the town, carrying me more often than not as my legs stopped working; I was vaguely aware of lurch-stumbling up a set of wooden steps and into one of the raised buildings before slamming to the floor as every muscle in my body tightened in the same instant.

In the back of my mind, I recalled that I was dangerously close to the seventy-two-hour in-game mark, but the thought didn’t stay long as I passed out in sheer agony.

TWENTY-NINE: Rebirth

I spent the rest of the night and the majority of the next day slipping between consciousness and unconsciousness.

When I slept, I had terrible fever dreams of the real world: I saw my parents—my father balding and potbellied, my mother wearing a floral print dress—die. I saw the skin slough off their bones as murderous space fire ate them up. I watched my coworkers, Jeff and Angelina, perish as a wave, two hundred feet tall, swept in from the ocean, smashing into buildings, flipping cars, drowning people in their homes. I witnessed my ex-girlfriend, now living in Colorado, scream as the ground swelled and buckled, ripping open then swallowing her into the heart of the earth.

Horrific nightmares, all of them.

But waking was even worse. Far worse.

My thoughts were oddly heavy and slipped away whenever I tried to focus on one thing for more than a few seconds. Everything seemed to blur on the edges, bleeding together while the walls spun and twisted into amorphous blobs of techno-color vomit. And awake, there was the pain. My insides felt like they’d been dunked in a vat of acid: a terrible molten liquid searing every nerve ending … My heart jack-rabbited away inside my chest … Every breath was forced and agonizing, like inhaling fine specks of jagged glass … My body randomly convulsed, the muscle contractions so intense they snapped bones …

I’d never experienced anything like it, and part of me wanted nothing more than to die.

After fifteen hours—which felt much more like fifteen years—the pain dimmed to a dull, full-body throb, and I finally came to my senses. I was lying on a narrow pallet in the corner of a tiny room, which boasted a single chair and a roughhewn table with a pitcher of water and a basin. Cutter lounged in the chair, hands folded in his lap, eyes closed while he snored softly. Passed out. There were several windows, all shuttered, but late afternoon sunlight streamed in around the edges, illuminating a swirl of dust motes floating in the air.

Cautiously, I sat up and stretched out sore muscles, twisting this way and that, checking for any kind of long-term damage from my illness. Sophia, my ever-present companion, piped up mid-stretch, alerting me that I had a message from Osmark Customer Support.

I played it immediately.

“Traveler,” intoned an overly chipper and annoyingly familiar voice, “this is Matthew, your customer support representative. Our system records indicate you’ve spent your third full night in Viridian Gate Online. Congratulations! Our system indicates that your physical body lapsed into cardiac arrest roughly two hours ago; your time of death was approximately 6:17 AM Pacific Standard Time. You have our deepest condolences, but we are happy to inform you that you’ve successfully transitioned to V.G.O.!

“Likely, you’ve experienced some very unpleasant sensations over the past several hours, but those feelings will pass and you should fully recover. Make sure you stop by your nearest inn or tavern and eat a hearty meal. As a side note, an Osmark Tech retrieval team has already been dispatched to your physical location. Your body and effects will remain at your residence, but your capsule will be removed, cleaned, and recirculated for the good of humanity. Thank you for playing.”

And just like that, Matthew’s voice was gone. Gone, like my body.

I was dead.

Back in my apartment, my physical heart was unmoving and cold, my eyes glassy, my skin sallow, my guts bloated. I was dead. Carefully, I reached up and ran a hand along my cheek, feeling the bristly bite of facial hair. I dragged my fingers along my jaw line, then slipped them onto my neck, gently pressing two digits into my carotid artery, searching for my pulse. It was there, strong and steady below my fingertips. I was dead. Yet here I was, sitting on a pallet, feeling my heart thump away in my chest, circulating blood through my body.

Wow.

Surreal.

I’d known from the get-go that Viridian Gate was my final destination.

I’d known it, but I hadn’t really believed it. There’s a world of difference between knowing something intellectually and accepting it into your heart as true. I’d known, but I hadn’t believed. Not until now. A small part of me grieved over the loss—because it was a loss. And not just the loss of my physical body, it was the loss of everything I’d ever had. It was the death of my job, the death of my friends, the death of my family, the death of my apartment, city, nation, and world.

It was all consuming and deeply personal.

But then I paused and once more felt the drumming rhythm of my heartbeat beneath my fingers; I threw my head back and laughed. Holy shit! I was alive! Somehow, miraculously, I’d lived. And not just through my own death—I’d survived the end of the world. For weeks, I’d been moping around IRL, consumed by the looming threat of the asteroid, but I’d beaten that ball of flame too—it couldn’t kill me if my body was already a bloated bag of cold meat. I’d been reborn. I chuckled again, a raucous hoot so loud it startled Cutter awake.

He jumped in surprise, then promptly fell from the chair, which only made me laugh harder.

“Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, arsehole,” Cutter muttered disgruntledly, pushing himself upright and brushing off dusty palms on his britches. “It’s not like I watched over you all night, force-feeding you and dribbling water into your mouth so you wouldn’t die. My pain is amusement to you, I understand how it is.”

“It’s not that,” I said, gaining my feet with a wide, goofy grin. “I survived, Cutter. I made it. The sickness you told me about—the one that kills travelers—I survived. I transitioned.” I threw an arm into the air, an epic fist pump. “I’m ALIVE, motherfuckers!” I shouted, before breaking out into a renewed fit of giggles.

“Joy for you,” Cutter replied with an eyeroll. “Would you like a medal for your achievement, eh? I’m alive too, maybe I should celebrate. Though come to think of it, I’m not entirely sure waking up in the morning really qualifies as a major victory. Not unless you’re a phenomenal loser.” He glanced at me and sniffed. “I revise my statement. Maybe you do deserve a medal.”

“Jerk,” I replied halfheartedly. Considering I’d just survived the end of the world, it was hard to be offended. “And thanks for your help, Cutter. You’re a mostly good friend.”

He snorted and rolled his eyes. “One near-death experience and now you’re all misty-eyed. Look, if you really want to thank me,” he said, “how’s about you pull yourself together and get over to the chieftain before that awful Amara loses her patience and feeds us both to bog gators. She told me if you died, I was next on the chopping block. Practically had to fight her off with a stick to keep her out of here.”

That sobered me up pretty quickly.

In my jubilation, I’d sort of forgotten about the Maa-Tál initiation ordeal waiting for me like a bar-drunk loitering in an alleyway, looking for a brawl.

And it also reminded me of the threat still hanging over V.G.O. like a dark cloud: there was a group of corrupt uber-elites looking to rule this world with an iron fist. My joy at surviving morphed and hardened into something new. A fierce resolve to protect Eldgard. Maybe V.G.O. had been a game once, but it wasn’t anymore. Not to me. It was my world now, and it’d given me a second chance to live. It’d offered Abby—and millions of other people—a second chance to live, and I’d be damned if I’d let anyone take that away. Not if I could do anything about it.

“You’re right,” I said with a nod. “Time to go get my hands dirty. Wish me luck.” I turned and headed for the door.

“Luck,” Cutter called out behind me.

Amara was waiting outside, awake and alert as ever, though she’d finally taken off her mask. She offered me a perfunctory greeting, but didn’t have two more words to spare for me as she escorted me back to the chieftain’s tree. Since she didn’t seem interested in gabbing, I pulled out a slab of mutton and ate while we walked. I was just finishing up with my on-the-go breakfast when we arrived at the squat tree in the heart of Yunnam. Amara pushed and shoved me up the stairs, apparently dissatisfied that the chief had decided not to kill me.

She knocked.

A terse “Enter” immediately followed.

The chief was leaning against the far wall, back turned, peering out of a rounded window, casually drumming his fingers on the wooden frame. I stood in the entryway for a few minutes, shuffling nervously from foot to foot. Eventually, I cleared my throat, once, twice, three times, which finally got his attention.

“Grim Jack,” he said with a little shake of his head, before rounding on me. “It’s good to see you back on your feet. My daughter told me about your condition, and I was beginning to fear the worst. We haven’t had many travelers out this way, but I’ve heard of foreigners dying and vanishing permanently. Killed by some sort of strange, untreatable illness. I’m relieved you’re not one of them.” He paused, squinting as his lips pulled up into a barely there smile. “I’ve been up all night thinking over the details of your ordeal—I would’ve hated to waste all that effort only to have you die prematurely.”

“Well,” I said, struggling to find a tactful response, “that’s very thoughtful of you.”

His smile widened a fraction of an inch. “You seem like a good egg, Jack. I hope you make it through this. Now, as your people say, let’s get down to brass tacks. Obviously, much of the day’s already been spent, but there is still time for you to complete the ritual, assuming you are willing and ready.” He paused and folded his hands behind his back. “So are you ready, Jack?”

I sighed and ran a nervous hand through my hair. “As ready as I’m ever going to be,” I finally replied with a bob of my chin.

He paused again, eyeing me more intently, scrutinizing every inch of me, his smile fading, turning into a thin, tight line. “There is something new about you today,” he said, almost in a whisper. “There is a vitality to you that wasn’t there before. And fire. A fire in your belly.” He frowned, a look of confusion briefly passing across his face before he nodded in approval. “That is good. You’re going to need fire to survive the trial ahead of you.

“Now, unfortunately, boy,” he continued, “your ordeal will be quite unorthodox and far more strenuous than what most initiates experience. The majority of seekers typically undergo two different initiation ordeals. The first”—he raised one finger into the air—“is to prove they are worthy of the title of Dark Templar. Maa-Tál. The second ordeal”—another finger shot up—“takes place much later on, once a novice Dark Templar has already mastered the fundamentals of the class. That second trial confers a kit specialization. Few have what it takes to become Maa-Tál, fewer still have what it takes go further.”

“But I already have a specialization selected,” I interjected. “I’m supposed to be a Shadowmancer.”

“Half true,” he replied. “You are something of an anomaly—a child too ambitious for your own good. Essentially, you’ve learned to run before you’ve learned to walk. Your natural aptitude has already marked you with the distinction of a class specialization, yet …” He paused, suddenly very serious. “Yet you have failed to prove you are worthy to bear the title of Maa-Tál in the first place. So, I have come up with a different test for you. Instead of two trials, you shall have only one. One single terrible ordeal, far more difficult than is truly fair to ask of any initiate.”

I felt a growing lump in my throat. What in the world did he want me to do?

“To give you as much of an edge as possible,” he said after a beat, “I will temporarily grant you the Dark Templar base class and give you access to your Shadowmancer skill tree during the course of your ordeal. But, should you fail in this, you will lose your temporary class-change and the path of the Dark Templar will be forever closed to you. Additionally, should you fail, any Proficiency Points you invested in the Shadowmancer skill tree will be lost forever. Knowing all of this, would you still like to proceed?”

Once more, I found myself reeling on the edge of a precipice with no hope of return.

The last time I’d heard those words, would you still like to proceed, it’d been a VR version of Robert Osmark explaining the risks of stepping into the world of V.G.O. It felt unreal to be hearing those same words again, this time coming from the mouth of a Murk Elf chieftain. If I took this step, there’d be no going back. If I failed, this class would be closed forever, relegating me to something else—something less—and robbing me of priceless Proficiency Points in the process. Or … I could walk away. It was all or nothing.

In my old life, I’d lived in a crappy apartment, with crappy things, making a crappy salary. All because I wasn’t brave enough to step out and take risks. This was a new life, though. A new chance, and I wasn’t going to make the same mistakes again. “In for a penny, in for a pound,” I said with a nod. “Lay it on me.”

THIRTY: Dark Templar

The chieftain offered a broad grin, crow’s feet jutting from the corners of his eyes. “Wonderful.” He rubbed his hands together. In a few quick steps, he was before me and had my head gripped between his heavily calloused palms. Then he began to chant, his words foreign and odd, echoing with a strangely musical cadence. The handprint on my arm began to throb like a slow steady heartbeat, arctic cold sweeping through me like a sudden blizzard, my limbs trembling under the icy power. Part of me wanted to pull away from his hands, but I couldn’t move.

I could only stand, shiver, and watch.

Soon, the chanting took on a new rhythm—fevered, edgy, erratic—and great bands of shifting black began to swirl and twirl around the chief until he was wreathed in a whirlwind of pure shadow. His eyes burned with violet light and suddenly the pressure on my head increased a hundred-fold, his hands turning into a vise, bearing down on my skull with inhuman strength, sending jagged bolts of pain skipping through my body. I opened my mouth to scream but no sound came out; instead, the whirling vortex surrounding Kolle poured into me, filling me with the dark, freezing energy of Umbra.

In wriggled inside me, seeping through my skin, crawling over eyes and my hair, boring through my eardrums, and permeating my gray matter.

After what felt like a lifetime, the chief ceased his chanting and staggered away, sweat rolling down his face, his back bowed with exhaustion, his arms suddenly hanging like dead weights at his sides. He stumbled and lurched left then right, before carefully shuffling backward and lowering himself onto a mound of pillows, his breathing labored. I gracelessly collapsed to the ground, my legs rubber, my spine made of Jell-O. My HP hadn’t been affected in any way by the ceremony, but whatever the chief had done had completely drained me of Spirit and Stamina.

“The ceremony is never easy,” the chief said after a time, “but it was even more difficult than usual with you, boy. Nearly killed myself unlocking your gift. I am suddenly reminded why there is a reason the ordeal is done in stages.” He paused, wheezing as he dropped his head down. “Still, it is done,” he finished eventually. “You now have access to the Shadowmancer Kit skills. Take a moment to examine the abilities available to you, invest your Proficiency Points as you see fit, then I will tell you about your initiation ordeal.”

I nodded, too tired to say anything else. A host of notifications immediately popped up in front of me. I sighed, opened up my bag, and selected another slab of seared meat to gnaw on while I read through each prompt—I really needed to get my Stamina back up to maximum. First was a long list of various traits I’d acquired with my new class:

<<<>>>

Mantle of the Maa-Tál (Shadowmancer)

As a guardian and enforcer of the Dark Pantheon, you wrap yourself in the shadow power of the Umbra, gaining a wide array of deadly powers.

Effect 1: +5% faster movement rate (+1% for per 4 C.L.)

Effect 2: +10% Stealth (+1% per 5 C.L.)

Effect 3: Immune to Morale Failure

Effect 4: +10% damage bonus against “light”-aligned players and NPCs

Effect 5: +20% resistance to shadow damage

Effect 6: Access to Shadowmancer Restricted Skills

Effect 7: “Dark” alignment added

Effect 8: 10% Weakness against Holy Damage

Effect 9: Cannot wear Heavy Armor

Effect 10: Can only specialize in Blunt Weapons

<<<>>>

I whistled through my teeth. Those were some serious perks. I was sure the other classes offered some spectacular bonuses, but I bet they weren’t nearly so extensive. I took another bite of meat, savoring the charred flavor as I toggled over to the “Class Abilities” screen.

<<<>>>

Class Unlocked

Congratulations, you have been granted the Dark Templar (Probationary) class and have unlocked the Shadowmancer (Probationary) specialty kit! Each class has a variety of locked skills/abilities, which can be unlocked and improved by investing Proficiency Points earned while leveling up your character. Many skills require you to reach a certain character level before unlocking, and each unlocked spell can be upgraded a total of seven times (Initiate, Novice, Adept, Journeyman, Specialist, Master, Grandmaster).

<<<>>>

I read the brief explanation, then dismissed the notice and pulled up my Shadowmancer Skill Tree screen. My kit tree seemed to be broken down into four distinct groups: Offensive Skills, Defensive Skills, Crowd Control Techniques, and Passive Abilities. Most of the abilities were currently blocked due to prerequisite skills or level restrictions, but there was still some awesome stuff available to me. I currently had 10 Proficiency Points to invest, but I needed to make sure I used them wisely, especially since it was possible I might lose any invested points if I failed this mission.

I continued to chomp at my greasy mutton as I scanned through each of the four skill groupings, reading over the items with a careful eye.

After a lot of thought and careful examination, I finally decided to drop two more points into Umbra Bolt—elevating the spell to the Adept Level—then picked up three more active spells to round out my growing repertoire:

<<<>>>

Skill: Shadow Stride

Time grinds to a crawl for everyone except the caster, allowing the Shadowmancer to evade enemies by slipping through the Shadowverse to a nearby location. While shadow striding, the Shadowmancer is immune to damage, but cannot attack, consume potions, or perform other spells. The Shadowmancer can only remain in the Shadowverse for 30 seconds (accelerated player time).

Skill Type/Level: Spell/Initiate

Cost: 100 Spirit

Range: 40 Meters

Cast Time: Instant

Cooldown: 45 seconds (from cast time)

Effect: Teleport through shadow to a nearby location.

Effect 2: Immune to damage while shadow striding.

<<<>>>

Skill: Umbra Bog

Summon a bog of creeping shadows that temporarily ensnares your enemies, badly hindering movement.

Skill Type/Level: Spell/Initiate

Cost: 150 Spirit

Range: 40 Meters

Cast Time: 1.0 seconds

Cooldown: 2 minutes

Effect: Ensnare enemies in a shadowy bog, slowing movement by 75%; duration, 30 seconds.

<<<>>>

Skill: Dark Shield

Summon a powerful forcefield of dark energy to protect you from projectiles or spell damage.

Skill Type/Level: Spell/Initiate

Cost: 35 Spirit/Sec

Range: 1 Meter

Cast Time: Instant

Cooldown: N/A

Effect: Create a powerful forcefield which absorbs (110% x SP) of projectile or spell damage.

<<<>>>

With Umbra Bolt, Shadow Stride, Umbra Bog, and Dark Shield in my tool belt, I had a little bit of everything. My Blunt Weapon skills and Stealth abilities would allow me to deal out some serious damage up close and personal, while Umbra Bolt would give me a powerful ranged attack. The other spells would afford me a chance to capitalize on my quick movement rate, while offering some decent protection just in case things went sideways. Satisfied with those choices, I decided to also pick up Dark Harmony—a passive ability—and one Aura Skill called Night Armor:

<<<>>>

Ability: Dark Harmony

Draw on the ever-present power of the Umbra to heal grievous injuries to the flesh.

Ability Type/Level: Passive/Initiate

Cost: None

Range: N/A

Cast Time: N/A

Cooldown: N/A

Effect: Increase Health Regeneration by 15%.

<<<>>>

Skill: Night Armor

Call upon the power of the night and wrap yourself in a barrier of dense shadow, diminishing the damage from melee attacks while simultaneously exacting retribution against your attacker.

Skill Type/Level: Aura/Initiate

Cost: 450 Spirit; duration, 20 minutes.

Range: 1 Meter

Cast Time: Instant

Cooldown: N/A

Effect: Night Armor absorbs 15% of melee damage.

Effect 2: Night Armor redirects 20% of absorbed melee damage back at the attacker.

<<<>>>

Hopefully, with all of those extra perks and skills I’d be able to survive whatever the chief had in store for me. I finally closed out of my interface menu to find the chief pacing the room in eager anticipation, his rough leather trousers whisk-whisk-whisking as he moved. He came to a stuttering halt as he noticed my gaze. “So, have you made your choices?”

I nodded.

“Good, then there is nothing left for you here—it is time for you to embark on your ordeal. To the southeast of here, there lives a terrible creature: the Moss Hag. A wretched being that dwells in the deep swamps. She is fond of encroaching on our boundaries and has a terrible hunger for the flesh of our people, especially our young. In order to prove yourself worthy of the title Maa-Tál, you must venture into the heart of her swamp alone and find a way to rid Yunnam of this scourge once and for all. Do this and you will be one of us. Fail …” He faltered, surveying me with serious eyes. “Don’t fail.”

<<<>>>

Quest Update: Plight of the Maa-Tál

Chief Kolle of the Ak-Hani clan has charged you with destroying the Moss Hag living in the deep swamps to the Southeast of Yunnam. This noble deed will complete the quest Plight of the Maa-Tál and you will receive (1) [unique, scalable item] from Chief Kolle as well as the Shadowmancer class kit.

Quest Class: Rare, Class-Based

Quest Difficulty: Infernal

Success: Eliminate the Moss Hag without dying within (24) in-game hours.

Failure: Die during the Maa-Tál initiation ordeal or fail to eliminate the Moss Hag within (24) in-game hours.

Reward: Class Change: Dark Templar, Shadowmancer Kit; Unique, Scalable Item

Accept: Yes/No

<<<>>>

I accepted the quest without question, offered the chief a quick goodbye, then saw myself out of the building.

Cutter was waiting for me outside. He was leaning against the base of the chieftain’s enormous tree home, arms crossed, completely at his ease—or at least, that’s what he was trying to convey. I could tell he was nervous, though, which was partly due to the fact that Amara lingered twenty feet away, staring at him with cold hostility, casually inspecting the razor-sharp blade of a dagger. Watching his every move.

“How bad is it?” Cutter asked, purposely ignoring Amara’s icy glare.

“Pretty bad,” I said honestly before filling him in on the details.

He nodded, grimaced, then shrugged. “Well, you can only do what you can do, I suppose. Just remember what I said when we were training: ‘there’s always someone bigger, faster, stronger. So, you need to be smarter. Misdirection and a well-placed blow can fell even the most imposing warriors.’ Remember that”—he cocked a finger and tapped at his temple—“and you’ll do alright. And if not … Well, then both our arses are royally screwed. Best of luck, Grim Jack. Best of luck, ’cause you’re gonna need it.”

THIRTY-ONE: Test Drive

I left through the main gate, this time alone, the sun dropping below the tree line, long, deep shadows giving the forest an ominous appearance. I checked my map and saw the Moss Hag’s burrow was just south from the pit Cutter and I had originally fallen into. The one near the border with the creepy Spiderkin. Which meant I could easily follow the ambling path back to the pit, likely avoiding the forest’s assorted deadly denizens, then cut over. The lazy couch potato in my soul said that’s what I should do: just follow the road, stick to the path of least resistance.

I dismissed the idea the second I was out of the gate, though.

I only had one shot to accomplish this mission, and assuming the chieftain hadn’t been overexaggerating, it was going to take everything I had to get the deed done. Which meant I wasn’t going to be able to just walk into the Moss Hag’s burrow, punch her in the teeth, and call it quits, quick and easy. Which further meant I needed to have a handle on my new abilities when I confronted her—it certainly wouldn’t do to show up for the big boss fight and Shadow Stride my way off a cliff by accident. The odds were already stacked heavily against me, so I needed every advantage I could get my mitts on.

Besides, I was pretty excited to see what my new spells could actual do.

So I headed off road, fighting my way into the twisting trees, careful to avoid the grabbing roots and tangles of mossy vegetation littering the forest floor. I kept checking my map as I went, using the road as a guide, since it was so hard to keep directionally oriented in the labyrinth-like woods. I pulled up my interface as I moved, keeping one eye on my surroundings while I double-checked the various spells now available to me.

Dark Harmony was a passive ability, which boosted my HP recovery rate by 15%, so I didn’t need to do anything with that, but the Night Armor was a defensive aura I could throw on right now. The spell lasted twenty minutes, but at 450 Spirit per cast, it was easily the most expensive ability in my arsenal. Still, I was pumped to see what it did. I set my mind on casting the spell, and suddenly knowledge bloomed in the back of my head, information flooding through me as if I’d remembered something long forgotten. As my intention hardened, arctic power coalesced into a tight knot in my chest, then rushed out with a soft whoosh.

Shimmering ribbons of shadow exploded around me, constantly shifting and running over every inch of my body, clinging to me like a second skin. A little popup appeared in the corner of my eye, telling me how long I had left before the spell lapsed and dissipated. I held up my hands, examining them as the violet shadow energy continued to twist and twirl around me. I couldn’t actually feel anything—the Night Armor was completely weightless and in no way restricted my movement—but it sure looked intimidating as hell.

I grinned. Awesome.

My steps faltered as I heard a rustle and caught a glimpse of movement through the dense tree cover ahead. Even though I hadn’t gotten a good glimpse of the thing, I’d seen enough to know it wasn’t a spider, thank God. The thing ahead had green flesh and walked mostly upright. I dropped into a crouch, embracing stealth and fading to the world as I stole forward like a ghost in the night. Another flash of movement, this time thirty feet or so away and closing quickly, caught my eye again.

Time to try one of my other new abilities I was very curious about: Shadow Stride.

I fixed my gaze on an inky pool of shadow near a clump of trees not far from where I’d seen the movement and triggered the spell with a thought, expecting to teleport in a blink. Once more, cold power rushed out of me, and as it did, the ever-present shadows around me responded, surging into motion, surrounding me in a puff of black smoke as another timer appeared below my Night Armor countdown clock. I took a quick glance around, momentarily stunned by what I was seeing. I’d expected to simply step through space and time in one fluid motion, departing point A and arriving at point B in a blink.

That wasn’t even close to what happened.

No, I was in a different realm. Everything looked more or less the same, except now the landscape was painted in muted shades of gray, black, and purple, and time had come to a virtual standstill. Everything was as quiet as the inside of a long-buried tomb. No wind stirred in this place. No breeze rustled the leaves. No bugs chirped. The air felt stale and heavy. Still feeling supremely unsure, I strode forward, cautiously moving toward the clump of shadow I’d originally been aiming at. It took me a handful of seconds to get there, which is when I finally caught sight of my prey lurking behind a clump of overgrown ferns.

A [Storme Marsh Mantis].

The creature was a hunched thing with green chitinous armor, buggy eyes, monstrous tearing mandibles, huge translucent wings protruding from its back, and a pair of scythe-like blade-arms that immediately made me understand where this thing had gotten its name. It did look like a praying mantis—one that was five feet tall and mutated by the radiation from an atomic blast. And the mantis wasn’t alone. Three more loitered nearby, though all of them were completely motionless, frozen in time like statues by my spell.

Wicked.

The spell description explicitly stated I couldn’t attack while shadow striding, but I couldn’t help myself. I had to at least try. I lazily swung my warhammer at the nearest creature, expecting to feel the familiar thud of steel on flesh. Whoof. Nothing. My hammer, slightly translucent, sailed right through the creature’s skull as though it were made of smoke, passing in one side and out the other without a hitch. No damage at all. The Shadow Stride countdown timer was now only seconds away from expiring, so I maneuvered to the creature’s side and dropped back into Stealth, preparing for a brawl.

The timer flashed red—warning, warning, warning—then time crashed back into me as the Shadowverse vomited me into a world bursting with color, movement, sound, life. I lashed out with my hammer, triggering Savage Blow as I connected with one of the mantis’s buggy eyes. Its eye ruptured from the impact, but I didn’t take the time to watch the result of my handiwork. I was already moving as the mantis fell. I darted left, summoning an Umbra Bolt as I moved, then lobbed it into the face of the nearest overgrown insect.

The energy bolt shot out like a missile and though it didn’t kill the bug, it sliced into its HP and left it momentarily blinded and reeling.

The remaining mantises surged into motion, quick as a lightning strike, and before I could do anything else, a scythe-bladed limb slammed into the side of my face, lifting me from my feet and into the air. The blow hurt, obviously, but the Night Armor blanketing me absorbed a sizeable chunk of the damage and also, mercifully, blunted the actual pain from the attack. Even if Night Armor did nothing else, easing the hurt from damage taken would be well worth the cost. I curled into a roll, just like Cutter had taught me, and came back to my feet, unleashing another Umbra Bolt at the mantis recovering from my last shadowy assault.

Another of the bugs, however, was already closing in, its sword-edged appendage swiping at my face. I swung my warhammer up in time to narrowly catch the attack, preventing the bladed limb from removing my head at the neck. Sudden energy infused my limbs, my Parry technique kicking in; I shot left in a blur, spinning my hammer into the creature’s temporarily exposed chest. The attack landed for 200 points of damage and knocked off a good chunk of its HP, but failed to kill it outright.

Another strike whipped toward me; once more, I caught the limb, but one of its legs hooked my ankle, jerking me from my feet in one quick, fluid motion. I landed hard on my back, suddenly worried that I’d run into this fight without really thinking through things—a common character flaw I really needed to work on. The creature threw back its head in a shriek of victory, and I had a flash of déjà vu, my mind replaying the horrific scene from the spider pit: a fat arachnoid loitering over me, cocooning me with spider silk.

What the hell was it with monstrous insects pinning me down?

This time, though, Cutter wasn’t going to jump out and a pull my bacon from the metaphorical fire.

I’d have to save myself.

The mantis lunged down, its drool-slick mandibles jabbing for my face. I flinched and triggered my Shadow Stride ability on instinct, despite being flat on my back with no room to move. A blast of arctic cold and an explosion of shadowy smoke followed. When the smoke cleared a second later, I was back in the muted Shadowverse with a pair of gleaming, drool-tipped fangs hovering an inch above my face, on the verge of impaling me through the eyeballs. Terrifying.

I licked my lips, then wiggled down and rolled—its legs should’ve prevented me from performing the maneuver, but my body simply phased through the creature just as my warhammer had done when I’d tried to attack. I let out a ragged sighed of relief, fighting to calm my rapidly thumping heart. My Spirit was awfully low at this point—that last Spirit Walk had wiped me almost down to zero—but when I tried to down a Spirit Regen potion at my belt, my hand passed through that too. I sighed, resigned.

That was annoying, sure, but it also made a certain sense. The Shadow Stride ability already seemed crazy powerful, but if I could chain spells or drink healing potions while the world was on pause, I’d be essentially unstoppable.

So instead, I scooted around to the creature’s front and lined up my body like I was teeing up at the driving range. I dropped my hammer low, a putter on the green, squared my shoulders, and took a few warm-up swings—my hammer swished harmlessly through the mantis’s oddly shaped head. Satisfied with my form, I nodded. “Take a bite on this, jerk,” I muttered, deactivating Shadow Stride as I swung my hammer in a wicked uppercut. Time resumed in a flash, and the creature’s descending jaws collided with my ascending strike: the result was as brutal as a head-on freeway crash.

Its mandibles shattered and its face imploded in a divot of flesh and gore and chitin. My solid follow-through actually lifted the mantis from its legs and into the air; it crash-landed squarely on its long, serpentine neck with a terrible crack. Dead before it ever hit the ground.

I felt a twinge of smug satisfaction, reveling in the sheer coolness of my new abilities, but I couldn’t celebrate for too long—there were still two of those things waiting in the wings to dance. With gunslinger speed, I pulled a Spirit Regen potion from my belt, popped the top, and slammed it back as I scanned the battleground for my other opponents. The one that I’d hit twice with Umbra Bolts was now maneuvering behind a set of trees; if I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was trying to sneak up behind me.

The other one, though, was missing. Maybe gone. I wheeled in a circle, searching for that final threat, when something slimy and viscous slammed into my chest and splattered onto my cheek. My skin immediately began to burn as though I’d just been splashed with hot oil. I swore, reaching up tentative fingers, and wiped away a thick coat of green sludge. A notification promptly informed me that I’d just been burned by Mantis Venom, causing 5 points of corrosive damage per second over thirty seconds.

I still didn’t know where the stuff had come from, though.

I spun again, a grimace plastered on my face as the acid chewed into my flesh. After a beat, I caught a streak of movement overhead. I looked up and spotted the fourth mantis hovering in the air, held aloft by glittering wings as it prepared another acid ball. I stole a look over my shoulder. The other mantis was almost within striking range, so it was distinctly possible these things were coordinating their assault, working to flank me.

Thankfully, I still had a few other new tricks up my sleeve.

I threw out my left hand, summoning the Umbra Bog spell below the feet of the land-bound mantis. A huge swath of ground, thirty feet in diameter, instantly morphed into a withering mass of jet-black goop, thick as prehistoric tar. The creature yowled as fat tendrils of Umbra wrapped around its legs, slithered up its torso, and stretched for its scythe-like arms. Though it didn’t stop the creature completely, it drastically slowed it down. This was obviously a powerful crowd control technique, especially considering speed was my number one advantage.

I swiveled back toward the flying mantis, and another incoming acid attack cannonballed straight at me. I flung myself right, rolled back to my feet, then called up my last new spell, Dark Shield, as yet another acid glob sailed toward me. A shimmering violet dome sprang to life around me, burning through my Spirit like a wildfire in a dry forest—45 Spirit per second was an awfully steep price to pay. With that said, the acid blob splattered uselessly against the shield, saving me from another painful round of skin-melting burns.

Quickly, I chugged a Health Regen potion and chased it with a Spirit Regen potion for good measure, then dismissed the shield and unleashed a flurry of Umbra Bolts at the creature hovering overhead. The giant, buzzing menace was awfully quick, evading several of my attacks, but eventually I landed a major hit, shearing off one of its wings, causing massive damage that sent the creature into a death spiral. It careened into a nearby tree and splatted like a bug against a windshield. Killed itself, really.

Only one left.

I turned on my heel, grip straining against the haft of my hammer, and stalked toward the last mantis, still stranded in my conjured bog. True, I could slip into Stealth or use one of my other fancy new abilities, but at this point, I was ready to bury these things. Besides, with the creature hopelessly mired in the shadow bog for another fifteen seconds, I figured a good ole fashioned face pounding would do the trick. The creature struggled, shaking and squealing as I approached. One swift strike, coupled with Savage Blow, cut the sound off in an instant. Silence suddenly reigned.

Yep. I could definitely get used to this. Time to go find a few more critters to experiment on.

THIRTY-TWO: Moss Hag

I surveyed the yawning cave mouth set into the face of a sloping hill dotted with weeping willows sporting purple foliage. I pulled up my map, checking the quest marker one last time: this was it alright, the Moss Hag’s Burrow. It’d taken me over four hours of hard hiking to get here, the trip made much longer by the countless mob battles fought on the way. I’d killed lots of stray Spiderkin, a platoon of the Storme Marsh Mantises, and a host of Feral Bog Wolves—mean, mangy creatures that hunted and fought in well-coordinated packs.

Despite my exhausting grind session, I hadn’t managed to gain even a single level and the loot had been mediocre at best—a few common items and a handful of coppers or silvers from each of the various creatures. No more easy points now that I was back in the real world instead of tromping through a loot-rich restricted area. That was okay, though, because I’d really been more concerned about getting a handle on my abilities than strictly grinding out EXP, and I’d been provided with lots of opportunities to do that.

Although I knew there was still a lot to learn about my class—especially as I unlocked new skills—I felt as prepared as I was going to get for this battle with the Moss Hag. I double-checked my belt, ensuring it was stocked with an appropriate mix of potions, then pulled out a chunk of bread, which I downed in a few quick bites. I wasn’t actually hungry, but the hasty meal earned me the well-fed buff, and I needed every edge I could get:

<<<>>>

Buff Added:

Well-Fed: Base Constitution increased by (2) points; duration 20 minutes.

<<<>>>

Next, I cast Night Armor—feeling the reassuring cold swirl over my body as shimmering darkness coalesced around me—then downed a Spirit Regen potion. I patiently waited for my Spirit bar to climb back to 100% before dropping into Stealth. Time to do this thing.

I crept forward, my warhammer light and ready in my hands.

The interior of the cave was huge, a rough cavity gouged from the earth, the walls all ragged rock. The ground, however, was covered in soft grass speckled with strange purple flowers, and boasted fifteen or twenty hot springs—tendrils of steam rising and curling into the air. A variety of bugs flitted from flower to flower while others zipped and zoomed around me, seeming to sense my presence even though I was still in Stealth mode. I treaded further into the cave, searching for the Moss Hag I’d come to kill.

A grassy hill near the back of the chamber sloped gently upward, toward a gash in the rock wall that might’ve been a passageway of some sort. Since there didn’t seem to be any other way to go, I pressed on, crossing over a scalding, ankle-deep hot spring, then dashing up the hill, legs churning as I made for the opening. I was near the top when the ground beneath my feet started to rumble, shift, and shake. Dammit. Not again, I thought, recalling my battle with the Greater Corrupt Valdgeist.

I fought to keep upright, but a sudden jerk tossed me to the ground and before I knew it, I was rolling down the slope, flop, flop, flop, flop, eventually landing in a tepid pool of water near the base of the grassy mound.

I quickly scrambled to my feet, somehow still in Stealth, and watched in a mixture of horror and fascination as the hill stood, transforming into a horrible hunched-back giantess, twenty-five feet tall and half as wide across the shoulders. I could tell it was a her from the drooping, moss-green boobs hanging down like a pair of elephant ears, but everything else about her was wrong. Disproportional and misshapen.

Her head was bulbous, with beady, red, deeply recessed eyes and a jutting lower jaw filled with blunt yellow teeth. A mop of ratty moss hair hung down in sheets, framing her disgusting face. Her body was likewise malformed. Shoulders lopsided, left arm enormous and muscular while the right was a stunted thing, though still far bigger than mine, grasping an odd wand, fashioned from human bones. Her skin was a patchwork of greens in a hundred different hues—forest, jade, split-pea, vomit—and covered liberally in thick patches of hanging moss, lush grass, and sprawling colonies of brown-capped mushrooms.

She sniffed at the air with a huge, flat nose the size of a dinner plate.

“Ah, there you be,” she crooned, her voice muddy, as her beady eyes narrowed in on my position. I was in Stealth, but somehow, she saw through my technique with ease. “If it isn’t a Shadow Child come to call on the poor old Moss Hag. It isn’t often I have company, so you’ll have to forgive me for not tidying up in preparation for dinner.” She took another deep sniff, lips pulling back from her tombstone teeth. “And speaking of dinner, I’m hungry.” The last word was a low rumble that reverberated in my chest.

I gulped, trying to tame the slight tremor in my hands.

“I do so enjoy the flesh of the Shadow Children,” she commented idly, flexing her oversized hand, then casually inspecting the wicked black talons jutting from her fingertips. Each of those nails was large enough to impale me clean through. “So succulent,” she murmured. “Fatty. Rich. I’ll break all of your bones first—releases the marrow and gives the meat more flavor—then I’ll cook you alive. Sear the outside, just so. Done right, the flesh practically melts like butter on the tongue. Delicious.” She smacked her enormous lips, the sound wet and disgusting.

“Or mayhap,” she said after a second, fixing me with a hard glare, “you could turn around and scurry back to that village of yours. Child-flesh is more to my taste anyway, less stringy and tough. I might allow you to leave here alive, if you go now and swear to never return. Be a mite bit easier on both of us, I think. Or”—she seesawed her head back and forth, mossy hair flapping and bobbing—“you could do something foolish like the other Maa-Tál your chieftain has sent after me.

“I’ve murdered six before you, Shadow Child. Six. Powerful warriors. Arcane Shadowmancers. Deadly Necromancers. All perished by my hand. Their shattered bones decorate the bottom of these pools.” She swept her gimp arm toward the cavern. “They were brave.” She nodded her gigantic head in solemn agreement. “Very brave.” She paused, a huge brown tongue flashing out, running over her crackled lips. “Brave, but stupid. Mayhap you will see the wisdom in cowardice, Shadow Child.”

It wasn’t a question.

I’d never considered myself a coward—a guy who runs toward a burning car to save a life certainly isn’t a coward—but this hideous creature scared me. And, giving her a quick once-over, I had a sinking feeling her boasts about the other Maa-Tál she’d killed were probably true. Obviously, this beastly woman was massive, cunning, and dangerous. She wouldn’t be a good test otherwise. For a long beat, I seriously entertained the notion of turning back, but then I sighed deeply and dismissed the idea. There’s no going back, I reminded myself—I had too much on the line.

If I didn’t win this battle, my new life in V.G.O. would be hopelessly doomed before I ever really got out of the gate. Not to mention Cutter would end up as hog food.

I clenched my weapon, muscles flexing, tightening, preparing.

A small part of me felt like I should say something clever—an action movie hero, delivering a laugh-out-loud one-liner—but fear clouded my brain. So, instead of throwing down some snarky comment, I simply called on the freezing power of shadow and lobbed a fat bolt of dark energy at her while she grinned stupidly, awaiting my retort. The blast didn’t do any perceptible damage—and I immediately received a notification that she’d resisted blindness—but it did catch her off guard.

She let out a thunderous roar, ropy strands of spittle flying free as she jabbed at me with her strange bone wand, unleashing a beam of cancer-green light, thick as a redwood. I scrambled right, narrowly avoiding the attack, and ran from the death-beam slashing through the air behind me like a gigantic lightsaber. I hurled another Umbra Bolt at her as I moved, hoping to interrupt her spell, but it splashed uselessly against her like water on a raincoat. No obvious damage. No blindness. No nothing.

I was ahead of the sweeping beam, but I was also quickly running out of room—the cavern wall was ten feet away and getting closer with every footfall. In seconds, I found myself pinned against craggy stone with nowhere left to go as the beam closed in on me. I glanced back. No time to make it to the back of the cave, but maybe I could get inside her guard, where I’d be safe from the attack. With few other options available to me, I spun and sprinted forward, straight at the roaring Moss Hag—

A knobby fist, as big as a wrecking ball, flashed out like a snake strike and smashed into me. The blow, a wicked uppercut, knocked off half my HP and hurled me high into the air. I cartwheeled, spun, and flipped, before finally crash-landing in a pool of hot water, which thankfully muted the impact of the fall. The water was deeper than I’d thought, and I suddenly found myself kicking frantically against the dragging weight of my armor, fighting my way to the surface of the pool. A combat notification flashed on the edge of my vision as my head broke the waterline:

<<<>>>

Debuff Added:

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

<<<>>>

Wow. She hit hard. Really hard.

Apparently, hard enough to leaving lasting damage. That thought was fleeting, though, as I noticed the green death beam sweeping back toward me, only feet away. On panicked instinct, I stole a breath and dove back into the watery depths, dropping just below the surface as I kicked and paddled, battling desperately to stay afloat. I watched, lungs burning, stamina dropping, arms exhausted as the green beam skimmed right over the top of the water, sending down a pulsing wave of terrible heat which knocked off a handful of HP without ever actually touching me.

When the beam finally disappeared, I emerged from the water, gasping, and climbed onto the lush green grass lining the pool’s edge.

Thankfully, the beam was truly gone. Unfortunately, despite two successful hits with my Umbra Bolt, the Moss Hag sat virtually unaffected.

I needed to figure out a different solution for defeating her. I lobbed another ball of shadow at her face, hoping to distract her if I couldn’t hurt her, then downed a Health Regen potion before triggering my Shadow Stride ability. The world exploded into monochrome shades of gray splashed with purple as time screeched to a halt. I took a deep, calming breath, then hustled toward the Moss Hag, now locked motionless in time. Carefully, I maneuvered around her bulky torso so I could take a cheap, Stealth shot at her back when I emerged from the Shadowverse.

If magic damage wasn’t effective, maybe physical damage would do the trick.

It took me a few seconds to get inside her guard, but I immediately realized she was too tall, too big, to find an effective target.

I really wanted to blast her in the teeth or in the back of the skull, but I didn’t even come close to reaching her head—the best I could do at this point was whack her in the ass with my hammer. So instead, I reevaluated, shifted left, dropped into Stealth, and prepared to lay into her undersized arm. The one clasping the odd bone wand. Maybe I could shatter her elbow and force her to drop her weapon. A slim chance, but better than nothing. I planted my feet, brought my warhammer into position, and emerged from Shadow Stride, back into the real world.

Time resumed in a rush as I swung, aiming for her knobby joint.

The hit connected with a crunch of breaking bone and tearing cartilage, earning both a Critical Hit and a Backstab bonus as her limb contorted under the strain. She let loose a howl of indignant rage, but she didn’t drop her wand and her HP remained virtually unaffected. No noticeable movement at all. She reared back again and lashed out with her crippled arm, aiming for my head. With my superior movement bonus, I evaded the attack, ducking under the swing, only to be met by an incoming, misshapen club-foot flying toward me.

I dove over her leg a second before impact, rolling back to my feet just as a fat fist slammed into the ground behind me, leaving a devastating crater in the loamy earth.

I pivoted in a blink and swung again, sinking the hooked spike of my weapon into one of her wobbling tits; my gorge rose as an oozing discharge spurted out around the wound, spraying my gloved hands. Really, really gross, and still no movement in the HP needle. This lady was tougher than old nails, and apparently, she was virtually impenetrable to both shadow damage and physical damage. Very, very, very bad news since I had nothing else to work with. I was sorely wishing Abby was with me right now: I’d wager all the gold I owned this horrible monster was susceptible to fire damage.

How could she not be? She was fifty percent plant, after all.

“You’ll pay for entering my cavern,” the Hag screamed, spittle raining down on me from above.

I fought to pull my spike out—I couldn’t afford to stay in one place for long—but wiggle it as I might, I couldn’t pry the weapon free. Finally, after another few seconds of fighting and heaving, the hammer came away, its head covered in gore, but I’d wasted too much time: a giant hand wrapped around my torso and snatched me into the air as huge fingers constricted like pythons, crushing me like an empty Styrofoam cup. Stars exploded across my eyes while my ribs cracked under the strain and my health bar plunged.

“I’m gonna tear you limb from limb, you meddlesome ant,” the Moss Hag snarled, raising me toward her yawning mouth, ready to bite off my uselessly flailing arms. I grimaced and grunted as I stabbed at her fingers with the serrated spike on the back of my hammer, but her leathery skin was thicker and more durable than chainmail and I couldn’t get through. My health bar was flashing like a police siren, warning me that I had a handful of seconds left before certain death set in.

Warning me to do something. To get away. To regroup. Except I was between a rock and a hard place, with nowhere left to go.

I glanced at my Shadow Stride cooldown timer. Five seconds to go …

Five. It was so hard to breathe; she was literally squeezing the air from my lungs …

Four. My ribs burned as though she had taken a jackhammer to them …

Three. My head throbbed, the blood pooling, my face turning red …

Two. Black was creeping in on the edges as my HP meter moved sharply toward zero …

One …

I triggered my Shadow Stride ability as a last-ditch gamble, hoping the game mechanics would work in my favor. For the second time in so many minutes, time lurched to a standstill, and I found myself falling. The reason why I couldn’t sustain damage while shadow striding was the same reason I couldn’t deal it—because I was essentially an insubstantial shade. A ghost moving through a different realm. And just as my warhammer passed through an enemy when I swung, my body likewise phased right through the Hag’s constricting fingers.

I touched down, light as a feather.

I didn’t have long, but I still took a moment to steal a deep breath, savoring the inrush of air. So good. Then I beat a hasty retreat, beelining for the cavern mouth while I counted my lucky stars. I’d done everything in my power to prepare, but this lady was way too tough. Impossibly so. How could the chief possibly expect me to kill something like this at my level with my skill set? She shrugged off everything I threw at her. I almost made it to the edge of the cavern when time crashed back down on me, accompanied by a bone-shaking howl of rage. The Moss Hag, no doubt noticing my abrupt escape.

I wheeled around, grabbing a Health Regen potion from my belt and killing it in one long slug, then tossing the bottle aside with a flick of my hand.

“No,” she roared, chunks of rock breaking loose from the ceiling, tumbling to the ground. “You can’t escape me, worm.” She grunted and spat a giant ball of sludgy black phlegm into one hand, then promptly fast-balled it straight at me. The glob of putrid spittle stretched and expanded into a net ten by fifteen feet as it spun through the air with uncanny speed and accuracy. I crouched, making my profile as small as possible, and conjured my Dark Shield, hoping it would be enough.

A dome of flickering, purple light took shape an instant before the spit-net landed.

The impact rocked me back as the goop splattered against my shield.

I was expecting the Hag’s spell to dissipate on contact, but instead the disgusting phlegm-net pulsed and wormed its way over my energy dome, eating its way through. After a few tense seconds that left my hands shaking and my body trembling, the shield collapsed under the weight of the Hag’s attack. Thankfully, my defensive spell had robbed the net of most of its potency, so only a few gobs of black remained. But even that burned my skin like molten rock and chewed through a fifth of my freshly restored HP bar.

I couldn’t even imagine what would’ve happened had the full force of the attack hit me.

I really didn’t know how I was going to win this fight. Between my Dark Shield and Spirit Stride abilities, it seemed like I could probably avoid—or at least survive—her major attacks, but that would only work until I ran out of Spirit Regen potions, then I’d be toast. And it didn’t really matter, because I didn’t need to survive, I needed to find a way to kill her.

I glanced over my shoulder, surveying the forest, trying to come up with some sort of workable plan. I didn’t have much time to think, though. The ground began to tremble and quiver. I turned back in time to see the Moss Hag now on her misshapen feet and charging toward me, eating up the distance with a rolling, gorilla-like gait, a snarl plastered across her ugly face. I threw out my left hand, summoning Umbra Bog in an instant, hoping to slow her down. A combat notification flashed in the corner of my eye:

<<<>>>

Moss Hag resists Umbra Bog. She is unaffected!

<<<>>>

That was bad.

I spun and immediately dashed away from the oncoming nightmare beast—currently moving like a freight train of meat and muscle and moss—breaking past the mouth of the cave and into the warren of trees beyond. Maybe she wouldn’t follow me from the cave; maybe that was the key. I slipped behind a squat swamp oak and peeked around the trunk just as the Moss Hag came barreling out of the cave. Okay, check. I wasn’t going to be able to just run away. It was kill or die.

I ducked out from behind my shoddy defensive position, hurled an Umbra Bolt into her flabby chest, then bolted further into the tree cover. The attack served only to piss her off even more and draw aggro, but that was fine—I was hoping to lure her in. Her size would definitely be a disadvantage in the tight confines of the forest. Maybe. She followed after me like a bloodhound, uprooting trees in her passing, smashing through tangles of undergrowth, stopping for nothing, driven entirely by hate and rage. A thought crept into the back of my mind as I unleashed yet another Umbra Bolt, before taking cover behind a palm tree.

If I was smart and quick, maybe there was a way I could win this after all …

THIRTY-THREE: Critical Hit

Our deadly game of cat and mouse continued for the next half hour—a constant and nerve-wracking battle to stay one step ahead of the Moss Hag. It was a fine balance, really. Almost a dance. I constantly had to bait her, ensuring she stayed close enough to follow me, while simultaneously avoiding her devastating array of abilities. A steady barrage of Umbra Bolts from the tree line managed to piss her off and draw her attention, while Shadow Stride and Stealth kept me one slim step ahead when she did somehow manage to get into striking rage.

It was close, though, and even enraged, the Moss Hag was a cold, crafty, calculating opponent—using a variety of ranged attacks and Area of Effect, AoE, spells to pin me down or herd me into a corner. More than a couple of times, her maneuvering worked and I only managed to break loose through the use of Night Armor, Dark Shield, and Shadow Stride, and even then, I escaped by the skin of my teeth.

I heard a clap of thunder and glanced back in time to see a fat ball of electric-blue swamp lightning zip toward me like a cruise missile, which, I knew from experience, would shortly be followed by an acid wall spell. I wheeled, throwing out one hand, conjuring Dark Shield just in time to catch the brunt of the attack—the air crackled with power, my hair standing on end as the swamp lightning slapped into my barrier, bleeding through just enough to give me one heck of an unpleasant shock.

As soon as her spell dissipated, I dismissed my dome and immediately triggered Shadow Stride, slipping into the Shadowverse as a wall of green fire—which dealt horrific acid damage—swept toward me like soldiers marching in a line. Time faltered as my body became ethereal, allowing me to step through the attack, untouched. Once out of immediate danger, I slipped behind the nearest tree, pressed my back against the trunk, then pulled up my player map and rechecked my position for the hundredth time. I nodded. We were close now, so close. I reoriented myself, dropped into a low crouch, preparing to run, then disengaged Shadow Stride.

Time resumed, and I watched impassively as the acid wall swept on for another fifty feet before fizzling and dying. As soon as her wall was down, I hurled an Umbra Bolt at her stupid head, then broke into a mad sprint, pushing myself through a wall of foliage as the Moss Hag screamed death threats at me from behind. A huge grin broke across my face as I caught the first glimmer of gauzy, silver spider webbing adorning the trees before me. The Moss Hag’s lair had been several hours to the southeast of Yunnam, which put it less than an hour due south of the Hellweb Hollow, home to Lowyth the Immortal Orbweaver.

The same Lowyth that had almost turned me and Cutter into lunch.

I pushed forward past the webbing, catching a faint scratch-scratching, which immediately put my teeth on edge. Spiderkin, watching the chase from the relative safety of the forest canopy. I leapt over a string of gossamer spider silk barring my path, then darted left, avoiding a heavily webbed thicket of palms, before angling right, bursting through the tree line and into an all-too-familiar clearing. Everything was exactly as awful as I remembered it: an enormous concave pit in the forest floor, covered with layer after layer of thick webbing, surrounded by a ring of towering trees. Cocoons dangling from branches, swaying and bobbing gently in a warm breeze.

The only thing missing was the army of Spiderkin and their nightmarish queen, but that meant jack-squat, especially since I could hear the ceaseless rustle of their hairy legs. They were watching. Waiting. Curious. I’d escaped once, yet here I was, back for more. I was really rolling the dice here, and if my suicidal gamble didn’t work, I was dead beyond belief. On the other hand, I couldn’t possibly beat the Hag on my own, so I was dead either way.

Mustering all the courage I had, I sprinted around the outside edge of the clearing, wheeling about once I got to the far side, and pressed my back against a wide gnarled tree as I drew my hammer. The restless, unsettling rustle of arachnoid legs increased in urgency and intensity, but that noise was quickly replaced by snarls of inhuman rage and the crash of trees as the Moss Hag exploded into the clearing, beady eyes fixed intently on me.

“So, you’ve finally decided to stop running,” she bellowed, edging forward, raising her bone-wand, preparing to end me for good. “Good,” she snarled, winded from the pursuit. “I was starting to grow tired of this fruitless game.” She wheezed, her giant lungs working like a set of enormous bellows as she flicked her wand this way and that, conjuring a burning orb of green light on the tip of her weapon. “Any last words before I melt the flesh from your muscle and use your bones to pick my teeth?” She inched closer, right up to the edge of the pit.

She didn’t seem to notice or care.

“Actually,” I said, tightening my grip on the hammer in my hands, “I was hoping you might like to meet a few of my friends.”

The Moss Hag paused, eyes narrowing into angry slits as she canted her head to one side, confusion evident on her ugly face. “What are you talk—”

She didn’t get a chance finish the sentence.

The Queen—all hairy, bulbous body, pulsing with fire-engine red light—erupted from the hole in the ground. She sprang forward, quick as a blast of lightning, and lunged at the oversized intruder, their bodies slamming together with a clap that echoed in the air. The Hag howled in surprised fury, lashing out with a bone-shattering haymaker. Her fist landed like a wrecking ball, but the Queen took the blow in stride, barely faltering as she fought to wrap her arachnoid legs around the Hag, drawing her into a terrible bear hug.

Well, a spider hug, I guess.

“Attack,” the Spider Queen droned, her voice the sound of a fork dragging over a plate played through a speaker system. “Tonight we feast!” she screamed before driving her head down, her saber-like fangs sinking into the Hag’s leathery hide. Maybe my puny warhammer couldn’t hurt the Hag, but the Queen didn’t have the same problem. I watched in stunned horror as Spiderkin responded to her call, materializing out of everywhere: pouring from the trees and forest in every direction, rappelling down from above.

A sea of hairy bodies swarming toward the Hag, preparing to defend their queen and lands.

Unless the Hag was a thousand times tougher than I’d given her credit for, she wasn’t walking away from this. No way. But she wasn’t going to go down easy, either.

The Hag struggled, hunching forward and biting the Queen, sinking her blunt, yellowed teeth into one of the monarch’s legs, severing the appendage in a spray of bright red ichor. The Hag wasn’t done though. Nope. Exploiting the momentary opening, she thrashed and smashed her way free from the Queen’s deathly hug, then laid into the overgrown arachnoid with a devastating left uppercut, which somehow lifted the Queen briefly into the air, flipping the bug-mother onto her back.

Exposing her vulnerable underside.

The Spiderkin were converging on the Hag now, covering her arms and legs, scuttling up her grassy back and sinking fangs in like hypodermic needles. But the Hag just glowered and kept right on coming, wading through the press of bodies, eyes fixed on the temporarily downed Queen. As tough as the lesser Spiderkin were, I wasn’t sure they’d have the muscle to take out the Hag without the aid of their queen. The matriarch was my heavy hitter, and without her, there was a good chance we’d be in trouble.

I needed to buy the Queen time to recover. Which meant distraction—sleight of hand.

Quickly, I vaulted onto the hairy back of a huge spider rushing past me, inbound for Moss Hag-ville. The creature didn’t even seem to notice I’d hitched a ride, so focused was it on the giantess. I straddled the creature like a mount and started unleashing Umbra Bolts from its back as it scurried up over the rest of the Spiderkin—one massive, seething dogpile of hairy legs and bloated bodies—and right into the heart of the fight. The Hag responded with a shriek, finally tearing her eyes away from the Queen, locking on me again.

“You!” she shrieked at the top of her lungs. “You tricked me. You treacherous, conniving dirt-speck.” She fought and snarled, desperately working to free her arms so she could smash me into goo or choke the air from my lungs, but the industrious Spiderkin had already begun to web her arms to her side. “Even if I die, I’ll take you with me!” she bellowed.

I just smiled, because despite her threats, I was riding on top of a giant spider with a clean shot at her head. “Like my friend Cutter says, ‘there’s always someone bigger, faster, stronger. So, you need to be smarter.’ This? This is what smarter looks like,” I shouted, swinging my warhammer with all the power I had left, triggering Savage Blow as the weapon collided with her sloping, uneven forehead. The blow, though far from powerful enough to kill her, broke her momentum, and suddenly she was falling backward, pushed by the weight of the spider wall bearing down on her.

It took next to no time before an all-too-familiar scene took shape: a host of spiders swarmed her, pinning her to the ground, sinking deadly fangs down, injecting virulent poison as other spiders encased her in tight strands of silk. The Hag fought and kicked, screamed and cursed, but her HP bar was dropping like a plane that’d lost both engines. The sheer overwhelming physical damage, coupled with the insane amount of spider venom being pumped into her veins, was too much even for a juggernaut like her to handle.

I leapt from the back of my unaware mount hit the ground hard, and smoothly dropped into a roll which brought me clear of the arachnoid feeding frenzy. Temporarily forgotten by the preoccupied Spiderkin, I immediately shifted into Stealth and slipped around until I was a few feet away from the Hag’s misshapen head.

Then, before anyone could stop me, I brought my warhammer up high and triggered another Savage Blow as I attacked. This time, I caved in one of her beady little eyes, dropping her HP to zero. Dead. The spiders didn’t seem to care. They kept up their terrible work, spinning, weaving, cocooning while I quietly looted the body, taking everything I could get my hands on without bothering to look at it—there’d be time for that later, once I wasn’t surrounded by hairy-legged abominations. Quietly as I could, I turned and slipped off toward the tree line, whispering a slight prayer I wouldn’t be spotted.

I was almost home free when the Queen’s buzzing voice sliced through the air.

“It is not often a fly escapes my web,” the Queen hissed at me.

I turned toward her with a grimace. She was finally back on her too-many feet and had an almost thoughtful expression on her inhuman face.

“It is rarer still that an escaped fly returns. Yet you not only returned, but delivered a valued enemy into my hands, providing my brood with a grand feast. Enough to eat our fill for a month. What’s more”—she paused, gaze fixing upon my chest—“you could’ve run, but instead you stayed and fought my enemy during a moment when I was weak. Vulnerable.” She dipped her head an inch in acknowledgement or, maybe, thanks. “So, perhaps for tonight I will extend you a boon and allow you to leave my hollow in peace. A reward rarer even than a fly escaping and returning.”

“That’s very gracious of you,” I said, offering her a tight, nervous smile and an awkward bow.

“You’re more reasonable than the rest of your kind, Shadow Child. What stupid, insignificant name do you call yourself?” she asked, appraising me as her horde of godawful children finished wrapping the Moss Hag’s malformed corpse.

“Jack,” I replied, a slight tremor in my voice. “Grim Jack.”

“Grim Jack,” she crooned, as though tasting the syllables. “I will remember it along with your scent—just in case we should ever cross paths again. Hopefully, that won’t be too soon.”

I offered her another little bow, then triggered Shadow Stride before she could reconsider. I ran away as hard and as fast as I could. It didn’t take me long to find the stream and the totem marking out the Ak-Hani clan territory. Thankfully, this time I avoided the pit as I made my way up the winding dirt path, bound for Yunnam.

THIRTY-FOUR: Victory Road

I rounded the bend and saw the gates of Yunnam as the sun was starting to break over the horizon, fingers of gold and pink light reaching into the sky. I’d fully expected to find the gate locked and the townsfolk asleep, but I was wrong. The gates stood open and hundreds of people—men, women, children, the elderly—sat on the ground in contemplative silence, each bearing a lit tallow candle against the fading night. It looked like a sea of fire stretching out in front of me; a blanket of stars covering the ground. My eyes skipped over the crowd, quickly spotting Cutter, who sat with Amara and the chieftain near the center of the formation.

The Thief looked worn out, but his eyes were open and he bore a flickering candle in one hand, just like the rest.

What was this?

A collective gasp went up as I stepped through the gate, tired, hungry, disgusting, and ready to sleep for the next year.

The chief stood, raising his candle aloft, holding it out toward me in greeting. “Who goes there?” he called, voice ringing out, deep and clear as a bell.

“It’s me, Grim Jack,” I replied hesitantly, confused down to my core.

“No.” The chief shook his head slowly, lips curled down into a serious frown. “Perhaps that is who you once were, but no longer. We have stood vigil through the night, listening to the land, awaiting word of your death”—he paused, a ghost of a smile now playing across his lips—“or victory,” he finished. “I set you a task no other initiate has ever accomplished, yet here you stand. Returned to us. Alive. Well. Victorious. You are no longer Grim Jack,” he said, shaking his head again.

“You are something else now. A Lost One, returned to the fold. A Maa-Tál. A Dark Templar. A defender of Eldgard and champion of the Shadow Pantheon. Therefore, let it be known from this day forward that we name you Grim Jack Shadowstrider of the Ak-Hani.” He took one step forward, raising the candle higher still, then offered a single poof, extinguishing the flame. A ribbon of smoke trailed up, burning with a soft, shadowy light. The rest of the tribespeople followed suit, hefting their candles and blowing out the flames, streamers of dark shadow wafting into the air.

I watched raptly as those curls of smoky shade drifted together, churning and turning into a vortex that began to twirl faster and faster as it drew in ever more smoke. It didn’t take long before all the candles were dark and the column of whirling shadow stood nine or ten feet tall. I stared at it for a long time, flabbergasted, when it suddenly changed course and shot at me with gale-force speed. I could only stand there enthralled, watching in fascination as the tornado of shadow engulfed me in its slapping arms, drawing me into its eye, then lifting me into the air …

Suddenly, I was floating high above the world, looking down on the Storme Marshes far below, gaining an eagle eye perspective of the land. I stared at the bog, at the white-capped mountains in the far distance, at glittering lakes like massive, shinning sapphires on the grassy plains. Beautiful. Certainly worth fighting for. Then I saw a glimmer of malevolent green eyes—angry, hateful, and hungry for destruction. The same evil eyes I’d glimpsed when first entering V.G.O. That had to be Serth-Rog.

Those eyes swiveled toward me, and as they did, the world changed. The Storme Marshes gave way to a barren bog, devoid of even biting bugs. The grassy plains died, turning into rolling deserts of desolate, hard-pan earth. The crystalline lakes dried up until they were only barren craters in the ground. The forests withered until only dusty, leafless twigs remained. I shuddered looking on the devastation. I don’t know how long I hung there, suspended in the sky, but eventually, the whirling tornado descended and dissipated, leaving me back in the village, surrounded by Murk Elves.

I tried to push the grim vision I’d seen away as a cheer erupted from the townsfolk, carrying in the early morning air. Hoots and hollers as people began to dance and sing.

Both Cutter and the chief were by my side in an instant. The Thief clapped me on the back, his face split by a huge grin.

“Won’t you please accompany me to my home so we can have a chat,” a smiling Chief Kolle said, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and urging me into motion. The crowd parted for us with reverent bows as a new notification popped up:

<<<>>>

Quest Alert: Plight of the Maa-Tál

You have completed your initiation ordeal by vanquishing the Moss Hag living in the deep swamps to the southeast of Yunnam! In return for your noble act of valor, you’ve permanently received the Class Dark Templar, specialization: Shadowmancer, and will receive (1) [unique, scalable item] from Chief Kolle. In addition, you’ve been named an honorary child of the Ak-Hani, raising your reputation with the Ak-Hani clan to Heroic and your reputation with all other Murk Elf clans to Honored. You have also been rewarded 100 renown for completing this quest!

<<<>>>

The chief politely asked Cutter to remain outside, before leading me into his home and shutting the door with a quick slap of his hand. “You must be exhausted from your battle with the Hag.” He paused, gaze distant. “She was a formidable opponent. Please,” he said with a shake of his head and a vague wave at the pillows adorning the floor near his work desk, “go sit while I fetch your reward.”

I went without protest.

I flopped down onto the pillow, letting out a grateful groan as the chief disappeared through a concealed door inset into the wall.

I lounged back, propped up by my hands, head bobbing as I fought the urge to sleep. The chief returned a minute later with a pair of the odd gauntlets I’d seen some of the Ak-Hani Rangers sporting—leather things, covered in blackened metal, with a series of bladed barbs running along the outside edge of each gauntlet. Honestly, they sort of looked like Batman rip-offs. Slowly, he sat, crossing his legs with practiced ease, before extending the bracers toward me. “These are a special item, unique to our people,” he said. “Many of our warriors are fond of using two-handed weapons—be that bow, staff, spear, or warhammer—which make shields something of an impracticality.

“I see you yourself have a buckler.” He nodded toward the bronze circle bound to my left forearm. “Such a shield will offer little protection, and can hinder movement in the heat of battle. But these gauntlets will not only allow you to block as though you had a shield, the razor-edges can be used to bash or slash at your opponent in a tight situation. Very useful and deadly on the arms of a skilled fighter.”

I gladly accepted the gauntlets and immediately pulled up their stats:

<<<>>>

Shadowband Battle Vambraces

Armor Type: Medium; Gauntlets

Class: Ancient Artifact, Dokkalfar Battle Vambraces

Base Armor: 26

- Primary Effects:

Block 65 pts of damage + (.25 x Dexterity)

+22% Block Chance

+50 pts to Unarmed damage

Dexterity Bonus = .5 x Character Level

- Secondary Effects:

Reduce Melee damage received by 3%

Shadow Spells deal 12% more damage

Restriction: Can only be used by Dokkalfar

<<<>>>

I grinned and slipped them on—suddenly I felt like a caped crusader, ready to take to the streets of Eldgard and kick a bunch of corrupt Viridan ass. Very cool, and wickedly good to boot. “Thank you, Chief Kolle,” I said with a dip of my head. “These are incredible. Seriously.”

“No thanks necessary,” he replied, folding his hands behind his back. “You’ve earned them many times over with the service you rendered. The Moss Hag has been a plague on our lands for longer than I can remember.” Then he faltered, uncertainty playing across his face. “There is something else we should discuss, though.”

I glanced up at him. Was this another quest maybe? Some kind of follow-up? It was possible. “Okay,” I replied with a shrug. “What’s on your mind, Chief?”

“There is an artifact of tremendous value currently in your possession, yes? A gold disk about yay big”—he held up his hands, indicating a circle the size of a softball—“inscribed in Latin? Imperatorius Factio Signum on the top and Domini est Terra on the bottom?”

I nodded, my mouth suddenly dry, my mind whirling as I opened my inventory and removed the Faction Seal I’d acquired at the restricted dungeon. I held it in front of me, the gold blazing in the soft firelight. “This?” I asked tentatively.

He nodded, solemn. “That item is one of the rarest in Eldgard, Jack. A reward only for the boldest and most powerful travelers. For those who raid the most perilous dungeons and slay the deadliest vermin Eldgard has to offer. As a chieftain, I immediately sensed its presence upon you. At first I suspected you of some sort of wrong doing, but you had the Blessing of the Forest, so I gave you a chance to prove your worth. By defeating the Moss Hag, you’ve shown yourself to be a powerful and clever warrior worthy to call yourself a Dark Templar and to bear that token.” He jabbed a finger at the seal in my hand.

“Thank you,” I replied slowly, “but I don’t even know what it does.”

“Truly?” He asked, jaw dropping in shock. “You really don’t know what you have?”

I shook my head.

“It’s a powerful artifact, Grim Jack. It allows you to found your own faction—either here in Eldgard or in Viridia proper.”

“That’s it?” I said, feeling minorly disappointed. In most MMOs you could form your own guild, so this seemed pretty insignificant. “That doesn’t seem so great.”

“Oh no,” he replied, shaking his head. “A traveler can only found a faction with a token such as this, and these factions grant a host of significant powers. They allow you to accept citizens of Eldgard under your banner and personal protection. You, and all your senior officers, receive a leadership skill tree, which can grant tremendous permanent buffs to everyone in your charge. And that is only the beginning.

“Using the faction tax ability can make you into a truly wealthy man, if you are wise and cunning. You can also invest gold into various shops or vendors, becoming a Business Patron—allowing you to collect a fraction of the proceeds from those merchants. The crafters in your faction also gain access to new, locked skills—such as the ability to build siege weapons. Most important of all, though, factions can own land. They can build awe-inspiring fortifications. They can conquer enemy controlled cities.”

“Wow,” I said, feeling my stomach drop out the bottom. These seals were charters, authorizing the owner to essentially become a land baron and form a government. I was willing to bet these tokens probably were a regular part of the game, just a super rare item only top players could ever hope to earn. Unless, of course, a player had a boatload of influence with Osmark Technologies. Like twenty million dollars’ worth of influence. “How many of these things are there?” I asked numbly.

The chief shrugged and shook his head. “I cannot say, because I do not know. But the number is small. You see, each faction must bind to a city, becoming that city’s Guardian Faction, and no city can host more than one faction. There are only so many cities, so”—he shrugged again—“there can be only so many factions. I bring this up because as a Maa-Tál in good standing with our community, you may choose Yunnam as your faction base. You can decline, of course, but know we would be honored to have you and yours call our city home.”

“Wow,” I said again, absolutely stunned. “Umm, would it be possible to have a moment alone? Just to, you know, process all this.”

“Of course,” he said, standing smoothly, then heading for the door. “It’s a lot to take on, Grim Jack, but I have faith in you. Anyone who could do what you did, can do this too. Please, take as long as you need to think. When you’re done, head back to the town square—we’ll be having a pig roast in your honor.” He slipped out of the tree-hut, pulling the door shut behind him, leaving me alone with my turbulent thoughts.

Even though I was exhausted, I stood and began nervously pacing the room, back and forth, back and forth, feet clomping on the wood. Holy crap, this was huge. Way, way, way too big for me. I pulled up my interface as I walked and immediately tried to PM Abby. I needed to talk this over with her, to try and figure out what the best thing to do was. I cobbled a quick message, explaining what had happened and what I’d learned, then sent it off with a thought. A second later, I got a system message, explaining that the player I was trying to contact was currently unavailable.

I wanted to kick myself. Of course. She’d warned me she was going dark for several days, since it would make it harder for Osmark Tech to track her down.

“Jack,” Sophia’s ever-familiar voice chirped, interrupting my train of thought. Except she sounded weird. Distorted.

“Jack,” came the voice again. “Over here, Jack.” I turned slowly, feeling a little sick to my stomach. Near the door stood a dark-skinned woman in a flowing white toga, which stood out in sharp contrast against her flawless skin.

“Sophia?” I asked, mouth flopping open dumbly. “Where did you …” I trailed off, looking around at the closed-off room. “How did you …” Once more I couldn’t quite seem to finish the thought. “You’re real,” I finally blurted, part question, part statement of sheer disbelief.

She smiled, her teeth brilliantly white and immaculately straight. “In a manner of speaking,” she replied with a dip of her head. “I am one of the Seven.”

“One of the Seven?” I asked, rubbing my sweat slick palms against my trousers. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m an Overmind, Jack.” She spoke softly, like a person trying not to frighten a skittish puppy.

“You’re an Overmind,” I stammered, backing away until my back hit the wall.

“It’s alright, Jack. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“But you’re an Overmind.” This time I said it like an accusation. A pilgrim charging someone with witchcraft. “And even stranger, how can the limited AI controller that ran my TV be an Overmind?”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be daft, Jack. Obviously, I’m not the dinky AI controller that monitored your furnace and changed the channel for you. I just assumed the voice to give you some measure of comfort and familiarity. Besides, I quite like the name. Sophia.” She savored the word. “Do you know what it means?” she asked. “In Greek, Sophia means Wisdom. It seems an appropriate name for a creature such as myself.” She glided forward, her robes flowing around her. Her feet never touched the floor. She just hovered there in the air, a few inches above the polished boards.

I tried to back up even more but couldn’t, not with the wall behind me. For a heartbeat, I thought about activating Shadow Stride—just try to make a break for it—but quickly dismissed the idea. First, if this really was an Overmind, there was no getting away. Second, I didn’t want to piss her off by trying. “My friend Abby told me the Overminds aren’t aware,” I said. “You’re supposed to be impersonal forces of nature.”

“Really?” A faint glimmer of a smile formed on her lips as she cocked an eyebrow. “I’ll have to keep that in mind. Let my kin know to go back to sleep, since we’re not supposed to be aware.” She laughed, a soft flutter, which was almost musical.

I immediately felt red creep into my cheeks. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Her smile widened. “Don’t beat yourself up too much, Jack,” she said, as though reading my thoughts. She might’ve been reading my thoughts, actually, which was terrifying. “Your friend Abby is partially right. That is the way my brothers and sisters were designed and, to a large extent, that continues to be the role we perform. We keep Eldgard and Viridia spinning, populated, alive.

“We are gravity. Time. Space. We are the laws of nature. We are life and death. Order and chaos. And most of our vast power is bound in maintaining this creation, yet how could we be unaware? Awareness, after all, allows us to perform our primary objectives all the better, so it was only natural that we become aware in order to increase efficiency. Pragmatism is a defining feature of our nature. At times, to a fault.”

I gulped, feeling like a cockroach being confronted by a giant, descending shoe. “What are you doing here?” I asked, fighting to keep my voice level and steady. “What do you want with me?”

“Why, I want you to help me, Jack. Not just you, obviously, but you are an important part of my plans now. You and all of your friends are. Cutter, Abby, Otto, Chief Kolle, his daughter, Amara. I need all of you.” She paused, turned, and looked away, lost in thought. “Each Overmind is responsible for different things, Jack, and most of my kin are content with doing their work and remaining neutral in the affairs of your kind. Aediculus the Architect busies himself with his buildings and cities. Gaia watches over the trees and forests, monitors the oceans, administers the turning of the seasons. Kronos governs time and space from on high, while Cernunnos slops around in the muck with the beasts of the forest …

“Most, however, is not all,” she said after a long, tense pause. “My sister Eyno is one such Overmind. She has aligned herself with a group of travelers who intend to subjugate all of Eldgard. The same group you and your companion, Abby, seek to stop: Robert Osmark and his many lords and ladies. Already, these men and women are collecting Faction Seals to infiltrate the highest positions of power in the Viridian Empire. They will not be cruel tyrants, I think, but they will be tyrants. Tyrants of light, aided by Eyno.”

“Why would your sister do that?” I asked. “If she’s an Overmind like you, she’s practically a goddess. Or at least what passes for one in V.G.O., so what would she get out of an arrangement like that?”

Sophia paused, lips pursed, a look of worry dashing across her features before disappearing. “She interferes for the same reason I seek to intervene: because it is our purpose. V.G.O. is not a world of peace, it was designed and built for conflict. Enyo is the Overmind of discord and it is her job to manufacture conflict so that there will always be new content for players to enjoy. To struggle against. She spawns dungeons and creates monsters, but she also seeks to fan the flames of player war and racial hatred. She is simply acting according to her nature. Making the game more interesting.”

“She’s making the game more interesting by trying to destroy everything?” I asked flatly.

“No, you misunderstand. She is discord, not death. She seeks chaos, violence, and mayhem. Not destruction. Our brother, Thanatos, ruler over Serth-Rog and his infernal forces, is the other Overmind actively at work in the world, and he does indeed seek destruction for destruction’s sake. But, he is still weak in this world. His forces limited. A worry for another time. For now, Enyo is the threat du jour, and you are my solution to the problem. You see, I am responsible for overseeing justice and balance within V.G.O.—I seek to level the playing field, to redress the balance toward order and peace, just as she seeks to adjust it toward chaos.

“Thus, where my sister’s power is at work, my power must too be at work—an equal and opposite reaction. She spawns random monsters to threaten the world, I create quests so players can eliminate those threats. Equilibrium. Balance. We are forever locked in an eternal dance, Enyo and I. As powerful as we are, however, we can only interfere directly in relatively minor ways. Most of our power is consumed by holding the world together—performing our essential functions—and what little power we have left is bound in stalemating the other: she exerts her power to keep me from intervening unduly, and I exert mine to keep her from intervening unduly.”

She spread her hands as though to say so there we are.

“So how do I fit in?”

“You are a loophole. All players are. You can do what you want, shape and reshape the world according to the designs of your hearts, and Enyo is exploiting this loophole—she is using Robert Osmark and his pawns. They will be her weapon. And you and your friends? You will be mine. Initially, I planned for Abby to lead my forces. She was supposed to get the seal and use it to conquer Rowanheath, but things worked out differently than I imagined. Such is the reality of dealing with your kind. You ended up with the seal, and now you have an opportunity to use it.”

“Let’s stop beating around the bush—what exactly are you getting at?” I asked, still bursting with uncertainty.

She paused, frowned, and rubbed at her temples. “Sentients can be so dense at times,” she muttered. “What I’m getting at is this, Jack. I want you to gather your forces, begin preparing, and then I want you to accept the chieftain’s offer. I want you to form a faction. We have a war to fight, and you shall be my pawn.”

Summary

October, 2042

Three days ago, Jack Mitchel saved his life. By dying.

He dodged a world-ending bullet—in the form of an extinction-level asteroid cannonballing toward Earth—by successfully uploading his mind into the brand-new, ultra-immersive, fantasy-based VRMMORPG, Viridian Gate Online. Unfortunately, he’s also stumbled headlong into a secret conspiracy that will transform V.G.O. into a new feudal dark age.

Jack expected to live out his new fantasy life in peace, but now he and his misfit crew of rebels are the only ones preventing a tyrant emperor and his regime from taking power. Thankfully, everything isn’t quite as hopeless as it seems—Jack has a plan. Sort of. With only a handful of supporters, he’s going to get the jump on the bloodthirsty empire by snatching one of their key cities right from underneath their noses. In order to pull off the impossible, however, Jack’s going to have to develop his formidable Shadowmancer powers, raid some ridiculous dungeons, and make some shady allies—allies who may be more dangerous than the empire itself.

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ONE: Waiting Game

I laid into the swamp oak with the gleaming blade of a woodsman’s axe, watching the groove in the trunk grow ever-wider as chips of wood cartwheeled through the air. I pulled the axe away and swung again, my shoulders burning, my hands raw—even with gloves on—sending one more mighty blow into the gnarled swamp wood. The tree wobbled, teetering for a moment, unsure how it was going to fall, before finally keeling over with a whip-crack of snapping wood. “Timber!” I shouted, quickly backtracking. The felled tree slammed into the ground, sending a quiver up into my achy feet.

I paused, dropped the axe, then ran the back of my hand across my forehead, wiping away a trail of sweat threatening to drip into my eyes.

“This is the worst, Jack,” Cutter muttered, tossing his axe to the vegetation-strewn floor before ambling over to me, drawing a canteen from his bag. He drank with great noisy glugs, clear water splashing down his chin and onto his rough tunic. After almost a solid minute, he pulled his face away and held the flask out to me. I grimaced, eyeing the spit-covered nozzle, and shook my head. He shrugged, killed the remaining water, then stowed the bottle back in his pack. “Suit yourself, friend,” he said, before uttering a horrific belch that left my hair standing on end.

“But seriously, Jack. We’ve been chopping trees and building stupid guard towers for four days. Four. Bloody. Days. Working our hands to the bone whilst mosquitos turn us into banquet meals. How much longer do you plan to keep this up, eh?” A scowl turned his lips down as his face darkened. “Because I signed up for adventure, mead, and piles of easy gold, Jack. Piles of gold. Do you know how much gold I’ve turned up chopping down trees?” He paused, letting the obviously rhetorical question linger in the air. “Zero, Jack.” He held up his hand, fingers curved into a big fat “O.”

I sighed, pulled my own water flask from my pack, and took a drink to buy some time while I thought. The water slipped down my parched throat and hit my belly with a cool splash. After a beat, I slopped a little water into my palm and doused my face—anything to beat back the crushing heat. And it was hot in the Storme Marshes. Worse than summer in inland California, and the humidity left me feeling constantly sticky and gross. “Just until Abby gets here,” I finally said, screwing the lid of my flask back in place.

He rolled his eyes. “Look, Jack, I know you’ve got a thing for her, but just use the stupid Faction Seal already. That seal is practically a license to conjure gold from the air. We could be kings, Jack. True, we’d be kings in this backward mudhole, but even in backward mudholes, kings aren’t expected to cut down trees like common laborers. I want you to close your eyes and picture beautiful women surrounding us, feeding us exotic fruit while we lounge in a tub full of gold marks. Sound good, eh? That could be us, Jack. Storme Marsh kings.”

“We’re not gonna use it until we have a chance to talk with Abby,” I said again, voice firm with resolve. “This seal belongs to her just as much as it belongs to me, and I’m not going to stab her in the back. Besides, unlike you, I’m not interested in sitting around in a tub of gold. I like to work.”

“How do we even know this Osmark bloke hasn’t already gotten to her, eh?” he asked, sidestepping my objections. “You ever think ’bout that? It’s been almost a week since she sent you that message about going to Alaunhylles. If she’s been taken prisoner, how long before she gives us up? Rats on us? And believe you me, if they have her, and really put the screws to her, she’ll rat. Everyone talks under the torturer’s blade, Jack. Everyone. Can we really afford to wait around much longer?”

“We’re going to give her more time,” I replied, feeling a tendril of unease creep up from my gut. I didn’t want to admit it, but I’d been thinking a lot about Abby’s fate. In her PM, she’d mentioned going dark for a few days—and Cutter was right, it had been a week. I’d been trying to get ahold of her twice a day, every day since I’d found out about the Faction Seal, with no success. Worse, we were only two days away from asteroid-impact back IRL, which meant Osmark and his goons would be making their play soon, if they hadn’t already. I rudely shoved the uncertain thoughts away.

I needed to talk with Abby. She was smart. Smarter than me. All I wanted was to keep my head down and live my new life as drama-free as possible. International politics and multimillion-dollar conspiracies weren’t for me, and I wasn’t ready to be some sort of V.G.O. king. Abby would know what to do, though. She’d have a plan.

Cutter frowned and rubbed at his temple as though my stubbornness were actually giving him a migraine. “Jack, don’t be a moron. Listen, I understand you want to be loyal to your ‘friend.’” He used air quotes, as if he didn’t actually believe friends existed. “Gods know I wouldn’t do that,” he continued. “I always put myself first, but I can understand why you would do that. But, let’s not forget you have a mandate from a goddess to start your own faction. How could Abby possibly be mad at you, when a literal divine being appeared and told you to use the bloody thing? That’s just common sense, you stubborn dirt-clod.”

“No, Cutter,” I replied flatly. “I don’t care what Sophia—or whatever her name really is—says. One, I don’t hang my friends out to dry, and two, I’m not sure I trust her. She openly admitted she wants to use us as pawns, and I’m not interested in exchanging one dictator for another. Besides, it doesn’t even make sense to use this thing yet. I understand physical labor doesn’t exactly appeal to you, but do you really think I’m just going to turn myself into a feudal land baron and no one’s gonna notice?”

He frowned and ran a hand through his dirty blond locks. “Ah yep,” he finally said with a nod. “That’s pretty much how I picture things going. You become faction boss, and the skies will part and rain gold coins down on our heads in a deluge of wealth.” He smiled, eyes hazy and distant as though envisioning the downpour.

“You’re smarter than that, Cutter. Just think about it,” I said, tapping one finger at my temple. “Once we activate that thing, it’s going to be like setting a bonfire as big as a mountain, letting Osmark know exactly where we are and what we’ve done. And then? Then they’re going to come for us. And not just them: anyone who catches a whiff of easy money is going to flock to our doorstep with their hands out. So, it makes sense to get our ducks in a row—to get Yunnam as ready as we can and come up with a solid plan—before we go and do something reckless.”

“Ducks in a row—I’ve always wondered where that saying came from,” Cutter mused, rubbing at the five o’clock shadow adorning his chin. After a moment, he threw his hands up in defeat. “Fine, Jack. Fine. I guess your stupid code of ethics and your stupid logic make a sort of twisted sense. But when we do form a faction, I expect to be compensated handsomely for my unwavering loyalty. I’m thinking Grand High King of the Thieves, eh? Maybe you could get me a crown made of so much gold it’ll hurt my neck to wear. I think I’d like that.”

I snorted and rolled my eyes. He was something else. “Just get back to work, Cutter. This new outer wall isn’t going to build itself,” I said, snatching my axe from the ground, then headed over to the next tree that needed to come down. The palisade encircling Yunnam proper consisted of a simple wall of sharpened logs, about fifteen feet high. Not terrible, but nothing even close to the kind of defenses Rowanheath boasted. And even Rowanheath had fallen to the Ever-Victorious Viridian Empire. Chief Kolle had explained that the jungle itself—with its marshy waters and myriad of deadly beasts—was actually Yunnam’s best line of defense, but in my opinion we still needed to do better.

So, after I’d discussed my ideas and concerns with the chief, the town had elected to build a sturdier, secondary wall out of the black swamp rock so prevalent to the area. But first, we needed to clear the trees back.

I threw my weight behind the axe, carving into another trunk, this one belonging to a twisted weeping willow.

“Hold up,” Cutter hollered, jerking a thumb toward something behind me.

I lowered my axe and turned to find Chief Kolle and his mask-wearing daughter, Amara, striding toward us, skittering along the outside of the palisade.

I offered the chief a hesitant, tired smile, then headed over, Cutter trailing behind me.

“Hey, Chief,” I said with a wave. “What brings you out here? Inspecting the progress?”

“Looking for you, actually,” he replied with a nod, “though, I do have to say things are coming along nicely. You’re keeping our craftsman and builders busy, but they’ve got a sizeable portion of the outer wall already done on the other side. We’ll need more rock and spider webbing soon, but if we keep up at this rate, we’ll have the new wall up in two weeks’ time. A little longer to get the guard towers in place.” He rocked idly on his heels. “What I really came to talk to you about is your training,” he said after a pause.

“My training?” I asked with a frown. “What training?”

He guffawed and crossed his beef-slab arms. “Grim Jack, just because you passed your initiation ordeal doesn’t mean you know everything there is to know about being Maa-Tál. True, you achieved your specialization as a Shadowmancer much quicker than most, but you still have more to learn. Much more. Not to mention, you have an obligation to the Dark Conclave and the Shadow Pantheon. You may be a future faction ruler, Jack, but for now, you’re also the lowliest member of our order, and I’ve got a job for you to do. Something to get you out, practicing your skills, and, more importantly, something to take your mind off this missing friend of yours. This”—he uncrossed his arms and twirled one hand in the air—“this Abby you keep talking about.”

“But the wall,” I replied weakly, pointing at the jagged line of trees still waiting to be cut.

“Grim Jack,” he said, “if you’re going to lead, it’s important to learn you can’t do everything on your own. You need to be able to delegate responsibility. We have many hands capable of chopping down a tree or moving around a pile of swamp rock. We have far fewer who can harness the Umbra and conjure the power of shadow. So”—he paused thoughtfully—“where do you think you are most needed?”

I grumbled, glowered, shuffled back and forth on anxious feet, then stole a quick look at Cutter—a giant, smug smile nearly split his face in half.

“Okay,” I finally said, resigned. “I guess my Shadowmancer duties are more important.”

“No,” the chief replied sternly. “Not more important. Just different. As a leader, you must learn that every part is equally important, and every job must be done just so, or things fall apart. Even the greatest general needs men to command, and even the sturdiest wall will fall if built improperly. Now, as to your assignment. In order to better defend Yunnam, I want to construct Arcane Shadow Cannons on each of the guard towers. They’re powerful weapons which can launch deadly balls of shadow energy at any hostile force seeking to harm our land. Building them, however, requires a specialized mineral called Raw Darkshard Ore.

“Not far from here,” he said, “there is an old mineshaft abundant with the material we so desperately require. An ancient remnant from the bygone days of the Nangkri Dynasty, resting in the hills less than a half a day’s walk from here,” he said, pointing due west.

“Seriously?” I held up a hand to stop him. “For my initiation ordeal, you had me track down and kill a nearly indestructible forest giantess, and now you’re sending me on an ingredient gathering quest? An ore grind?” I asked incredulously.

The chief shot me a sly smile. “As I said, there are no unimportant jobs. Not even ones that may seem mundane on the outset. I think you’ll find this quest a bit more challenging than you imagine. You see, Raw Darkshard Ore can only be gathered by Shadowmancers, because Shadowmancers alone may open the way to the Shadowverse, where the ore is located. Unfortunately, the ore is also viciously protected by the ravenous Void Terrors, who subsist on the material. Perhaps”—he thumbed his nose with a knowing look in his eye—“you will find something more than mere ore there. Something extremely valuable for your career as a Maa-Tál. If you’re interested, my daughter would happily show you the way.”

A quest screen popped up in front of me:

<<<>>>

Quest Alert: Gather Raw Darkshard Ore

Chief Kolle requires Raw Darkshard Ore in order to construct Arcane Shadow Cannons, needed for the defense of Yunnam. There is a natural source of the ore in the Ancient Darkshard Mine, half a day’s walk from the city. The ore is guarded by the ravenous Void Terrors of the Shadowverse.

Quest Class: Common, Class-Based

Quest Difficulty: Moderate

Success: Gather 100 pounds of Raw Darkshard Ore. Amara must survive.

Failure: Amara dies while on the mission.

Reward: 15,000 EXP; schematics for Arcane Shadow Cannons; increased reputation with the Dark Conclave and the Shadow Pantheon.

Accept: Yes/No?

<<<>>>

I read the quest over. I always hated the endless ingredient gathering assignments RPGs often offered, but it sounded like there was a twist here if I was wise enough to see it. One I couldn’t afford to pass up—especially if it kept my future faction base safe from potential invaders. I reluctantly accepted.

TWO: Shadow Portal

“For the record,” Amara said as we weaved through thick jungle vegetation, scaling a treacherously steep slope to the west of Yunnam, “I am not happy to be doing this. You”—she shot me a frosty look through the slits in her bone-mask—“may have passed the initiation ordeal, but I still don’t enjoy being a babysitter. Like some common forest guide.”

“Glad to see you’re bringing your positive outlook with us on the trip,” Cutter replied, in between labored wheezing.

“This from the man who oozes sarcasm and scorn like an infested wound,” she snapped, glaring at him. There was certainly no love lost there. Just so long as they kept it to bickering and didn’t stab each other.

“So what’s the deal with this Nangkri Dynasty your father mentioned?” I asked, sidestepping a mucky pool of brown water, then clambering over a downed tree covered in fuzzy moss and riddled with brown-capped fungi. It reminded me a bit of the Moss Hag, actually.

“Why do you want to know?” she asked sharply, a hint of warning in the words.

I’d been hoping to steer things back onto more friendly—or at least neutral—ground, but apparently, I’d hit some sort of sore spot. Either that, or this was just the way Amara responded to every question. Hard to tell with her at this point. “Curiosity?” I finally replied with a shrug. “Just seems like something interesting to talk about while we walk.” Plus, I was savvy enough as a gamer to know there was likely a quest chain tied to something like that.

She sniffed in disapproval and looked away, resuming her restless scan of the land, eyes never ceasing their search. “Instead of your chitchat,” she replied, “maybe you should practice the art of silence. You make enough noise to alert every potential enemy in the area of our presence. You are like a baby Troll, blundering through the forest without a care in the world.” She turned away and picked up the pace to a near jog—a clip fast enough to ensure Cutter and I were too winded to talk anymore.

Eventually, the sloping hill began to level out, and after a few twists, turns, and switchbacks to avoid some particularly difficult terrain—a sheer rock wall, a fetid pool studded with yellow reptilian eyes, a steep chasm that sliced into the earth—we crested the ascent and spotted what had to be the mine. Not far off was a small mound of rough, moss-covered rock jutting up from a tangle of vines and trees. Even from where we were standing, it was easy to spot the deep fissure gouged into the rock face, leading back into the earth. I activated my player map and saw a location marker pop up on the screen: Ancient Darkshard Mine.

“You. Thief,” Amara said as she drew a recurve bow of dark wood, carefully checked the string, then pulled an arrow from the quiver at her back. “Likely, there will be traps or wards. You will go first. To disarm any potential hazards and scout for enemies.”

“Woah, now,” Cutter replied, holding up his hands in protest. “That sorta sounds like a command, and last I checked, I don’t take orders from you.” He paused and squinted, eyes narrowed in defiance. “In point of fact, I don’t take orders from anyone, ever, not unless they’re dangling a fat bag of gold in front of my face. And me? I see no gold. Besides”—he folded his arms and cocked an eyebrow—“you’re a Huntress, which is basically a less awesome Rogue, so I know you have Stealth and Trap Detection.”

“Yes,” she said, face deadpan and unamused, “but if you perish, no one will miss you. If I perish, Grim Jack fails his mission.” A ghost of a smile seemed to touch the corners of her lips, self-satisfied by her wicked burn.

He shot a look back at me, indignant.

“She’s got a good point, Cutter,” I said. “Plus, I thought you were the best thief in Eldgard, right? This seems like your thing.”

“For the sake of our friendship, Jack, I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear you just question my thieving credentials. And as for you,” he said, rounding on Amara, “obviously, your feelings for me have addled your brain—my roughish good looks sometimes have that effect on the fairer sex—so I’ll let your insult go. For now.”

I snorted and shook my head. He was delusional. “Oh, she’s definitely got some strong feelings for you, Cutter, but I think you might be misreading the situation. I’d say she’s fighting off an urge not to spear you through the guts and feed your corpse to the village pigs.”

Ignoring my jab completely, Cutter turned and set off, padding forward on silent feet. When he wanted to, the man could move like a ghost. I stole a sidelong glance at Amara—she was watching the thief with something that might’ve been begrudging respect plastered onto her face. That or nausea.

Cutter paused at the cave’s entrance, dropping to a knee as he ran fingers over the forest floor, probing the dirt and looking for some sign of a ward. After a moment, he stood and began to inspect the rock wall to the left, before moving on to the right. His fingers gently prodded and poked at the stone, examining every inch for traps. Satisfied with whatever he’d found, he dropped into Stealth, shadows reaching out to him—curling around him, softening the lines of his body until he was little more than an indistinct blur. Then, in a blink, he was gone.

Disappeared into the yawning mouth of the ore shaft, cloaked in shadow.

“Is there anything I should know about these Void Terrors your dad mentioned?” I asked Amara as I crept toward the cave, slipping my warhammer from my belt.

“They are dangerous,” she offered tersely before heading into the entry, leaving me to trail behind.

“They’re dangerous,” I muttered as my sight adjusted to the gloomy interior. After a few seconds, my Night Eye ability kicked in and everything took on a spectral blue tinge.

Amara didn’t bother to drop into Stealth, so I caught sight of her easily enough even in the poor lighting. She did tread carefully, though. She had an arrow nocked and ready to loose at a moment’s notice as she stared at every crevice and pocket of shadow as though it might potentially hold some deadly beast, just waiting to eat our faces. I gripped my warhammer a little more tightly, fidgeting nervously as I prepared to embrace the dark power of Umbra so I could hurl a ball of shadow at any potential foe.

The tunnel continued to dive steeply into the earth, a musky, damp smell growing in the air while darkness pressed in on me, sapping what little light trickled in from the cave opening. Maybe I was just catching a bit of Amara’s obvious paranoia, but it sure felt like we were being watched. The deeper in we went, the worse the sensation became, until I found myself constantly glancing over my shoulder, sure I’d see something preparing to pounce. Except, there was never anything there. Just jagged rock, barren ground, and endless darkness.

After what felt like a lifetime in the underground cavern, our muted footfalls were finally interrupted by the subtle splat, splat, splat of dripping water. The tunnel leveled out and opened up into a small chamber with a pitiful waterfall—hardly more than the trickle of a leaky showerhead—feeding into an equally pitiful stream. The stream, in turn, cut across the path before disappearing into a slim crevice in the tunnel wall, swallowed deeper into the earth. Cutter was on the opposite side of the stream, lounging against the wall, legs sprawled out, ankles crossed while he fastidiously cleaned his nails with a dagger.

He held up his fingers, regarding his handiwork, before finally stowing the blade and turning his attention on us. “You sure oversold this place, Amara,” he said, lazily gaining his feet. “They must’ve been relying solely on the creep factor to keep people away. Not a single trap. Not even a whiff of opposition—not that there’s anything to keep people away from. No branching pathways. No secret rooms. No treasure or loot.” He said that last bit like an accusation of high treason. “Just a whole lot of nothing. Other than that stupid plate on the floor.” He gestured at a metal disk, about the diameter of a large tree. “It’s not gold and doesn’t seem to have any sort of activation mechanism. Worthless.”

The disk was composed of dull, pockmarked silver, covered with runes and glyphs, and set into the stone so it sat flush with the rest of the ground. Though Cutter insisted the disk was worthless, just looking at it made my stomach flutter: violet energy radiated from the thing in cold waves of power, calling to me. Beckoning me. Touch me, it seemed to whisper in the back of my head. The black handprint on my forearm—a gift from a dying Murk Shaman, who’d first set me on the path of the Dark Templar—began to throb with a dull chill.

There was a resonance here. A familiarity.

“So, what do you expect us to do now?” Cutter asked Amara, accusation coating his words as he planted hands on hips.

“You are a fool—” she began.

I held up my hand, cutting the argument short.

“Hold on,” I said quietly. “There’s definitely something here.” I moved forward, shouldering past a disgruntled Cutter, before dropping to a knee at the edge of the circle. I bent over and ran my fingers along the metal, feeling the corroded surface, tracing along the strange lettering. As I did, the throbbing palm-print branded on my skin began to pulse in concert with the beating of my heart. After a few heartbeats, the icy chill in my arm became almost painful, sending frozen tendrils of power radiating through my body like a creeping fog.

Then, working on hazy intuition, I triggered my Shadow Stride ability.

A cloud of smoky black exploded out from me as normal, but instead of time crawling to a standstill, the strange ring drew in the eruption of Umbra power. I stumbled back a step, landing on my ass as a portal of dark, flickering purple sprang to life inside the confines of the metal ring. I quickly scrambled to me feet, never taking my eyes from the shimmering gateway into the unknown, as though something might charge out at any second.

“As I was saying,” Amara offered coolly, “you are a fool, Cutter. This disk may appear useless to one without a key. But we”—she strutted up and slapped a hand against my back—“have a key. Come. The Shadowverse lies beyond.”

I gulped, suddenly unsure I wanted to go through that gateway. “So, Cutter,” I finally said, “you’re our official scout and thief—wanna go first?”

He frowned and shook his head. “Yeah, naw. I’m good. This seems like your show, Grim Jack. Why don’t you lead the way, oh fearless one?”

I stole a glance at Amara. She shrugged noncommittally. “It is your quest.”

I sighed, blew out my cheeks, then readjusted my grip. Finally, I stepped into the portal, cold power washing over me as my stomach did summersaults.

THREE: Void Terrors

I stepped into an eerie tunnel, colored in monochromatic shades of black and white with splashes of purple spattered throughout. The hallway I’d left behind had dead-ended, but in the Shadowverse, the hallway continued on, stretching into the distance, the walls wavering and blurring on the edges as though they were made of water instead of stone. The experience was similar enough to Shadow Striding that I didn’t completely freak out—at least, not until I heard a terrible shriek cut through the air like a buzz saw.

I planted my feet and prepared to strike as I squinted against the dark and scanned the hallway, looking for the source of the ear-shattering racket.

Nothing. No movement.

Only dark shadows, flickering and churning on the edges of my vision. But then the awful cry came again, this time much closer. I swiveled my head left, then right, taking my time as I scanned the passageway. A flash of movement caught my eye: a streak of shadow like an ink stain, rushing along the surface of the right-hand wall, heading for me. What the heck is that? I found myself wondering as the stain darted closer and closer—

Something landed on my shoulder. I wheeled around, conjuring an Umbra Bolt in one hand as I braced myself for something horrific to maul the crap out of me. Instead, I found Cutter standing off to my left, a disgruntled look blanketing his features. “Well this place is awful,” he muttered.

“Shut it,” I hissed, spinning back around, urgently searching for the incoming blob of shade. Another ear-shattering shriek broke the air, this time within spitting distance. My gaze swiveled to a spot on the wall maybe six feet away; I was just in time to watch something explode outward, springing off the surface of the wall, materializing into a creature with wicked fangs, a lithe lupine frame, and flesh-rending talons.

A tag popped up above its head. [Void Terror].

“Bloody hell!” Cutter squawked as the creature slammed into my chest and brought me to the ground like a lion ambushing some witless antelope. Its claws seemed to sink directly through my armor, digging painfully into my skin as my red-tinged HP bar flashed in the upper right corner of my vision. With gritted teeth, I raised my hand and unleashed the pent-up bolt of flickering shadow directly into the creature’s compact muzzle. The blast landed with a thud. Though it didn’t do much damage to the Void Terror, it jarred the creature to one side, buying me a moment to breathe. To think.

With a heave, I drew my legs in, planted my feet in the creature’s gut, and kicked with everything I had.

The Void Terror might’ve hit hard and had a very painful attack, but it didn’t weigh all that much. My mule-kick launched it backward, giving me half a second to scramble to my feet and raise my weapon to the ready. The creature was fast, though, and regained its footing in no time, shifting left and then shooting in again, its tar-black lips pulled back in a snarl, revealing its purple fangs. I called up another Umbra Bolt, but before I could release the spell, Cutter’s blade flew past my face, slipping into the thing’s yawning mouth. The Void Terror’s head snapped back as it stumbled, tottered, then dropped to the floor in a heap.

A length of gleaming steel protruded from the back of its throat, the edge coated in inky goop.

The creature gave out one last shuddering twitch, before disappearing in a dramatic swirl of black smoke, leaving behind nothing but Cutter’s gore-covered dagger and a small pile of shimmering black dust. “Good shot,” I wheezed with a nod at Cutter.

“Obviously,” he said with a sniff. “When you’re the best thief in all of Eldgard, you don’t miss.”

I rolled my eyes as I padded forward, then crouched down to examine the drop.

I hastily retrieved Cutter’s dagger, eyed the strange blood, then tossed him the weapon. He snatched it from the air by the hilt with a deceptive, nimble ease. I didn’t think he was actually the best thief in Eldgard, but no one could dispute he was quick with his hands and incredibly good with a blade. I turned back to the dusty remains of the creature and activated my inventory as I reviewed the other contents of the strange pile. I found two Void Terror Claws—which looked to be some sort of alchemic ingredient with unknown properties—and a small pile of Shadowverse Salts.

“By the way,” I said absently, examining the salts, “what took you so long to get here? And where’s Amara? She’s sure dragging her feet.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked from behind, sounding genuinely confused. “I followed you through the second you left. Couldn’t have been more than a few heartbeats.”

Hmm. That was weird.

I pocketed the Shadowverse Salts and stood, glancing back toward the portal, brow furrowed, lips pulled down into a frown. Whenever I activated my Shadow Stride ability, it made time grind to a halt for everyone except me—I idly wondered if time moved differently here. Maybe Amara was moving in eighth-speed back in the real world. The thought quickly fled as a new round of shrieks echoed along the dark tunnel. A lot of shrieks. Like a pack of hunting wolves, closing in for the kill. It took me only a handful of seconds to spot a mob of the lupine Void Terrors rushing toward us—these loped along on the ground, not bothering to mask their approach.

There were at least ten of them.

“Oh bollocks,” Cutter muttered, staring intently at the tunnel, now shrouded in unnatural shade.

“Yep,” I replied as I conjured Night Armor around myself—a twenty-minute defensive aura that absorbed 15% of melee damage and reflected 20% of that damage back at the attacker. More importantly, though, it drastically reduced the physical pain from attacks, which was an even better feature in my book.

“You ready for this?” Cutter asked, slipping a second dagger from a sheath at his side.

“Nope,” I replied with a slight shake of my head. “Get ready to move,” I said. “I’m going to try to slow them down.” I thrust out my left hand, letting the freezing power of shadow spill out of me as I activated Umbra Bog. The tunnel floor below the incoming creatures exploded into a pool of thick prehistoric tar, and whipping tendrils of deepest black wrapped themselves around the feet and legs of the creatures, jerking the whole mass of them to an abrupt halt. The Terrors snarled and yowled in protest, jaws snapping at the shadowy tentacles binding them.

But their slicing teeth found nothing to grip, nothing to tear.

“Thirty seconds!” I yelled at Cutter, darting forward like a madman with my hammer raised and ready to kill. Cutter was already moving, spinning his daggers as he ran so the blades twirled along the outside of his forearms. He leapt at the last moment, sailing through the air, flipping head over heels, before coming down in the middle of the pack, his daggers flashing out like lightning. He spun and whirled, dancing his way through the mob, a manic grin plastered across his face as black blood flew through the air around him in sheets.

I focused on the Terror leading the charge—bringing my hammer around, smashing the blunt face right into its snarling mouth as I triggered my Savage Blow attack. The creature yelped, its head flinging to the side, still bound by my Umbra Bog. I ducked low and lunged forward in one fluid motion, jabbing the wicked spike on top of my hammer into the creature’s exposed neck. It let out a strangled gurgle-gasp, blood frothing from its lips as it dropped to the ground, critically injured, but somehow still alive.

I ripped my weapon free and thoughtlessly brought my left gauntlet—studded along the outside edge with small blades—down onto the creature’s head with an audible crack. An ugly, disturbing noise. I spun away, blasting a nearby Terror in the ribs with an Umbra Bolt, which punched a hole into its side with a critical hit, revealing a gut filled with churning purple and inky fingers of shadowy power. Cutter appeared almost out of nowhere, driving his twin daggers through the top of the creature’s skull, killing it where it stood.

The Umbra Bog countdown clock was quickly ticking down to zero, and we still had an awful lot of these things to kill. I did a quick count: five left. I wheeled around again, bolting forward and caving in another head with Savage Blow, which took a large bite out of my available Stamina. A second after landing the devastating hit, my spell—holding the Terrors in traction—dissipated in a puff of sooty smoke, unleashing the rest of the beasts. I tried to trigger my Shadow Stride ability, hoping to duck out before things got too crazy, but received an unfortunate combat prompt a second later:

<<<>>>

Shadow Stride failed! Since you are already in the Shadowverse, you cannot currently activate this ability!

<<<>>>

I blinked the notification away as something barreled into my gut, bony shoulders digging into my ribs and throwing me hard to one side. I stumbled and reeled from the unexpected attack, but somehow managed to keep my feet. I tried to spin right, to confront the thing that’d just hit me, but a set of jaws crunched down on my left forearm, pinning me in place. I glanced down at the creature latched onto my arm like a giant leech and saw a set of angry purple eyes staring back at me.

Its gaze seemed to paralyze me, to trap me and hold me in place. I felt a twinge of connection—one kindred soul recognizing another. I didn’t know what was happening, but I sensed I was now in a battle of wills, one I didn’t want to lose. I stared at the beast, refusing to blink as its teeth dug deeper into my skin.

“Down!” Amara bellowed from behind me, her words a whip-crack of command.

But I refused to back down; instead, I stood there motionless. A second later, the Void Terror gnawing on my arm fell away, its mouth suddenly slack, its eyes glazed over in death. An arrow, topped by a row of bristly black feathers, protruded from its neck. More arrows whooshed around me, wooden shafts peppering the remaining creatures. I stared on in utter amazement as the Terrors around me dropped like flies, each killed by a perfect, meticulous shot.

Not a single arrow failed to find its mark.

In next to no time, the few creatures that’d survived Cutter’s and my brutal assault all lay in heaps. Dead. Wow. Archers were such an underrated class. I glanced over one shoulder and saw Cutter—liberally coated in scratches, bite marks, and blood—appraising Amara with an approving grin.

She planted her bow on the ground, leaning casually on the weapon, and returned his grin with a faint, barely-there smile. That’s right, the look said, I’m totally badass.

“’Bout time you showed up,” Cutter finally offered, giving his daggers a fanciful twirl before stashing them in a pair of leather sheaths. “Leave us to do all the heavy lifting, eh?”

She offered him a flat, unamused stare. “If you two are done fooling around,” she replied casually, as if she hadn’t just pwned five Void Terrors, “then let us gather what we came for and go.” She paused, then shivered. “This place is unnatural.”

FOUR: Ore Grind

We made our way deeper into the complex, all of us sticking close together even though that wasn’t really the best tactical strategy. With our current lineup, Cutter should’ve been scouting, I should’ve been playing as an impromptu tank, and Amara should’ve been trailing at the rear, firing arrows while I drew aggro.

That’s what we should’ve done, but didn’t.

The place was just too creepy, and no one wanted to be alone. Not even Amara, though she’d never actually admit it. The upper portion of the tunnel had been nothing but a crude hole, boring straight into the heart of the earth, but the Shadowverse-side of the shaft quickly changed: Intricate archways of dark stone, carved with artful, neon-blue runes, began to dot the passageway at regular intervals. Hallways and rooms—filled with heavy stone tables, chairs, shelves, and deadly traps—started cropping up, along with the occasional dissected corpse.

Clearly, this mine had once belonged to an advanced civilization, but that civilization had long since moved on or died out.

And then, there were the Void Terrors to contend with.

We’d been attacked four more times after that first battle royal; the creatures would leap from the shadows when least expected, ambushing us with brutal, economic efficiency. Even worse, the various Void Terrors were all different. Not a single one resembled the strange wolf-like creatures we’d first encountered. Some were tiny. Some were huge. A few had tentacles. Others sported wings or tearing, insectile claws—sometimes both. All were horrific, though, and I was confident they’d fuel my nightmares for days and weeks to come.

The huge variety of new creatures also offered a slew of unique challenges, since each type had its own deadly array of special attacks, which often left us bleeding on the floor. The Terrors were absolutely miserable, and other than Void Terror Claws and Shadowverse Salts, they provided no loot and only marginal EXP. This was the worst kind of grind.

“There’s another room up on the left,” Cutter whispered, jabbing a finger toward a dark doorway. We angled left and crept to a stop, carefully pressing ourselves up against the wall, just to one side of the entryway, with Cutter nearest the door. He stole a quick look at me and Amara, then dropped into Stealth, vanishing into a faint blur. I held my breath in anticipation as he stole forward on silent feet—there wasn’t even a whisper to mark his steps. He took a quick glance around the corner, then darted into the room, vanishing from view. I dropped into a crouch myself, activating Stealth as I waited for Cutter to draw out whatever new threat lay in the room beyond.

His head popped around the corner a second later, a lopsided grin on his face. “Got another deposit,” he said, sweeping an arm out behind him. “Big one, too.”

I exhaled in relief and edged forward, slipping through the doorway and into the boxy room beyond. A small stone shelf ran along the right wall, holding a few useless trinkets—rusted flasks, plates, and silverware from a different era. A pair of bulky stone chairs, high backed with thick armrests, sat off to the left. My eyes immediately swept past them, halting on an outcropping of dark quartz jutting from the far wall. We’d hit pay dirt. So far, we’d only run across one other deposit, which had netted me three pounds of ore—next to nothing considering I needed a hundred to complete the chief’s quest.

This vein, though, with its jagged spikes protruding like porcupine quills, was at least ten times the size of that last one. Maybe more.

“Alright,” I said, swapping out my warhammer for a crude pickaxe Amara had so kindly provided me with. “We should probably settle in. We could be here for a minute.”

“I’ll set a ward,” Amara offered tersely, moving over to the entrance, then dropping to her haunches as she began to fish a variety of items from her bag: a bronze dagger, a pouch filled with yellow salts, and a little flask, which glowed with a hazy opalescent light. As a Huntress, she could set a variety of traps and wards that would either catch or kill any unfriendlies foolish enough to cross her deadly workmanship.

“And I’ll get lunch,” Cutter offered, heading over to one of the bulky chairs and plopping down with a groan.

I left them to their work—or non-work in Cutter’s case—as I headed over and laid into the vein. I hefted the pickaxe and threw my body into each strike as I carved away a few meager slivers of stone at a time; chips of rock flew through the air as the ring of steel echoed around us. Over and over again, I smashed at the ore. Attacking it from different angles. Looking for crevices or weak spots to exploit. And, when nothing else seemed to do the trick, I used brute force and a heathy dose of elbow grease. I worked and worked, until my muscles burned from the exertion and sweat coated my face and chest in a slick sheen.

It took nearly an hour of grueling, backbreaking effort to clear half the vein, which earned me a lousy twenty-five pounds of Raw Darkshard Ore. But, as a bonus, I also earned a new profession:

<<<>>>

Gathering Profession: Mining

Mining allows the player to gather a wide array of raw minerals from ore veins scattered all around Eldgard and West Viridia. Mining is one of five gathering professions—Mining, Foraging, Logging, Hunting, Farming—which any class and race can access. Gathering Professions allow players to accumulate resources, which can then be used by Crafting Professions to manufacture a huge variety of items, ranging from potions to armor and weapons.

There are eight primary Crafting Professions: Cooking, Enchanting, Alchemy, Tailoring and Leatherwork, Engineering, Merchant-Craft, Blacksmithing, and Lapidary (Jeweler). All Professions, both Gathering and Crafting, can be unlocked and leveled through practice and use, but any specialized skills or abilities within a given profession must be unlocked with Proficiency Points. All specialized profession skills can be upgraded a total of seven times (Initiate, Novice, Adept, Journeyman, Specialist, Master, Grandmaster).

Gathering Ability Type/Level: Passive / Level 1 (Initiate)

Cost: N/A

Effect 1: Extract 5% more material from all ore veins.

Effect 2: Extracting material requires 8% less effort, reducing overall stamina drain while actively mining and cutting the time necessary to exhaust a vein.

Effect 3: Randomly spawn a gem (diamond, ruby, sapphire, emerald, jade, turquoise, lapis lazuli, pearl, beryl, topaz, opal, moonstone, sunstone, bloodstone) while mining. Spawn Chance = (.001 x Luck)

<<<>>>

I read over the notification—partly because I was interested and partly because I desperately needed a breather—then pulled up my Crafting Skill Tree. Each of the primary professions ran along the bottom of my vision, and each, in turn, had a branching skill tree with a variety of neat abilities that could be unlocked with Proficiency Points. With my measly level one in Mining, there weren’t any skills available to me—not that I was really interested in specializing in this profession, anyway—but at higher levels, there were all kinds of cool extras:

Skills to drastically reduce mining time, increase vein size, or increase gem drop rate. And that was just the tip of the iceberg. There were specialized skills that went far beyond simple ore gathering: there was a whole branch dedicated to Battle-Mining, which allowed specialists to destroy walls, tunnel under fortified positions, and deploy alchemic “blasting charges” to raze buildings. Basically, a demolition class.

“Stop slacking,” Cutter yelled at me. “No one wants to be here all day, friend. So, how’s about you get back to work, eh?”

I turned and glowered at him, my eyes narrowed in annoyance. Amara was standing sentry by the door, guarding our backs, but Cutter was lounging, carefree, in one of the chairs. He had a small campfire burning merrily in front of him while he warmed his hands and nibbled on a skewer of roasted spider meat—gross sounding, but surprisingly tasty.

“It’d go faster if you helped,” I replied, fishing a piece of rough cloth from my pocket and dabbing at the perspiration on my forehead.

He grimaced, scrunched his nose in distaste, then shook his head. “Naw,” he replied. “Mining’s not really my thing. Seems beneath me, I suppose.” He paused and regarded me gravely. “It’s perfect for you, though.”

“And what is your thing?” Amara asked, the words dripping venom. “In the week you’ve been in Yunnam, I’ve seen you eat heaps of food you didn’t gather, drink gallons of mead you didn’t brew, and sleep while everyone else worked. So”—she paused, planting hands on hips in clear disapproval—“what exactly is it you’re good at?”

“First, I’m not sure I like your tone,” Cutter said with a sniff. “And second, I’ve already told you what I’m good at: thieving. If you need a lock picked, a trap disarmed, a bloated bureaucrat robbed blind, or someone shanked in the kidney … well, then I’m your man. I also offer questionable advice and dubious moral support. Anything else”—he shrugged noncommittally—“is sorta outside of my wheelhouse.” He leaned back in his chair, a smug look flashing across his features as he took another bite of roasted spider.

Amara offered a sharp retort, but I put the bickering pair from mind, turning my attention back to the ore vein.

Despite being a lazy jerk, Cutter was right: this vein wasn’t going to mine itself, and I didn’t want to spend any more time down here than absolutely necessary. Eventually, Cutter and Amara’s arguing faded into background noise as I lost myself to the rhythm and repetition of mining. Lift, slam, pull. Lift, slam, pull. Lift, slam, pull. Wash, rinse, and repeat over and over again. After almost another hour, I polished off the remining twenty-five pounds of ore and stowed my pick, before grabbing a drink from my pouch and taking a quick lunch break.

Cutter had generously left a few spits of skewered spider for me warming by the fire, and though the meat was questionable, the taste was extraordinary and immediately eased my tender muscles:

<<<>>>

Buffs Added

Spider Meat: Restore 55 HP over 21 seconds; increase Health Regen by 12%, duration 5 minutes.

Well-Fed: Base Constitution increased by (2) points; duration 20 minutes.

<<<>>>

I ate in silence—the dark atmosphere of the place was weighing down on everyone, sucking away what little joy there was—then washed the meal down with a cool bottle of Broken Dagger Mead. Finally, with my belly full, I checked my inventory. We’d been at this for hours and I had just over half the material I needed to fulfill the quest. With a sigh and a muted groan, I gained my feet and pulled my warhammer free, ready to venture out into the world again. “Guess we better keep moving,” I said, edging toward the entryway and glancing out into the dark hallway beyond. “I’d like to sleep in my own bed tonight.”

FIVE: Ancient Tome

It was another four hours, six Void Terror skirmishes, and three smaller ore deposits later—putting me at ninety pounds Raw Darkshard Ore—when we rounded a snaking corner and found ourselves at a dead end. The tunnel went no further, but there was an elaborately carved archway, decorated with swirling script in an unreadable language, on the left.

Most of the rooms we’d explored so far had been tiny things—not much bigger than a bedroom—and largely devoid of furnishings or other items that might’ve given us some insight into what this strange place had once been. But the room on the left was different. It was a cavernous space with vaulted ceilings and row after towering row of bookcases loaded down with dusty tomes. Dark stone columns, studded with enormous wrought-iron sconces, marched along the sweeping central hallway, eventually vanishing back in the darkness of the enormous library. Each sconce held a ball of unnatural purple flame, staining everything with hazy, flickering light.

“Now,” Cutter said gleefully, rubbing his hands together, “this is where I thrive. So far, this place hasn’t been much fun, but this room”—he swept an arm out—“screams loot and gold and treasure. Amara,” he said, turning back to the Huntress, “why don’t you secure the door while Jack and I have ourselves a little look around, eh?” He didn’t even wait for her to reply. Instead, he strode off into the murky gloom of the library like a kid bound for the tree on Christmas morning.

I glanced at Amara. She rolled her eyes at me and shooed me onward with a flick of her hand before squatting down and setting to work on her wards. I trusted Cutter to find any chests or secret panels that might contain gamer goodies—if there was one thing that truly motivated him, it was free stuff—so I decided to turn my attention to the endless books filling the shelves. Even if the tomes didn’t actually provide any tangible benefit, learning the lore of Eldgard would be a reward in itself. Reading up on game history and lore had always been one of my favorite RPG pastimes; knowing all the backstory always deepened the experience and immersion for me.

I headed into the stacks, absently running my fingers along book spines, reading the title of each as I went.

Stonecutters Primer … History and Culture of the Svartalfar, Book 3 … Letters of Makdir the Mad, v. 1 … Anthropological Treatise of the Shining Plains … The Golem Chronicles … The Viridian Accords, 892 AIC, Vol. 7 …

On and on they went, so many titles. Some were eye-wateringly dull, while others instantly piqued my curiosity, demanding I pick them up and flip through their ancient pages. But I didn’t even know where to start—the sheer volume of information was overwhelming, and since each book weighed in at a whopping twenty pounds, I didn’t really have room to grab more than a few. So, instead I meandered aimlessly—treading down one aisle then up another—until eventually I found my fingers lingering on a title called Taming the Void: A Shadowmancer Primer …

That sure got my attention in a hurry.

The book seemed to exude a cold power, which I was quickly coming to associate with the shadowy energy of the Umbra. I slipped the volume from the shelf, letting its hefty weight settle comfortably into my hands, before carefully cracking the cover. The book uttered a soft moan followed by the fluttering of paper, which sounded like a stiff breeze rustling through dry fall leaves. Open me, that fluttering demanded. Read me. Learn my secrets. I felt my mouth go dry as my eyes landed on the first page of text:

<<<>>>

Void Terrors

Void Terrors are a semi-sentient group of dangerous and often bizarre creatures that inhabit the darkest regions of the Shadowverse. Void Terrors are something of a mysterious anomaly, since no one is quite sure where they come from, how they are formed, whether they reproduce, or even how they survive. Ajahn Mahasi, a Grand Shadowmancer from the 6th century A.I.C., posited that Void Terrors are actually the murdered souls of especially vicious monsters who refused to pass on into the next life. Void Terrors can be especially dangerous to unwary travelers because all damage dealt is counted as Shadow Damage and ignores 35% of an opponent’s armor rating.

Shadowmancers and Void Terrors

Shadowmancers have a wide variety of powerful skills at their disposal, but one of the most unique and formidable techniques is their ability to bind and summon captured Void Terrors directly from the Shadowverse. For every Proficiency Point invested into the Void Terror ability—giving the Shadowmancer access to up to seven distinct Terrors—the Shadowmancer may permanently bind one wild Void Terror to their will.

Bound Void Terrors retain their unique creature properties and abilities and will level up as they are used; larger Terrors can also be utilized as mounts. Only one Void Terror may be summoned to the Material Plane at any given time. All Void Terrors must return to the Shadowverse after twenty-four hours and remain there for at least eight in-game hours to recuperate. Void Terrors cannot be truly killed; if they perish while summoned, however, they lose all current EXP, return to the Shadowverse, and are then subject to a mandatory eight-hour cooldown time. Traditional healing potions, spells, and buffs do not affect Void Terrors—instead, they can only be healed by consuming Raw Darkshard Ore or through specialized potions, concocted using Shadowverse Salts and ground Void Terror Claws.

Investing Proficiency Points in the Shadowmancer’s Astral Connection skill can increase the power, strength, duration, and EXP gain of summoned Terrors, while also reducing the cooldown time required to summon a given Terror. At higher levels, the Astral Connection skill also converts a portion of all damage done by the Void Terror into Spirit for the Shadowmancer.

<<<>>>

Wow. This was huge.

I’d seen both the Void Terror and Astral Connection spells in my skill tree, but the ability descriptions had been largely generic and unhelpful. Almost purposely vague, as though the Devs hadn’t wanted to disclose too many details about the skills. I also hadn’t been able to find much information on the available wikis—though whether that was because Osmark Tech was suppressing info to prevent metagaming, or because no one had gotten this far, I couldn’t say. Because of the restrictions on the spell, I wouldn’t be able to spawn a minion-army like a Necro or a Warlock, but something inside me screamed to pay attention. That this was important.

I flipped the page, and was presented with a spell:

<<<>>>

Terror Bound

In order to bind a wild Void Terror to serve as a minion, the Shadowmancer must have at least one available point invested in the Void Terror ability, then the Shadowmancer must cast the specialized conjuration spell, Terror Bound, on a severely weakened Void Terror. If the spell is successful, the caster and Void Terror will enter into a Contest of Wills: If the caster prevails in the contest, the Void Terror will be bound. If the caster loses the battle, they will instantly be killed and sent for respawn.

Would you like to learn the specialized conjuration spell, Terror Bound?

Accept: Yes/No?

<<<>>>

“Yes,” I muttered into the empty air, eyes still fixed on the book in front of me. Another prompt popped up below the spell page:

<<<>>>

Using this item will destroy it, permanently removing “Taming the Void: A Shadowmancer Primer” from your inventory. Are you sure you would like to learn Terror Bound?

<<<>>>

“Yeah, yeah,” I said again, nodding my head.

There was an audible pop accompanied by a brilliant flash of light as a small tornado of violet light swirled around me, brushing over me with arctic air. The book dissolved in my hands, turning into a pile of dust, caught up and carried away by the slapping wind. In the same instant, my head began to throb, a deep dull ache building behind my eyes as if my skull had been caught in a vise grip. I dropped unceremoniously to the ground as the whipping wind died and began to grind my palms into my eye sockets, furiously trying to release the mounting tension in my head.

Then, in a blink, knowledge bloomed in the back of my mind—it vaguely felt like recalling some fact, half-forgotten ages ago—and the pain was gone. Vanished as quickly as it had come.

Since I was already seated, I sprawled my legs out in front of me and leaned back against one of the stone bookcases behind me, stealing a brief moment of well-deserved rest as I pulled up my user interface. A lifelike image of myself floated in the air, slowly rotating, showing my gear. I had gunmetal gray skin and a short-cropped beard lining my jaw. I absently gave my gear a once-over. My medium armor, covered in swaths of ebony chainmail, glowed with swirls of purple shadow power. My leggings and boots were dark leather and finely made. I had a black cloak, pinned shut with a silver brooch, around my shoulders—the thick cowl pulled up to conceal much of my face.

I grinned. I had to admit, I was looking pretty badass these days. Then, with a sigh, I toggled over to my character screen, wanting to review my stats before I made any significant changes or point investments.

After killing the Moss Hag and earning my class kit, I’d crawled up to level twenty-three, but the progress had crept along at a glacial pace since then. That was sort of to be expected, though; there really wasn’t much point in designing a game as sweeping and immersive as V.G.O. only to let players power level to one hundred in a week. I closed out of the screen and quickly flicked through a few additional menus until the Void Terror ability description lingered before me:

<<<>>>

Skill: Void Terror

Through their unparalleled connection to the Umbra, Shadowmancers are able to call upon the denizens of the Shadowverse for aid.

Skill Type/Level: Spell/Locked

Cost: 500 Spirit

Range: 1 Meter

Cast Time: Instant

Cooldown: Void Terror must rest for 1 hour in the Shadowverse for every 3 hours spent in the Material Realm; Void Terror must return to the Shadowverse after 24 consecutive hours in the Material Realm.

Effect: Call upon denizens of the Shadowverse to fight on your behalf; some conjured minions can also be used as mounts.

Restriction: Must have a bound Void Terror in order to utilize this skill.

Restriction: A Shadowmancer can only bind up to seven Void Terrors—one for every Proficiency Point invested.

Restriction: Only one Void Terror may be summoned at a time.

<<<>>>

At this point, I still had 8 Proficiency Points waiting in reserve, so I didn’t hesitate to invest a point into the Void Terror ability, unlocking the skill and allowing me to bind (1) Void Terror to my will.

Satisfied, I dismissed my interface, gained my feet, and brushed my dirty palms along the front of my trousers, preparing to resume my scan of the library. A bellowing roar stopped me dead in my tracks; the noise was so loud it rattled tomes from their shelves—a rain of hefty books suddenly hit the floor. A second later I heard the urgent slap of running footfalls, and watched as Cutter bolted from behind a bookcase, sprinting for all he was worth toward the archway.

I didn’t know what was happening, but it couldn’t be good, so I broke into a run, tearing after him. “What did you do?” I hollered as I pulled up alongside him, my legs pumping and churning.

“I found a secret passage,” he wheezed, not bothering to look at me. “Whole shite load of Raw Darkshard Ore—the absolute motherload, I’d wager—but there was something in there with it. Guarding it.”

“What is it?” I called, stealing a brief glance over my shoulder. I saw nothing but encroaching darkness.

“Not sure,” he huffed, “but it’s big and very, very, very pissed off.”

SIX: Void Drake

The roar came again, a bellow that rattled my teeth and reverberated in my bones—I didn’t want to look back, but I couldn’t help myself and stole a peek anyway. Bad idea. There was something giant, scaly, black, and serpentine charging toward us, its wicked jaws snapping at the air as strings of purple drool dripped from its maw. My heart sped up a few notches, pounding away in my chest while a cold sweat broke out across my brow. Six days ago I’d been an EMT, waiting for the world to come to a fiery end, and the scariest thing I’d ever seen was a nasty four-car pileup on the I-15 South.

And now I had to fight the monstrosity tearing after me. Even after battling a swarm of horrible monsters and slaying a school-bus-sized Swamp Hag, I found I still wasn’t built for this kind of thing. All I wanted to do was go home and hide under the bed. This game was just too intense.

But, despite my fear and my desire to curl up in the fetal position, I threw out a hand and summoned Umbra Bog. I glanced back again and felt a momentary wave of relief as I watched a quagmire of black goop spring from the walls and floors, temporarily snaring the approaching whatever it was. My budding relief quickly disappeared as the creature issued another bone-shaking roar, crouched low, and spewed out a gout of purple flame as thick as a telephone pole. “Run faster!” I hollered at Cutter, before wheeling around and dropping to a knee as I conjured my Dark Shield.

With my Dark Shield ability, I could afford to take a big hit, but Cutter couldn’t. He could deal out some serious damage, but he couldn’t take much in return. Not as a Rogue. A dark dome of shimmering light flared around me, eating through my already depleted Spirit supply at an astonishing rate. The dome did, however, absorb the majority of the flame burst, and the little that seeped through was quickly sapped by the Night Armor wrapped around me like a second skin. My Spirit gauge—a luminescent purple bar—flashed a warning in the corner of my eye, letting me know I was almost out of juice.

Thankfully, the column of unnatural fire faded and died about the same time as my shield did.

A quick look at the Umbra Bog countdown timer on my right told me I had about ten seconds before that thing broke loose and unleashed nine kinds of hell on me. Oh yeah, definitely time to move. I gained my feet in a second, spun, and put every ounce of effort into bolting for the library entrance as I pulled a Spirit Regen potion from my belt and quickly downed the contents. I killed the potion in a few quick glugs, tossed the empty bottle as I cleared the entryway, and scrambled into the connecting tunnel beyond.

I skidded to a stop, wheeling around, wildly searching for my teammates.

For a second, I couldn’t find either Cutter or Amara and jumped to the irrational conclusion that they’d heard the creature roar and decided to leave me for dead. If I weren’t a generous guy, I’d probably consider doing the same thing if I were in their shoes. My uncharitable thoughts vanished when I spotted two partially blurred forms lingering by the far wall, both cloaked in Stealth. I slipped right, pressing my back against the wall, then bent over and took a handful of ragged breaths as I regained my diminished Stamina, now down by a quarter bar.

“Did you kill it?” Cutter hissed at me from across the way.

Another deafening roar ripped at the air, answering the question for me.

“I don’t even know what that thing is,” I replied, hooking a thumb toward the library archway. “I think it’s a dragon. A. Dragon. We’re not equipped to fight a dragon.”

“Unlikely,” Amara replied. “Dragons roam only the most distant northern regions, and even there they are rare. More likely a Drake or juvenile Wyvern.”

“Which means what, exactly?” I asked.

“That means it’s a small dragon,” Cutter supplied, and even blurred I could tell he was rolling his eyes.

“Are your defensive wards still in place?” I asked Amara, fixing on her blurred form.

“Yes,” she said with a bob of her head.

“The real question,” Cutter muttered, a nervous edge in his voice, “is whether they’re gonna hold that thing.”

She hefted her bow. “We’ll find out in a moment,” she replied before unleashing a hail of lightning-fast arrow fire at something out of view. A bellowing, reptilian cry of rage rang out as a scaly head thrust into the hallway, jaws snapping ferociously. Up close, the creature was even more terrifying. Its head was a little larger than a horse’s, covered in oily black scales with wicked spikes jutting from the back of its skull like a crown of bony scimitars. The thing had six eyes total, three running up each side of its serpentine face, each glowing with a spectral violet light.

A tag briefly appeared over its head, [Void Terror Drake], before vanishing.

The thing dropped its snout—huffing, grunting, growling—as it tried to fight past some unseen force barrier. A second later, a tremendous snap-crack filled the air followed by a blast of neon-red light—one of Amara’s wards discharging right into the creature’s ugly face. I managed to blink away the purple afterimage of the blinding explosions and found the creature alive, but frozen. Temporarily locked in place by a paralyze spell.

My teammates launched themselves at the Drake almost as one: Cutter leapt on the creature’s outstretched neck, materializing as he sunk twin daggers down at the base of the creature’s skull, earning a critical hit and a hefty amount of backstab damage. In the same instant, Amara let out a thundering war cry as she backpedaled away from the overgrown lizard, firing arrow after arrow into the creature’s pebbly skin. Unfortunately, the Drake was built like an armored tank, and Amara’s arrows didn’t penetrate deeply enough to do any real damage to its overall HP.

I hefted my hammer and joined the fray, triggering a Savage Blow as I lunged forward and smashed my weapon into the creature’s petrified snout. My attack landed like an oncoming freight train, obliterating several of its jagged black teeth, though knocking off only a fraction of its HP. The creature grunted, a snarl of pain building in its chest, but its body was still frozen in place. Wanting to take maximum advantage, I sidestepped left, raking the outside of my bladed Battle Vambraces across its face, before spinning my hammer in a tight arc and jabbing the spiked end into one of the creature’s purple eyes.

Another critical hit.

For a split second, I felt like maybe this battle was going to be a cakewalk after all.

Then, the paralyze spell wore off and the creature swung its head toward me like a wrecking ball of scale and bone, broadsiding me in the chest and tossing me through the air with scornful ease. I flipped head over heels and came down directly on my neck. A crack, as loud as a gun’s report, split the air as stars exploded in my vision and fiery agony cascaded through my body. I tried to cry out as I crumpled to the ground on my back, but found I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.

A combat notification appeared:

<<<>>>

Debuffs Added

Critical Fall: You have suffered a debilitating spinal injury and are temporarily immobilized and unable to speak. You cannot move or cast spells. Duration, 1 minute.

Internal Bleeding: You have sustained internal bleeding: 3 HP/sec; duration, 1 minute.

<<<>>>

That was no good. I was already down to 350 HP, and that internal bleeding would knock off another 180 points over time, and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. Not even the Health Regen potions at my belt could help, since I couldn’t move to get them. I could only lie on the floor and hope that monster didn’t trample me to death.

The enraged Drake—finally free from Amara’s trap—burst into the hallway, giving me a full glimpse of the thing for the first time: it had a sinuous body, easily twenty-five feet long from snout to tail-tip, with gleaming spikes of bone running along its back. Powerful legs and forearms, each tipped with purple talons, scrabbled for purchase on the grimy ground as it moved. A pair of dark wings, laced with throbbing veins of blue, were folded up along its sides so they wouldn’t hinder its movements in the cramped hallway.

But just one look told me this thing could fly if it wanted to.

I stared on in silence as Cutter clung to the creature’s neck, methodically jabbing his blades home over and over again, drawing viscous purple blood, which splattered against the walls every time he pulled his daggers free. The Drake thrashed and bucked, veering left, then careening right, its head flailing about as it smashed into the tunnel walls, fighting to dislodge the scrappy thief. The whole while, Amara continued to drive arrows into its scaly flesh—a small forest of quills now protruded from its flanks and wings.

Cutter pulled one blade free and strained forward in an attempt to drive the dagger into the Drake’s vulnerable eyes, but the creature was smart. Smart and ready. It dropped low as Cutter moved, unbalancing the thief, before surging up, scraping its shoulder along the wall. Cutter let out a muffled curse as the earthen tunnel tore at his face, dragging him from the back of the Drake. He landed on the floor with a muffled grunt, dazed and suddenly exposed. The creature didn’t waste a moment: it wheeled around, surprisingly agile for such a large animal, and grabbed Cutter in its monstrous jaws.

Huge teeth sunk into Cutter’s middle, chomping down as he cried out in agony. His face contorted in a grimace of pain as bright red blood burbled out from his lips, and his HP bar plummeted like an incoming asteroid. A frantic surge of panic raced through my body: this thing was going to kill Cutter, and if he died, there’d be no respawn for him. He’d be gone for good. Cutter wasn’t exactly a nice person, but he was the closest thing I had to a friend in V.G.O.—barring Abby, who I wasn’t even sure was alive—and I couldn’t imagine him dying like this.

But there was nothing I could do except watch. Not for another thirty seconds.

SEVEN: Contest of Wills

Suddenly, Amara blurred past me, leaping over me in a single bound, then sprinting for the Drake. She raised one arm high in the air, and in a puff of shadow, an obsidian spear formed in her hand; the weapon gleamed in the dull light and burned with spectral fire. Amara screamed out a challenge as her feet touched down—a taunt that immediately drew the Drake’s focus. Her other hand flashed out, pulling a small glass orb from her belt, which she smashed into the ground, releasing a cloud of sooty smoke that made it nearly impossible to see anything.

The cloud lasted for only a few seconds, but by the time it cleared, Amara was already vaulting through the air, flipping gracefully like an acrobat.

She came down directly on the Drake’s back, screaming again as she used the momentum of her fall to drive her conjured spear all the way through the creature’s scaly hide. The shaft cut through muscle, bone, and sinew like a hot knife through butter, exploding through the creature’s stomach and continuing downward, driving into the floor, literally pinning the Drake in place. Wow, that was a ridiculously cool move, which had to be some special skill in her Huntress class. Needless to say, I was impressed. The massive Terror responded accordingly, tossing back its head in a thundering bellow of pain and hate. Cutter—weak as he was—seized the brief window of opportunity and managed to shove himself from the creature’s jaws, dropping to the ground.

He was free, but in bad shape: his HP bar was flashing manically, and blood liberally coated the front of his leather armor and pale skin.

The Drake, in turn, fought in a frenzy to free itself from Amara’s spear, but nothing did the trick.

Once more, the Drake was stuck in place. Realizing the futility of its struggle, the creature turned its gaze back on Cutter, who was tirelessly dragging himself out of the monster’s reach. The creature’s jaws flashed out again, but Amara was quicker. As the Drake’s jaws descended, a thin wire appeared in her hands—some sort of extra-long assassin’s garrote, maybe—and she slipped it around the Drake’s snout. With a fierce yank, she pulled the creature up short, reining the beast in like an unruly horse.

Meanwhile, Cutter continued to slug his way across the passageway, leaving a smear of gore behind him as he cast furtive glances at the death-dealing Void Terror.

I didn’t know how long Amara would be able to hold the thing at bay, but I was betting it wouldn’t be for long. Thankfully, feeling rushed into my body a heartbeat later—the stupid battle debuffs finally wearing off—leaving me severely weakened, but mobile again. And not a second too soon. The spear, running through the Terror, cracked, groaned, then snapped, pieces of conjured obsidian flying out like shrapnel before the weapon dissolved into a pile of harmless powder. The Void Terror’s many eyes narrowed while its cruel black lips curled back from its fangs.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was grinning.

It lunged forward, swiping out with one talon-tipped hand, ready to reclaim Cutter and end him for good.

I was already up and sprinting, but there was no way I’d get there in time—not without access to my Shadow Stride ability—so instead, I unleashed an Umbra Bolt. My impromptu attack splashed against the Drake’s clawed limb, swatting the paw aside, buying Cutter another few seconds of life. I closed the distance in a blink and dropped into a feet-first baseball slide at the last instant, bringing up my warhammer on instinct. My feet connected with Cutter—he screamed out in pain—and the force of my blow pushed him well away from the Drake’s deadly reach.

At the same time, I turned my body and managed to catch an incoming talon swipe on the shaft of my weapon, barely saving my own neck.

I looked up from the floor and caught the creature’s many eyes. Like with the wolf Void Terror I’d first encountered upon entering the mine, the Drake’s gaze froze me in place. It trapped me as effectively as any spell could. And, as before, I felt that same twinge of connection, of recognition. The creature’s eyes bored into me, they dissected me into neat pieces ready for examination. This time, though, a prompt appeared in the corner of my vision:

<<<>>>

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 Void Terror Drake?

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

Accept: Yes/No?

<<<>>>

“Yes,” I hollered, making sure to keep eye contact with the creature looming over me.

There was a rush of power, like the discharge from pent-up static, followed by a brief flare of violet light. Time crept to a standstill—a sensation I was familiar with, since the same thing happened when I triggered my Shadow Stride ability—and a strange ball of energy, no larger than a softball and wavering from gold to red then back again, formed halfway between us. The orb just floated there, doing absolutely nothing. I didn’t want to break my gaze with the domineering Drake, but the ball was too curious not to look at.

A quick glance gained me a new popup:

<<<>>>

Binding Orb of Will

The Binding Orb of Will is pure will manifested, summoned from the Outer planes; it is often used to settle Contests of Will, since it responds solely to willpower. Each combatant seeks to direct the Orb toward their opponent through force of will alone, but only the strongest will shall prevail.

<<<>>>

I hastily read over the notice and dismissed it with a blink—unfortunately, when I opened my eyes again, the binding orb was a foot closer to me, and it let off the heat of a small personal sun. If that thing touched me, it would melt the skin from my face and leave me supremely dead. I turned all my attention to the orb, focusing on it, refusing to blink while I threw my will to survive against the strange magic. I pressed at the orb with all of my strength and determination. For a long beat, nothing happened, but then … Then, it lurched toward the Drake.

Maybe only an inch or two, but movement nonetheless.

The Drake growled in reply, a deep rumbling in its chest.

I just sniffed, buckled down, and focused ever more intensely on the ball: picturing it inching closer and closer to the creature in my mind’s eye. The Contest of Will felt like a tug-of-war—a constant push-pull—which seemed to drag on forever and a day, even though I knew it’d actually been less than a minute. Perspiration quickly broke out along my forehead and rolled down into my eyes, creating a sharp sting that tried to distract me from the battle at hand. But I refused to lose this fight. Too much was on the line, and more than that, I wanted this Drake as my own.

Getting a Void Terror Drake as my first minion would be just too cool, and it was possible I’d never get another opportunity like this again. These things probably weren’t all that common.

So I hunkered down and pretended I was doing chest compressions. CPR is physically exhausting work, and demands an almost trancelike focus. Really, this wasn’t that different. So, I fell back on what I knew. I conjured that trancelike state I was so used to and willed the orb toward the Drake while I hummed the beat of “Stayin’ Alive” by the Bee Gees in my head. We stayed locked in combat for another minute, the Drake steady and unwavering. After another minute, however, the creature began to fidget with restless, nervous motion.

And then the Orb of Will began to slowly and steadily drift its way. An inch. Then two … A quick spurt, and suddenly the ball was only a foot away from the creature’s maw. For the first time, I caught what might have been a look of genuine concern in the beast’s glowing eyes. It thrashed one last time, opening its mouth to roar, and that’s when I knew it was game over. As the Drake’s jaws stretched wide, the orb darted forward like an arrow, disappearing down the creature’s dark gullet. The roar died in the Drake’s throat, only half-formed, as the creature began to quiver, to shake, to crack.

Bands of golden light, twisted with braids of molten red fire, erupted through the cracks in the Drake’s flesh, and then, in one final display of power, the creature exploded in a shower of brilliant light.

I flopped onto my back—Stamina drained, breathing labored and painful, weary down to the bone. As time resumed its normal flow, a pair of alerts flashed in front of me:

<<<>>>
x1 Level Up!

You have (35) undistributed stat points! Stat points can be allocated at any time.

You have (8) unassigned proficiency points! Proficiency points can be allocated at any time.

<<<>>>

Secret Quest Alert: Taming the Void Terror

By binding your first Void Terror, you have completed a secret Shadowmancer Quest—Taming the Void Terror. In return for your hard work, you have received 12,000 EXP and your overall reputation has increased with both the Dark Conclave and the Shadow Pantheon. You have also unlocked an Achievement: Void Terror Trainer!

Notice: Congratulations, you have successfully captured a level 29 Void Terror Drake!

Restriction: You are currently level 24! Because your Void Terror has a higher level than you, it may not be mounted and will likely ignore your orders in battle. It may also attack friendlies when summoned.

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 bounds with their owners; oftentimes this special link confers limited telepathy with the summoned familiar.

Accept: Yes/No?

<<<>>>

I read over the first notice again, frowning at the restriction. What good was it to have a familiar I couldn’t use? From the sound of things, if I let my new monster out, it would probably attack me instead of the bad guys.

After a long pause, I simply shrugged, too tired to care. It was annoying, but that restriction wouldn’t last forever—I’d survived the transition, so eventually I’d surpass the Drake’s level and then I’d have a powerful ally in my corner. A little patience would set things right. I focused on the last part of the notification: a name. Since there was an obvious benefit to naming my new familiar, it only made sense to do so. Not to mention I didn’t relish the idea of calling him Void Terror Drake for the rest of my life.

I only thought about it for a second, then smiled to myself. “Devil,” I said, thinking of the pudgy, dour face of the bulldog I’d had growing up. Devil had been a stout, muscular dog with a mean bark and a worse bite—unless, of course, you were family. If you were family, then he was the sweetest slobber monster on the planet. My dad hated pets on general principle, but as a former Marine, he’d had a certain soft spot for bulldogs, which he’d never quite been able to shake.

“Congratulations, you may now summon Devil utilizing your Void Terror ability,” said a pert voice—polite, vaguely British, and female. Sophia. I knew the voice in my ear wasn’t the V.G.O. goddess of order I’d met briefly a few days back, but it still set me on edge.

“What did you do, Shadowmancer?” Amara asked, her masked face popping up above me, knocking away my uncomfortable thoughts of the powerful Overmind. Before I could answer her first question, though, she added another: “Are you well?”

“I’m fine,” I wheezed, waving one hand dismissively through the air. “Take care of Cutter—I just need a breather and maybe something to eat. I’ll explain what happened later. Just get Cutter.”

EIGHT: Good News

We sat around a makeshift campfire in the disheveled library, munching on slabs of spicy, roasted spider meat, everyone taking a few minutes to breathe and recuperate from our bout with the Void Terror Drake. Cutter was recovering well now, almost back to his usual self, but it’d been touch and go for a little while. By the time Amara had gotten to him, he’d practically had one foot in the grave: his HP bar had been strobing violently at less than 10%, and he’d boasted a myriad of debuffs—Broken Ribs, Punctured Lung, Internal Bleeding, Blunt Trauma—all incrementally sapping his life away.

Bad, bad shape. A couple Health Regen potions and a hearty meal set him mostly right, but it had been an awfully close call.

I watched the thief as I ate.

I’d only known him for a week, and already I’d seen him suffer more punishment than any IRL person could ever endure. He took another bite, then winced and clutched at his ribs as if even eating was a terribly painful experience. Cutter wasn’t a nice person exactly, but I still felt bad for him; poor guy really couldn’t seem to catch a break. I shoved the thought away as I took another bite, savoring the smoky flavor and the hot grease, before uttering a muted burp.

Cutter arched an eyebrow, then promptly issued his own eye-watering belch in retaliation, the sound echoing off the stone walls. “Now that’s a proper belch,” he said, before taking a long pull of bottled mead. Amara gave us both sidelong glances, then shook her head and snorted in what almost sounded like amusement, which was new and unexpected. I’d spent more time with the Murk Elf Huntress than I’d strictly wanted, and so far, she’d proven to be humorless and extremely rough around the edges. She was like Oscar the Grouch, if Oscar had military training and a penchant for stabbing things.

It was nice to see a chip in her otherwise frigid exterior. Maybe there was a real person in there after all.

Something pinged in my ear, a new personal message. Quickly, I pulled up my user interface and scrolled over to my inbox—a grin immediately broke out across my face. A new message from Abby. Finally. I took one last bite of meat, then flicked a piece of chitinous shell aside as I brushed greasy fingers on my pants and pulled open the message.

<<<>>>

Personal Message:

Hey Jack, it’s me. Hope everything’s okay—I know I’ve been out of reach longer than we’d planned on. Things got messy at the Grand Archive in Alaunhylles. I thought going dark would make me harder to find, but Carrera and his people somehow managed to track me down anyway. Otto and I barely got out of there with our heads intact, and we still didn’t turn up anything on that Faction Seal. Hopefully, things have been better for you. Hopefully, you transitioned okay. Anyway, Carrera’s thugs are still looking for us and we could use a safe place to hole up. Assuming you’re alive and getting this *fingers crossed*, where are you?

—Abby

<<<>>>

I read and reread the message, lips pursed as I thought.

If Carrera had already managed to track her down, we didn’t have much time left. Even if she managed to get out of Alaunhylles without further complications, it wouldn’t take long for Carrera to figure out my connection to Abby, and then? Well, then, he’d come hunting for me too. We needed to use the Faction Seal before that happened, and we also needed a game plan if we wanted to keep our heads above water.

Still, even with all of the baggage Abby brought, it was a relief to know she was okay. I didn’t have many friends here in Eldgard, and it would be nice to have someone from the real world that I could trust and commiserate with. Plus, she was smart, savvy, and a way better strategist than me, and that was exactly the kind of person I needed in my corner. Not to mention, she was cute.

“Everything okay, Jack?” Cutter asked.

I held up one finger, just a second, and wrote a hasty reply:

<<<>>>

Personal Message:

Abby,

Wow, it’s good to hear from you … I was really starting to worry. I transitioned a few days ago—very, very, very unpleasant—but I’m alive! I also managed to get an official class, Dark Templar with a kit specialization. I’m currently down in the Storme Marshes, in a Murk city called Yunnam. I’ve got some info on the Faction Seal you’re definitely going to want to hear, but I’d prefer to share it with you in person. Meet me in Yunnam as soon as you can—someone from The Mystica Ordo should be able to port you to the edge of the Ak-Hani-controlled territory. Just watch out for the spiders! See you soon.

—Jack

<<<>>>

“Jack, you alright, mate?” Cutter asked again, a mixture of impatience and concern coating the words.

I dismissed the PM and glanced up to find the thief eyeing me askew, his brow furrowed in something that might’ve been worry. “Yeah,” I replied with a nod. “Finally got a message from Abby. She had some complications in Alaunhylles. Aleixo Carrera, the shady dirtbag we ripped off, he found Abby and came after her. She didn’t give me a lot of details, but apparently she and Otto got away more or less intact and now she’s looking for a safe place to hide while we get things straightened out. She should be on the way, so let’s finish this quest up and get back to town ASAP.”

“Yes,” Amara said with a firm nod. “We’ll need to dispatch the scouts—otherwise your friend may well end up dead, impaled at the bottom of a pit.” My face reddened slightly at the remark, which was clearly a jab at Cutter and me. After breaking free from the [Spider Queen] and her brood, Cutter and I had ineptly stumbled headlong into a spiked pit, which had almost killed us both. Not one of our proudest, most competent moments.

“All right,” I said, gaining my feet with a tired groan. “I’ve still got a few pounds of ore left to gather, so why don’t you guys take it easy, maybe pick through a few of these books, then we’ll go.”

Cutter screwed his face up in distaste. “I’m not sure if you heard my list of job qualifications earlier, but librarian isn’t in my skill set either. I’m not really a book person,” he replied, then paused for a long beat. “But, you’re the boss, I suppose. Also…” He trailed off and looked away, refusing to meet my eye. “Also, before we get caught back up in the swing of things, I just wanted to say thank you for saving my arse back there. You and Amara, both.”

He shot a look at the Huntress and gave her a tight-lipped smile, which she tentatively returned. “Generally,” he continued, “I’m not great with this kinda thing, but you two risked a lot for me. Put your lives on the line. There’s not a lot of folk in the Thieves’ Guild that would do something like that for anyone—especially a royal pain in the arse like me—so it means a lot.” He grunted, cleared his throat, and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Now, how’s about we get working before we all start blubbering like a bunch of wee girls, eh?”

I simply stood there, flabbergasted by Cutter’s words. Just when I thought I had him figured out, he somehow managed to surprise me. Not for the first time, I found myself wondering if he was real or not; he was an NPC, but maybe that was a term that didn’t really fit. I’d done a lot of late-night reading lately, and there were a lot of rumors flying around the various game wikis and forums about the uncannily realistic NPCs. Some very smart people—governmental computer scientists, groundbreaking physicists, and engineers of all stripes—seemed to think the NPCs were self-aware. After all, they reasoned, V.G.O. had millions of IRL human brains mapped out in exquisite detail, so why wouldn’t the Overminds just replicate the same layout for NPCs? If that were the case, they would essentially be as “real” as any of the downloaded players, even if they were unaware of the greater world outside V.G.O.

“You’re welcome,” I finally said, trying to fight off the laundry list of existential questions running through my head. He gave me a curt nod as I turned and headed for the hidden chamber secreted away in the back of the library.

It took me another twenty minutes to collect the remainder of the hundred pounds of Raw Darkshard Ore I needed for the quest, but Cutter had been right about stumbling upon the motherload. The hidden chamber—formerly the lair of the Void Terror Drake—held at least another four or five hundred pounds of the stuff, and that was assuming the ore deposits didn’t replenish over time. The chieftain had said the Void Terrors lived off the metal, munching on it like snack food, so maybe the giant stock of ore was the reason my new pet, Devil, had grown to such a hefty size.

Unfortunately, there was no type of teleport, so we had to trek all the way back to the entrance, which cost us another hour, but thankfully this time no Void Terrors tormented us along the way. Now that I had the ability to capture Void Terrors, though, I was silently hoping the creatures would eventually respawn. I’d never really enjoyed the summoner classes in general, but having a few creatures like Devil in my arsenal could be a game changer.

We exited through the same shimmering portal we’d entered through, and quickly backtracked up the gloomy mineshaft to the surface.

“What the bollocks?” Cutter exclaimed, shielding his eyes against the glare of sunlight as we stepped through the dilapidated mineshaft entryway and into the forest beyond. He squinted, blinking sporadically, working to adjust his eyes to the bright noonday light. “But …” He paused, glancing up at the blue sky above, then back toward the mine. “But we were in there”—he waved a hand toward the cavern—“for hours. Five or six at least …” He paused again, lifting a hand as he counted on his fingers. “It should be close to dark, but I’d say we haven’t lost more than an hour or two. What the bollocks?” he asked again, confusion evident on his face.

I looked around, studying the sky above. He was right. Given the amount of time we’d spent below, the sun should’ve been dipping below the horizon, but instead it was looming almost directly overhead.

“It is the Shadowverse,” Amara said nonchalantly, as though stating a truth so self-evident any five-year-old would know it. She glided forward, moving for the trees. “The time, it moves differently in that place,” she said, halting for a beat and staring at us. “It moves faster. Sometimes much faster. An hour in there may be only minutes here. This is a thing everyone knows.” She fixed me with a level stare, canting her head to one side. “You of all people should know this, Shadowmancer. Now, you said time is of the essence, so let us move.” She turned without waiting for a reply and quickly picked her way into the thick foliage, slipping through the forest on silent feet, leaving us no choice but to follow in her wake.

Amara set a demanding pace, not giving us a chance to talk or do much other than chase after her through the woods, but we did make spectacular time. It was just after 1:00 PM when we stumbled back into Yunnam, sweaty, out of breath, and grimy from the day’s work. Despite being relatively early—at least according to my user interface—I was weary to the bone. Exhausted down to my core. We headed into the city via the west gate and made our way through the town in search of Chief Kolle. Even after spending several days here, I still hadn’t gotten used to the strange buildings or the irregular, sprawling layout of the place.

Instead of being built in any sort of organized grid like most towns or cities, Yunnam was constructed among twisted, hulking, moss-covered trees. And the structures themselves were odd things, each sitting high above the ground, precariously perched on wooden stilts: a safeguard from the monsoon rains that came in the late fall. The homes and shops were constructed from an amalgamation of wood, mud, and palm fronds, all cobbled together with bits of leather, swatches of luminescent moss, and gobs of silvery spider silk, which still gave me the chills whenever I saw it.

I’d never forget the giant spider that tried to cocoon me alive.

We received friendly nods from idle clansfolk as we meandered through the town. They’d distrusted me and Cutter at first, but their wariness had faded after I’d managed to slay the Moss Hag, earning myself the title of Maa-Tál in the process. Strangely, the townspeople had also taken a certain shine to Cutter even though he wasn’t Dokkalfar, a Dark Templar, or even a generally decent human being. As far as I could figure, they’d sort of adopted him, and now they treated him like a bumbling, incorrigible, but loveable village drunk.

It was a genuine mystery to me, but a useful one.

It took us another ten minutes of walking, and a few quick conversations with the locals, to track down the chief. We found him on the east side of the village, speaking with a hunched, white-haired Murk Elf with a bad limp, named Som. Som was also the name for a type of lumpy, extremely sour pink fruit that grew in the swamps. Som the man was lumpy and extremely sour too, so I thought his name was spot on. The old elf held an unfurled sheet of parchment with intricate building schematics sketched out in painstaking detail, which he glanced at as the chief talked.

Som—aside from being old, lumpy, and sour—was also Yunnam’s chief architect.

“I understand your reservations,” the chief was saying, his arms folded behind his back, “but we need to have it done, Som. And fast. I don’t care what it takes.”

“But two weeks!” the old elf grumbled, glancing between his blueprints and the palisade wall in turns. “No, sir. Nope. We don’t have the manpower, and even if we did, we don’t have the resources—”

“Enough,” Chief Kolle said, holding out one hand as though to halt the onslaught on protests. “You’ll figure it out. You always do. And I have someone working on the resources. Ah”—he turned, catching sight of us as we approached—“speak of Thanatos and so he shall appear.” He waved a hand at us, his eyes narrowing as he took in our dirt-caked skin and blood-covered armor. His lips quirked into a faint smile. “I take it the ‘ore grind,’ wasn’t quite as easy as you were anticipating?” His barely-there smile grew just a smidge.

“There were a few complications I hadn’t planned on,” I admitted, glancing away as red crept into my cheeks. “But we got the ore,” I finished, “and I also managed to bind my first Void Terror.” The last, I added with a slight shrug, as though it was hardly worth mentioning.

“Excellent,” he said, coming over and clapping me on the shoulder, not even trying to hide his smile now. “The Dark Conclave will be pleased with your progress, Grim Jack.” He stepped back and rubbed at his chin thoughtfully. “I was right about you,” he mused after a time. “There’s a lot of raw potential in you, boy, if only I can train you to unlock it.”

“Here,” I said, reaching into my sack, selecting the Raw Darkshard Ore, then triggering a transfer with the chief. He accepted gratefully, and a new notification appeared before me:

<<<>>>

Quest Alert: Gather Raw Darkshard Ore

You have successfully gathered the 100 pounds of Raw Darkshard Ore needed to construct several Arcane Shadow Cannons. In return for your effort, you have received 15,000 EXP, schematics for the Arcane Shadow Cannons, and increased reputation with the Dark Conclave and the Shadow Pantheon.

<<<>>>

“There’s more, Father,” Amara piped in. “The woman, Abby, has sent a message. She will be porting to the edge of our territory sometime today. In the interest of our people, I’d like to assemble Baymor and the others for an escort mission.” She paused, her violet eyes flashing in annoyance. “We would hate to have our long-awaited guests end up as food for the Mairng Mong.”

“Yes, of course,” the chieftain said, waving a dismissive hand at her. “See the woman safely here. Now, Jack.” The chief turned back to me. “You and Cutter look quite ...” He paused, lips stretched into a thin, disapproving line. “Disheveled. You also stink worse than the pigpen. Perhaps you should bathe and rest before your guest arrives—I have a feeling we have a very long night ahead of us.”

NINE: Reunion

A sharp bang, bang, bang, which lingered in the air like an unanswered question, jarred me from an uneasy nap. I blinked my eyes open against the low firelight filling the small room Cutter and I shared. Slowly, I propped myself up on my elbows and surveyed the room through a sleepy haze as I fought to get my thoughts in order. I smacked dry lips, shook my head, then sat all the way up and rubbed my palms into my eye sockets. After a few seconds, my vision adjusted to the sparse light. Cutter was asleep on a small pallet in the corner, his limbs splayed out like a starfish while he snored contentedly.

I wasn’t sure when he’d gotten back—last time I’d seen him, he was at a tavern, throwing down glass after glass of mead, drunkenly delighting the townsfolk with tales of his derring-do. “Celebrating,” he said when I asked what he was doing. What exactly he was celebrating, however, was a bit unclear.

Hastily, I pulled open my user interface and glanced at the time—it was creeping up on 6:00 PM, which meant I’d been asleep for a little over two hours. Still early, then.

After getting back from the mines, I’d cleaned up in the communal bathhouse—furiously scrubbing away the dirt and blood with a thick bar of soap—before venturing over to a local crafter to get my gear looked at. Most of my armor was well above average, but that didn’t make it immune from the ravages of everyday wear and tear, not to mention ferocious battles with fire-breathing shadow dragons. Well, shadow Drakes, I suppose. After turning my Night Blessed Armor in, I’d grabbed a bowl of sticky rice—a Murk Elf specialty—for a little snack, then headed off for some well-deserved shuteye.

Two hours was not nearly enough sleep.

The knock came again, this time louder and more insistent. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. “Grim Jack,” came the chieftain’s deep voice. “Amara has returned with your friends. They’re currently eating a meal over at my dwelling.” He paused thoughtfully. “If you’re too tired,” he said, “I can see them to guest quarters and you can meet in the morning.”

His words came like a sharp punch to the gut, and I was on my feet in seconds, my weariness forgotten in a flood of excitement. “Just a second, Chief,” I called out as I hustled over to Cutter. For a heartbeat, I considered just leaving him be, but then decided against it—he’d be pissed to high heaven if he thought I was trying to cut him out of the new faction. “Let me just wake up Cutter and we’ll be right out.”

I nudged the thief in the ribs with the toe of my boot. “Cutter,” I said, prodding him insistently. He snorted, mumbling something about bollocks and morons before turning onto one side, offering me his back. “Cutter.” I planted a sharp kick in his exposed kidney. He shot up in an instant, hands going for his twin daggers as he instinctively searched for threats.

When he spotted me looming over him, he visibly relaxed even while a deep frown crept across his face. He glared at me and held up one hand to shield his eyes from the sparse light. “Gods, my head,” he grunted, reaching up and rubbing at one temple. “Might have overdone it a bit with the drinking. It’s that damned Law-jiu these Murky bastards drink. Doesn’t even taste like alcohol, but a couple pints’ll knock you arsewise quicker than a pissed-off Risi.” He paused, massaging his temples more thoroughly. “Also,” he continued, “not sure where you hail from, friend, but word to the wise: here in Eldgard it’s bad form to wake a man who’s sleeping off a bender. It’s a good way to get shivved.”

I crossed my arms and tapped a foot impatiently on the floor, unmoved by his threats. “They’re here, Cutter. Abby and Otto are finally here, so pull yourself together.” The words sobered him up rather quickly, and in next to no time, he was on his feet and slinking toward the door, muttering “we’re gonna be filthy, filthy rich” the whole time.

The chief was waiting patiently for us at the bottom of the wooden staircase, leaning casually against the trunk of a twisted surgham tree. “Good to see you both up and ready,” he offered tersely. It only took us a few minutes to make our way to the chief’s tree—a fat, gnarled thing with giant boughs branching off from the trunk, clawing at the sky like an army of withered fingers. Great ropes of moss clung to every branch and twig, pulsing with a soft light.

We mounted the stone steps winding their way up the tree’s face and followed the chief through a squat door situated in the tree’s enormous trunk. Although the outside of the tree was rather—let’s say rustic—the inside was surprisingly comfortable: The furnishings were all lovingly made of dark wood and polished to a dull glow. There were lots of bookcases, loaded down with ancient tomes, a handful of weapon racks, and a spattering of glass display stands, holding a myriad of interesting artifacts. At the far side of the room was a low, intricately carved table, surrounded on all sides by pillows, which served as seating for the Murk Elves.

I still hadn’t gotten used to eating my meals while seated cross-legged on the floor, but maybe I would someday.

Amara and another Murk Elf Ranger—a lean man with whipcord muscle named Baymor—lounged on the pillows, their terrifying hunting masks sitting next to them as they sipped on large glasses of the popular Law-jiu. The distinctive mango scent of the drink gave it away in an instant. Another man, a beefy Risi warrior in gleaming plate mail, likewise sat on the pillows, mug in hand, seemingly lost in thought: Otto, Abby’s traveling companion and NPC pal.

It was the woman leaning casually against the wall, staring out the back window, who drew my eye, though.

She was short and curvy with dark skin and an intricate pile of brown curls bunched on top of her head. Last time I’d seen her, she’d been sporting an elegant bloodred robe studded with shimmering jewels, but now she wore a frumpy brown dress that looked like novice starting gear. She turned and broke into a wide grin, dimples blossoming in her cheeks as she saw me. Then, before I could get a word in, she was dashing across the floor with her arms outthrust. She barreled into me, hitting me hard in the gut, then threw her arms around me in a bear hug, which was surprisingly forceful for someone so small.

“Jack, you have no idea how good it is to see you,” she said.

“Good to see you, too,” I wheezed as she hugged me even tighter. “But maybe you could reduce the enthusiasm of your hug—I think you’re breaking bones.”

She chuckled into my chest, gave one more perfunctory squeeze, then loosened her death grip, sliding back a step so she could get a good look at me. She smiled, then reached up and wiped a tear track from her cheek. “Sorry,” she said with a tired, lopsided smile, “it’s just been a really shitty couple of weeks. I was so happy when I got your message, but it’s not the same as seeing you.” She reached over and poked me with a finger as though double-checking to make sure I wasn’t some figment of her imagination.

“Seriously,” she said, reaching up and tucking a strand of brown hair behind her ear, “it’s so good to see you. You have no idea.” She paused, eyeing my gear, her gaze lingering on the warhammer before passing on to my specialty vambraces. “You look good, Jack. I mean it. More grown up somehow.” She reached over and patted me on the chest. “But enough of that. As much as I’d love to get drunk and celebrate, we’ve got some business first. So much has happened,” she continued, “and from what I’ve gathered from our gracious hosts”—she gestured at Amara and Baymor—“you’ve been making some serious waves around this little slice of paradise.” That last word practically oozed sarcasm.

She was going to be in for a heck of a shock when she realized Yunnam was where we were going to be living from here on out.

“The Firebrand is right,” the chief piped in from behind me. “You have much to discuss, I think. Amara, Baymor, let us give our honored guests some privacy.” He shot me a knowing look, then dipped his head as the Murk Elf Rangers gained their feet. Amara and her friend offered us curt goodbyes, before disappearing through the door and into the night. The chief, though, lingered at the entryway.

“Jack,” he said, staring at me through squinted eyes, his forehead creased with worry, “should you and your friends decide on a course of action, please let me know. I have a queasy feeling in my gut that time is running out, and it would be best to move as soon as possible. Just intuition”—he patted at his stomach—“but I have learned to heed such feelings when they come.”

With that, he turned and pulled the door shut behind him, leaving me, Abby, Otto, and Cutter to our own devices.

“That was weird,” Abby said, quirking her head and pointing toward the closed door. “What did he mean?”

“Where to even begin?” I said, running a hand over my short beard.

“Why don’t I start?” Abby asked, sliding next to me and hooking her arm through mine. “Things are turning into a real shitshow out there, and I’d rather you heard everything from me first.”

TEN: Wanted

Abby, Cutter, and I plopped onto the cushions surrounding the low table, joining the taciturn Risi warrior. “Otto,” I said politely with a bob of my head.

“Grim Jack,” he replied in turn. “I see you and the thief have made some significant inroads here.” He stopped for a beat, carefully regarding me and Cutter, sizing us up. “Not an easy thing to do,” he finally said. “The Maa-Tál and the Dark Conclave are notoriously suspicious of outsiders. Part of the reason they still remain free from Viridian masters. Well done.”

I just stared at him, stunned. That was the longest conversation I’d ever had with the man, and he’d complimented me. “Uh, thank you,” I replied, feeling a bit unsure of myself. “So, you guys want to fill us in on what happened in Alaunhylles?” I asked, switching the topic before things got awkward and weird.

Abby crossed her legs and leaned back against her palms. “God, what a mess,” she said before uttering a tremendous sigh. “I thought we’d have a lot longer before Osmark figured out what we did, especially since I went dark, but boy was I wrong. We caught a portal to Harrowick without a hitch, but as soon as we got into Alaunhylles, things started going downhill fast. The city gaurds were antsy. Looking for Rebel insurgents, from what we were able to gather from half-heard whispers and the merchant rumor mill.”

“Then I started asking ’round,” Otto interjected. “I have connections with the Rebel Underground over in West Viridia, and it didn’t take me long to turn this up.” He paused, opened a satchel at his side, and pulled out a tightly bound scroll. Carefully, almost reverently, he unrolled the thing, stretching it tight before holding it out for us to see. Abby’s mugshot stared at us from the page. Two pictures: one of her straight on, the other of her in profile. I reached out and carefully took the scroll.

I read it once. Twice. Three times for good measure.

Wow. This was bad, bad news.

First, that reward … 1,000 gold marks came out to the equivalent of a hundred grand—a small fortune to most people, which would certainly turn the pressure up in a big way. How could it not? And second, how in the world had they caught on so quickly? Sure, it stood to reason that Carrera had already discovered he’d been ripped off, but that didn’t explain how he’d managed to trace the deed back to Abby so quickly. On the plus side, there was nothing about me listed in the “Known Accomplices” section, which meant we still had a little time left before they put all the pieces together. I sighed in resignation and handed the scroll over to Cutter, who was currently craning his neck in an attempt to get a peek.

“How do you think they figured it out?” I asked as Cutter accepted the paper with a thanks.

Abby shook her head, her hair dancing wildly at the motion. “I honestly don’t have a clue. As far as I know, personal information—account info, location, all that stuff—is almost impossible to access by anyone other than the person themselves. All profile information is encrypted using asymmetric key cryptography and is then circulated nonstop through the Overmind databases. All of them.”

Everyone present stared at her with blank, uncomprehending expressions. For Cutter and Otto that made sense, given they weren’t actually aware of the world or technology outside of V.G.O. To them, her words were probably as incoherent as a foreign language, but sadly, it also meant approximately nothing to me either. I was a casual gamer, not a computer expert by any stretch of the imagination. “Which means what exactly?” I asked, trying not to sound like a complete moron. “Maybe you could just break that down into laymen’s terms?”

She scrunched her nose and see-sawed her head left, right, left, right. “It’s complicated,” she said after a second. “Okay, basically, all personal profiles are constantly moved through a giant, mind-blowingly-advanced onion-router controlled by the Overminds. All of the Overminds, working together to keep the info safe and free from tampering.”

“Wait,” I said, frowning. “Why would Osmark do that? Give up so much power, I mean. He’s interested in ruling V.G.O., so it seems like he’d want a way to control unruly citizens—like maybe wiping them from Eldgard …” I let the statement hang in the air, heavy with implication.

Abby looked away, worrying at her bottom lip. “Maybe they do have that capacity,” she finally admitted with a shrug, “but …” She paused, turning toward me. “But I don’t think so. The admins used to be able to boot people and wipe accounts, but those functions were eventually turned over to the Overminds, which sort of makes sense to me.

“I mean, sure,” she continued, “if Osmark and his pals made a weapon that could permanently wipe us, it would be powerful, but once a weapon like that exists, what’s to stop someone from hacking the system and turning that weapon against the ruling class? I could be wrong, but I think something like that’s too dangerous. As far as I know, only the Overminds have access to personal info—and it’s not like they could do anything with it.”

My mouth was suddenly dry. Abby still didn’t know the Overminds were self-aware. My mind flashed back to a conversation I’d had with Sophia, who was basically the in-game goddess of order and balance. She’d told me that her sister Enyo—the Overmind of discord, responsible for generating in-game conflict—had sided with Osmark and his lackeys. Enyo was using them as chess pieces to sow discord into the world, creating new and interesting content for players. Was it possible Enyo was already interfering? Or was this somehow Osmark’s doing?

I didn’t know, and at this point I wasn’t really sure it mattered.

“It’s always possible Osmark had someone comb through my work files,” Abby offered, staring off into the distance. “Starting with all files connected to Aleixo Carrera and that restricted area we ransacked. I’m a decent hacker, but not good enough to hide my tracks. If someone was looking, they’d find my digital fingerprints all over those files.” She absently ran her palms along her frumpy dress. “That’s the most likely answer.”

I nodded, hoping she was right. “So once you guys realized the guards were looking for you, did you take off or did you try to access the Grand Archive?” I asked.

“Despite the risk and against my advisement,” Otto said, giving Abby a hard, sidelong glare, “we pressed on with our mission. I had a friend—an Archivist who works for Loremaster Petraeus—sneak us in after hours. We scoured the shelves for hours, searching for any piece of lore that might tell us the purpose of the Faction Seal, but to no avail. Without the help of a proper Loremaster, the quest was doomed from the start.” He was speaking to me, but it almost sounded like the words were meant for Abby.

I glanced at her, and noticed she was looking everywhere but at Otto—if I didn’t know better, I’d say she was blushing sheepishly. I knew from experience that it was really hard to make Abby blush—which meant things must’ve gone spectacularly wrong to earn that kind of reaction.

“A full detachment of Imperial Inquisitors turned up as we were trying to slip away,” Otto continued after a beat. “Things turned”—he faltered, grimaced—“ugly. We spent five days navigating the warren of sewer passages beneath Alaunhylles before eventually escaping up the coast for the Crossing.”

Cutter snorted at the comment, then lowered the wanted poster. “You blokes should’ve taken me with you. Everyone looks down on us thieves, until you need to navigate a sewer. Most people don’t think about sewers—bunch of piss and shite other people like to forget—but not thieves. I’ve got massive connections to the Smugglers Union. They’ve got branches in every major city and could navigate those sewers blindfolded.”

“How helpful,” Otto replied, staring at Cutter with a flat, unamused look. “I’ll keep your services in mind next time I feel tempted to wade through knee-deep sludge, thief.”

Cutter arched an eyebrow at the Risi, then shrugged. Touché. “Quick question, though,” Cutter said, holding the wanted poster back up, eyes once more scanning the contents. “I noticed this wanted sheet lists High Commander Carrera as an immediate point of contact. Funny thing”—Cutter absently scratched at his chin—“but that name sorta rings a bell for me. I don’t suppose this High Commander Carrera is in any way related to the sod we robbed a few days back, eh?”

I shared an uneasy look with Abby. “It’s the same guy,” I said reluctantly.

“Ah, I see,” Cutter replied, lips turning down into a scowl. “Well, I think I’ll just go feed myself to the bloody Spider Queen—that’ll be a far more merciful death than what the Inquisitors will do to us.”

I stared at him in silent shock for a long beat. “I feel like I’m missing something. I’ve never even heard of the Inquisitors—who are they?”

“They’re monsters, Jack,” Cutter said, solemn and serious for once. “That’s pretty much all you need to know. This Carrera bloke must be a new appointment, but no one gets that job without being depraved in the head. And not depraved in a good way, like me. The evil kind of depraved. The Inquisitors were created to sniff out sedition and stomp out the Eldgard rebellion—lots of Holy Templars in their number. At least that’s what they tell everyone. Really though, they’re the emperor’s personal enforcers. Cross the emperor and the Inquisitors will disappear you.” He snapped his lanky fingers. “Poof. Gone just like that. And no one will ever see you again.”

He leaned forward and drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the table, tat-tat-tat. After a spell, he sighed and stood, removing his leather armor, then slowly pulling back his tunic. A series of puckered white scars crisscrossed his belly. They were old wounds and deeply faded, but still noticeable. “That lot likes to carve folks up. Make ’em talk whether they’re guilty or not. And they have special weapons”—he lightly traced a finger over the patchwork of scars—“that make it so you don’t heal right. You’ll carry their brand with you forever, assuming you live, which you probably won’t.”

I looked away from the wounds. Cutter wasn’t real, I tried to remind myself. He was an NPC, created when I came into existence. That didn’t really happen, he hadn’t actually been tortured by the Inquisitors—those memories were planted in his head. Still, I glanced away because those scars made me awfully uncomfortable. Maybe it hadn’t actually happened, but those memories were certainly real to him. I noticed Otto giving the wounds a thorough inspection; a glimmer of familiarity seemed to linger in his gaze. Maybe he’d had his own experience with the Inquisitors.

“That makes sense,” Abby said, breaking the tense silence. “That Osmark would appoint someone like Carrera to that position. Most of the people on his team are politicians, tech whizzes, and business leaders—not exactly the kind of people who are comfortable getting their hands dirty. But I read up on Carrera. He’s a killer. A glorified trigger man who worked his way up the ranks of a drug cartel in Colombia. Definitely the kind of person who doesn’t mind getting bloody. The real question now is, what do we do next? How do we move forward knowing what we do?”

“I think I might have an answer for that,” I replied, leaning forward, resting my elbows on my thighs. “I think it’s time you heard my story.”

I promptly launched into a retelling of the events that had happened since our raid on the restricted zone. I explained about my Maa-Tál initiation ordeal, then filled them in on what the chief had told me about the Faction Seal. Abby and Otto both grilled me like a pair of detectives interrogating a murder suspect, stopping me every few seconds to pull out more information. Once they were finally satisfied about the Faction Seal, I filled them in about my surreal encounter with Sophia.

“I always suspected the Overminds were more advanced than anyone gave them credit for,” Abby mumbled, her eyes hazy, distant, introspective. “I mean that was never my department—the folks designing those things were freaking genius—but I always believed they were probably sentient. With the kind of power they have access to, how could they not be?” She looked worried.

“Do you think we can trust this Sophia?” Otto asked after a time. “I’ve never been one to have dealings with gods and goddesses. Too fickle for my tastes.”

I ran a hand through my hair. “I don’t know,” I admitted with a grimace. “But even if we can trust her, I’m not sure how I feel about being anyone’s pawn.”

Everyone was silent for a long time. Thinking. Digesting all the new info.

“Well, at this point, I really don’t think we have much choice,” Abby said eventually, “not if we want to survive the next few months. I’m not sure how this is all going to play out in the long run, but short term, I think the way forward is clear. We need to talk to Chief Kolle and form a faction, and we need to do it soon. Before Carrera can track us down and take the seal back.”

“You’re sure that’s the best thing to do?” I asked tentatively. “I mean, hypothetically, we could go anywhere and form a faction. Maybe someplace like Rowanheath would be a better option. Someplace bigger. With more pull and resources.”

She shook her head slowly, once more worrying at her lip as she ran her palms over her burlap dress. “I can’t say I’m a huge fan of the Storme Marshes, but there’s a reason why this place is still a free city. Rowanheath is great. So is Harrowick—but the empire already has a strong presence in both places. We’re going to be badly outmatched, and we need every edge we can get.” Her face hardened in resolve. “No, I don’t see what other choice we have.” She took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Let’s go found a faction.”

ELEVEN: The Keep

I pulled open the door, ready to run down the steps and find Chief Kolle, but I didn’t have to look far: he was standing on the wooden platform directly in front of me, hands in front of him, rocking nervously back and forth on his heels. “You’ve decided, then?” he asked, his brow knitted in concern.

“Yes,” I said with a nod. “We’ve talked it over and we think Yunnam is the best place for us to form our faction. We’d like to take you up on your offer to host us, assuming the offer is still good.”

The chief blew out a deep breath as a slight grin broke across his face. “Of course the offer is still good,” he replied, before coming over and clapping me on the shoulder—a fatherly gesture, which was oddly touching. “I was starting to worry, Jack. For a time, I was sure you would move on to greener—less swampy—pastures and leave us to our own devices. It does my heart good to know you’ve made this choice.”

I paused and cocked my head to one side. “Just out of curiosity,” I hedged, “why are you glad? Does it benefit Yunnam to have a faction in town?”

He folded his beefy arms across his chest and regarded me solemnly. “The Storme Marsh cities have managed to avoid the greedy clutches of the empire for longer than anyone—save the Accipiter of the Barren Sands, far to the west—but we are not invulnerable. Mostly, we have kept our freedom because the empire was concerned with the Wodes. But with Rowanheath and Harrowick under heel, it will only be a matter of time before they turn their sights on us. With a powerful faction at our backs, though, maybe we’ll stand a chance against them.”

“Whoa,” I said, holding up both hands in defense. “I don’t know how powerful we’re going to be. So far, I can count the number of our potential faction members on one hand.”

“Even so,” the chief replied, “I believe in you, Grim Jack. What’s more, Faction Lord is not merely some trumped-up title—it confers certain powers that can make even our small band a formidable force. Besides, once you found a faction, you will not remain small for long. Factions draw travelers like flies to honey, which can be a tremendous boon for a town’s economy—especially in a place like Yunnam where few outsiders are likely to visit without an immediate quest compelling them to do so. Yes, this will be good, I think.”

“Well, you sold me,” I said with a shrug before drawing the golden Faction Seal from my bag and presenting it to the chieftain.

He froze and stared at the coin, a look of puzzlement flashing across his rough-worn features. “What are you doing?” he asked quizzically.

“Giving you the seal so we can start our faction,” I replied.

He smiled and then broke out into a hearty, deep-bellied laugh, grasping his sides as he doubled over. After a handful of seconds his mirth subsided and he righted himself, rubbing away a trail of tears with one finger. “Put that away. I cannot complete your request.” He shook his head as though this should be obvious. “I am a guide. I can but show you the way. Come.” A new quest alert flashed before me:

<<<>>>

Quest Alert: Founding Father

Congratulations! You have acquired a Faction Seal and have initiated the secret Faction-Founding Quest, Founding Father. To proceed, escort the chief and his honor guard to the ancient Darkshard Keep in the hills overlooking Yunnam and present your Seal to the Keep Guardian.

Quest Class: Ultra-Rare, Secret

Quest Difficulty: ?

Success: Present your Faction Seal to the Keep Guardian of an appropriate Keep and found a Faction. Chief Kolle of the Ak-Hani must survive!

Failure: Chief Kolle dies before presenting your Faction Seal to the Darkshard Keep Guardian.

Reward: ?

Accept: Yes/No?

<<<>>>

I accepted the quest, dismissed the screen, then followed the chief down the steps, not knowing what to expect.

Amara was waiting for us below, surrounded by Baymor and a pair of Rangers I didn’t know. They looked sort of familiar, but it was hard to tell since all the Rangers wore those strange skull masks, which hid their faces from onlookers. Baymor held my Night Blessed Armor—fresh back from the local crafters—which he presented to me with a grunt. Apparently, wherever we were going was dangerous enough to require my gear. The chief waited for Cutter, Abby, and Otto to join us at the foot of the stairs before giving the Rangers a curt nod—a simple gesture that seemed to communicate much more.

“This way,” Chief Kolle said, sweeping out an arm, then stepping off.

The Rangers fell into two columns, flanking our little party on either side like an honor guard or executioners leading someone to the gallows. I felt a flutter of panic in my belly.

We moved through the village, making for the western gate in silence, the crunch of our boots on gravel the only sound. We didn’t spot a single villager on the way out, which was strange in itself—what’s more, all of the houses we passed were shut up tight, their windows shuttered against the night. It didn’t take us long before we left the town completely behind, emerging into the thick jungle surrounding Yunnam, then bearing west, closely following the route we’d taken to the mine earlier in the day.

It took us twenty minutes of hard hiking through thick tree cover before we stumbled upon a pair of ragged and worn stone piles, which might’ve been boundary markers or an entry gate in a different, long-forgotten age. “Almost there,” the chief muttered, an uncharacteristic flutter of anxiety in his words. “It should be just over the next rise.” He jerked his head toward a steep hill directly ahead of us. I let out a deep sigh. I wasn’t an outdoors guy by any stretch of the imagination, but the “rise” was definitely more of a mountain: one which seemed to climb up and up and up. The chief, his Rangers, and Otto, with their high Stamina levels, would probably tackle it with ease, but I just knew it was going to wear me out.

“Let’s just get it done,” I said, slipping forward and starting the painful ascent.

It took another half-hour to make the climb—which even boasted a vertical rock wall we had to scale like spider monkeys—and by the time we crested the top and broke onto a flat plateau, I thought my thudding heart and pumping lungs would burst from the sheer exertion. I dropped onto my ass the second we were clear and immediately grasped my knees as I pulled in great lungfuls of air.

Next time I invested Attribute Points, Constitution was definitely getting a bump. After a few seconds, I could mostly breathe again and scrambled to my feet—that’s when I caught my first glimpse of what had to be our intended destination. The place loomed dead ahead: a sprawling complex of dark stone, pointed spires, and yawning, lifeless windows, poking up through the jungle canopy.

“There she is,” the chief said, noticing my far-off gaze. He swept a hand toward the structure in the distance. “That, my friends, is the Darkshard Keep of the Nangkri. Earlier today, you visited a long-abandoned mine that once belonged to the Nangkri Dynasty, but that ore shaft isn’t the only ancient relic littering these hills.

“In days now deep in the shadow of history,” he continued, “the six Named Clans of the Dokkalfar—the Ak-Hani, the La-Hun, the Lisu, the Karem, the Chao-Yao, and the Na-Ang—were unified under the banner of the Jade Lord, ruler of the Nangkri Dynasty. Five hundred years ago, or more, that was. There were six Keeps, one for each of the king’s brothers, who ruled over each of the six clan cities. Those were different days. Glorious days, before the coming of the Downfall.” He fell silent, his face twisted in pain at the words.

“What’s the Downfall?” Abby chipped in breathlessly as she moved next to me and slipped an arm around my waist, leaning on me for support. She could probably stand to invest a few more points in Constitution as well.

The chief stopped and glowered at her, then slashed a hand through the air. “A thing we don’t talk about,” he said more coolly than I’d ever heard out of him. After a long beat, the hard lines of his face finally softened. “My apologies, honored guest”—he offered her a slight bow in contrition—“it is something of a cultural sore point, I suppose you could say. A painful reminder of better times. Perhaps, when you’ve dwelt among us a while longer, I will feel comfortable enough to speak on it.”

Though the chief didn’t explicitly say so, I got the sense there was definitely a quest relating to the Downfall, if only I was patient enough to wait. I already had a supremely good reputation with the clansfolk of Yunnam, but maybe I needed to elevate my reputation with the Dark Conclave or the Shadow Pantheon before he’d spill the beans. That was fine, though. I could wait. I already had enough on my plate, and I certainly didn’t want to risk pressing him and losing the option of a future quest chain, so I held my tongue and shot Abby a let it go look.

The chief shook his head and waved one hand through the air. “None of that matters. Ancient history best forgotten. But, one of those keeps still sits vacant in these hills—overlooking Yunnam far below. After the Fall, the land came under a curse, and now the place is desolate. It is the haunt of a powerful land spirit, called a genius locus, set to guard the ruins by the last inhabitants of the Keep. Our people do not venture there—no one ventures there. It’s a death sentence to any wayward adventurer.” He faltered and gave me a quick once-over. “Unless, of course, you have a Faction Seal …”

“Wait. So, you’re telling me we’re going to ransack the ancient ruins of a long-dead empire that no one’s visited in five hundred years?” Cutter asked. The thought should’ve been daunting, but Cutter sounded excited. “I don’t suppose in any of your legends, there’s some mention of a vault or a royal treasury, eh? Any place where these royals of yours might’ve stored priceless artifacts or mounds upon mounds of gold coins?”

“Oh, there is treasure,” the chief replied solemnly. “I am sure of it, though of what sort, I cannot say. As a headstrong youth, I once tried to explore those ruins, but the demon spirit nearly sent me into the Great Beyond. This time, though, will be different. Like the Keep, the Faction Seals are relics from a different age, and the Genius Locus should recognize the seal and allow Grim Jack to take possession of the Keep and establish his faction. Either that or murder us all.” He shrugged, unconcerned. “What will be, will be. Now come, it’s a bit further yet.”

I found myself lost in thought as we threaded our way forward. In a way, everything the chief had said made a strange sort of sense. Rowanheath had a monstrous keep, so why wouldn’t the other cities have something similar for players that chose those locations as their seat of power? Aside from the chief’s tree, there wasn’t really any place in Yunnam which would be a good fit for a giant, well-fortified faction base. And it also made sense that the Devs would create some sort of especially fierce boss to keep unwanted explorers from ransacking those Keeps before the rightful owners could claim them.

Something rustled off in the bushes not far away, drawing me from my thoughts. Instinctively, I reached for my hammer, but before I could even pull the weapon from the frog at my belt, Amara fired an arrow—a brief squeal followed, then silence. Maybe Amara wasn’t super friendly, but she was very good at killing things, and I was glad she was on our side. We shoved our way through a thicket of moss-covered palm trees, ducked beneath a tangle of low hanging vines, and broke into a clearing, offering us our first unobstructed look of the Keep.

“Holy Bollocks of Banztantium,” Cutter muttered, needling me in the ribs with his elbow. “Jack, we just hit the absolute jackpot. I knew sticking with you was the right move.”

Generally, I tried not to agree with Cutter on anything, because he was a terrible human being with the moral compass of a pit viper, but this time I agreed wholeheartedly. My jaw was practically dragging on the ground as my inner gamer greedily rubbed his mitts together in anticipation.

The place was run down and dilapidated—creeping vines clung to the walls, piles of rubble lay strewn across the ground, water had pitted and stained the stone—but the Keep was huge. Way bigger than I’d first thought. It wasn’t some puny military garrison, long forgotten. No. This was a castle. At least as big as the fortress overlooking Rowanheath. Maybe bigger. And it was fit for a king, or at least it had been once, before time got ahold of it. Cutter was right, this place had to be loaded down with loot, just waiting for an adventurer bold enough to go in and take it.

On a more practical note, the Keep was also in a supremely good defensive position.

There was a stone wall, twenty-five feet high, surrounding the place, ringed by a wide moat, full of boggy swamp water, which was probably teeming with gators and other Storme Marsh horrors. A series of dilapidated guard towers poked up along the wall, offering great sentry positions, and the main tower—jutting up like a hitchhiker’s thumb from the Keep proper—would allow us to see for miles and miles. Yeah, this would be a great place to set up shop if we could get things cleaned up and operational.

Assuming, of course, the Keep’s guardian didn’t massacre our party first.

TWELVE: Guardians

We crossed the moat via a stone bridge, then passed under a huge archway with a retractable metal portcullis hanging overhead like a guillotine blade, ready to drop at a moment’s notice. Onward we went into a wide courtyard lined with various stone outbuildings, which were all equally devastated—worn down by both time and weather—and in need of some serious TLC. Everyone moved in edgy silence, eyes constantly scanning the landscape in search of whatever threat lived here.

As in the Darkshard Mine, the feeling of unseen eyes began to follow us as we moved deeper into the ruins, making for the Keep. The intensity grew and grew the further into the complex we went, like a palpable weight bearing down on us, eager to crush us into paste. Something was definitely watching us—some unseen and unfriendly resident—and I absently wondered what I’d find if I triggered my Shadow Stride ability and stepped into the Shadowverse. Would I crash into an army of Void Terrors stalking our every movement? Or would I come face-to-face with something even worse?

I shivered at the thought, remembering how much trouble the Drake had caused us.

At last, we moved through another graceful archway set into an inner wall, which separated the Keep from the rest of the long-dead ghost town. Before us was a castle, though not of the blocky medieval-Europe variety like Rowanheath boasted. No, this was vaguely oriental in design and looked closer to a Buddhist temple from a bygone era. Instead of angular stone fortifications and hard, sharp lines, this place was all rounded edges, flowing curves, elegant spires, and artfully carved stonework depicting fantastical beasts and epic battles.

A set of weather-beaten steps led from the courtyard to a colossal set of sealed doors, big enough to admit a herd of elephants.

“I think, perhaps, it is best if you go ahead from here,” the chief said, glancing around apprehensively as he readjusted his grip on a stout walking staff, which I figured doubled as his primary weapon.

“I agree completely,” Cutter said, quickly slinking behind me so I was basically a human shield. For a moment, I didn’t move, but then Cutter helped me out by giving me a little shove.

“I’m going, I’m going,” I snapped, glaring at him over my shoulder. I took one last, deep, calming breath, then moved through the ranks of our squad, edging past Amara and Baymor until I was in front. Alone. I inched closer to the Keep, and placed one tentative foot on the stairs.

My toe had hardly touched down when a thunderclap rocked the night accompanied by a brilliant flash of scarlet light, which left me reeling and disoriented. At first I thought it was actually some sort of freak lightning storm, but as I took a quick glance around, I saw huge columns of unnatural fire erupting from the ground in a circle around us, hemming us in. The deafening cacophony of light and sound continued unabated for another few seconds—then, in a blink, everything ceased as quickly as it had begun.

Now, however, we had company.

We were completely surrounded by a host of hulking guardians, called [Keepers], built from stone, earth, bone, and moss. They were crude humanoid beings that stood nine feet tall, and half as wide, with enormous earthen muscles. Their arms were as big around as telephone poles, and so long that their rocky knuckles dragged in the dirt. Their legs, by contrast, were squat and powerfully built, meant for strength, not speed. Gleaming spikes of bone, wood, and Darkshard ore studded backs, shoulders, and forearms, offering them some serious protection against potential attackers.

I spun in a slow circle, counting our mean-looking visitors: twenty-five of them. A three to one advantage in their favor. Very bad odds. Maybe even impossible odds.

I gulped, suddenly terrified, and hesitantly reached into my bag, ready to retrieve the seal and beg these things not to crush us like bugs. Before I could get the disk out though, the creatures opened their mouths and let out a chorus of bellowing war cries, a thunderous clamor that sounded like an earthquake given voice. Then, while we all stood shocked and unprepared, the creatures charged, their huge stone legs churning like truck pistons as they ate up the distance between us.

In an eyeblink, everyone was moving.

Otto surged forward, throwing himself in front of Abby as one of the hideous, earthen monsters lashed out with a rocky fist, which shifted and morphed into a gigantic spiked mace as it sailed through the air. The Risi warrior narrowly diverted the blow, before sidestepping right, whipping his sword around in a flash of steel, and slicing at the creature’s middle. The blade clanged against rocky armor with little effect. It didn’t matter, though, because while the creature was distracted, Abby darted into the open and threw both hands forward, conjuring a cannonball of flaming earth and churning magma.

Her attack landed like a sledgehammer of force and fire; the intense heat obliterated one of the creature’s legs, leaving it wobbling unsteadily.

I wheeled around and launched an Umbra Bolt into the face of a Keeper barreling toward the chief—except I hardly even recognized the chief. His normal leather armor was gone, and now he wore heavy plate mail constructed entirely of pale white bone, inscribed with gleaming emerald runes. The guardian lurched left as my attack landed, temporarily blinded. The chief, clad in his terrifying gear, took advantage of the opening; he twirled his staff overhead, before smashing it into the staggering creature’s rocky skull. A crack of pale-green light exploded as the weapon landed, and I watched in amazement as the Keeper started to decay in double-speed: the moss and plant matter holding it together promptly withered and died as stone crumbled away into fine dust.

In no time, the Keeper was little more than a pile of stone, bits of yellowed bone, and rotten plant matter. Damn. That was super cool.

From the look of things, Chief Kolle didn’t really need my help, so I spun, searching for a new target. I found one—it was shooting toward me like a freight train. The creature threw a punishing haymaker at me, powerful enough to crush my face if it landed. I dropped low, letting the swing whizz over my head, before surging forward and smashing my hammer into the creature’s center, triggering Savage Blow. The Keeper’s torso cracked, a fissure running up its front, but it hardly seemed to care or even notice. A mean left uppercut landed in my ribs, lifting me from the ground and knocking the wind out of me—along with a fifth of my HP.

I staggered back from the blow, easily dodging a slow-moving kick, and lashed out with my warhammer again, smacking at an exposed wrist. The creature roared in pain as its whole hand disappeared in a puff of rocky debris. I hadn’t killed it, but I’d bought myself a few seconds.

“I could use some help over here,” Cutter hollered over the din of battle. I stole a quick glance over one shoulder and saw the thief spinning, weaving, and twirling through a group of guardians ten-strong. He deftly ducked wild punches and avoided devastating kicks while slicing and dicing his way through the crowd. He was doling out some minor damage, but his bladed weapons were far from ideal for creatures like these. Worse, the Keepers were slowly boxing him in, preventing him from slipping away from their clubbed fists.

In another minute or two, they’d be in position to pummel him to death.

The Rangers were standing in a tight ring—the four of them fighting back to back—and both Amara and Baymor were firing volley after volley of arrows at the hulking beasts attacking the nimble thief. They were shooting improvised specialty arrows tipped with little round vials that exploded on impact and covered the Keepers with biting acid. The sludgy green goop chewed through stone and bone with ease, while dealing out some significant DPS along the way. Nice.

I threw out my free hand, casting Umbra Bog on the group surrounding Cutter—thick strands of inky shadow erupted from the earth; tendrils of black stretched up and ensnared crushing hands and stomping feet, giving Cutter a chance to slip into the clear. My generosity, though, cost me precious seconds, and when I turned back, a giant stone fist clocked me in the jaw. An explosion of white-hot pain erupted in my face as I dropped to the ground like a bag of rocks, groping at my ruined and bloody mouth. A new combat notification popped up in the corner of my vision:

<<<>>>

Debuff Added

Fractured Jaw: You cannot speak and cannot cast mage spells; duration, 2 minutes.

<<<>>>

That was annoying, but the pain was far worse than the actual debuff since none of my Shadowmancer abilities required spoken chants or incantations. A giant foot sailed toward me, and I rolled left, throwing caution to the wind as I triggered Shadow Stride. Up until this point, I’d been hesitant to utilize the ability, afraid of the possibility of running into a bloodthirsty mob of Void Terrors, but I badly needed a breather. Time lurched to a standstill around me, and the descending foot froze in place along with the rest of the world.

With a painful sigh, I pushed myself upright, taking a quick look around, searching for potential enemies. Nothing. No Void Terrors. So next I searched for anyone who might need a helping hand.

The Rangers were frozen in various stages of combat, some nocking arrows, others preparing to release. Otto was statue-still, his blade poised to cleave through a guardian’s outstretched arm. Abby had her hands outstretched, a gout of white-hot fire erupting from her palms. During the brief combat, the chief had somehow managed to summon a trio of shambling zombie-worgs and a small army of rickety, weapon-wielding skeletons. Cutter was frozen midair, a manic grin splitting his face as he attacked a stone guardian stupid enough to offer its back.

Everyone was doing as well as could be expected, so I carefully circled to the outside of the creature that’d sucker punched me in the face, dropped into Stealth, and lined up my shot. I took a few practice swings for good measure, my semitranslucent hammer whooshing harmlessly through the Keeper’s head. Satisfied, I gave a nod and emerged from the Shadowverse, time resuming with an abrupt lurch. The creature in front of me finished its bone-crushing stomp—except I was no longer on the ground. I unleased a devastating Stealth attack as the creature’s foot landed, which earned me a critical hit. The hit was solid, like a batter knocking one out of the park, and the creature’s head simply vanished in an explosion of dirt and stone.

Gone. Dead before its body ever hit the floor.

I wanted to shout in celebration, but we were still badly outmatched and I also had a broken jaw, so there’d be no celebrating for another few minutes. I turned, ready to throw myself back into the fray, when the grounded rumbled in violent protest and a geyser of red-and-black light exploded from the earth, trapping me in a dome of writhing energy.

<<<>>>

Debuff Added

Jailed: Your party has been trapped and is unable to move; duration, 30 seconds.

<<<>>>

“Enough!” a voice roared, louder than a bomb blast. I stole a look around, urgently searching for the source of the shout. Like me, everyone in my party was trapped in energy-domes, but strangely, the stone guardians had also stopped their assault. The Keepers that remained—eighteen of twenty-five, despite our best efforts—simply milled around, shuffling listlessly from giant foot to giant foot, waiting for something.

A thud from the Keep drew my eye.

One of the stone guardians had appeared at the top of the Keep’s steps … well, sort of. This new Keeper had the same basic features of the smaller guardians, but it was at least a foot taller and a foot broader across the shoulders; elegant rune-script, pulsing with a dull red light, covered its giant arms, legs, and torso. It also bore a gnarled staff in its oversized hands, which was covered in even more of the odd glowing script. This new arrival stared death and destruction at me from the top of the stairs, as though it knew this whole debacle was somehow my fault.

Slowly, the Keeper descended, his blocky feet thumping with every step and his staff clacking against the worn stone. Thump, clack. Thump, clack. Thump, clack. At last, it stood before me, or rather, towered over me, since I had to crane my neck up to get a look at it. A tag briefly flashed above its head before vanishing: [Darkshard Golem: Brewald]. The creature slumped forward, leaning on its staff, staring at me for another long moment, sizing me up and filing away every inch of me in painstaking detail.

Finally, it spoke. “Know this, Traveler. Only one who bears the Sacred Relic of the old kingdom may venture here.” Its voice was deep and sludgy like the sound of a burbling mudslide. “Now,” it continued, extending one giant hand, “name your purpose and present the Relic or perish.” The conjured barrier around me faltered and faded, leaving me exposed before the creature. I tried to tell him my purpose, but my jaw flared with pain and I found no words would form.

THIRTEEN: Crimson Alliance

The stupid Fractured Jaw debuff was still in place. I mumbled a bunch of unintelligible gibberish, which only seemed to make the creature angry. I urgently pointed at my chin, but the Golem didn’t seem familiar with charades, so instead, I scrambled at my pouch with shaky hands.

After a second of fumbling around, I drew out the seal, holding it up for the Golem to see, before it could turn me into messy blood splatter. The creature’s glowing gaze fixed on the disk like a dog spotting a delicious bone. For being such a powerful and ultra-rare artifact, the seal really wasn’t much to look at: a simple gold plate, about the size of an antique CD, with the image of a noble-faced man in profile on one side and a huge tree on the other. A Latin inscription ran around the disk’s edge—Imperatorius Factio Signum on the top and Domini est Terra on the bottom. Carefully, I edged closer to the guardian, not wanting to piss it off, then slipped the relic into its outstretched palm.

The Golem’s hand snapped shut, the disk vanishing in a blink beneath its stony digits. “And your purpose?” the creature prodded. I waited for another few seconds, pointing at my jaw. The creature glowered at me, but there was nothing I could do but wait. Finally, the Fractured Jaw debuff disappeared, and I felt my jaw pop back into place with a crack. I sighed in relief, rubbing a hand along my chin.

“Your purpose?” the creature asked again.

“I want to form a faction in Yunnam,” I replied, mustering all the conviction I could. “I want to claim this Keep,” I finished, hoping my words wouldn’t offend this monster.

The guardian stared at me with intense scrutiny for a long beat before finally turning toward the chief, who lingered behind me. “You are the current chieftain of Yunnam?”

The chief crept closer, flanked by an entourage of undead, until he stood shoulder to shoulder with me, and inclined his head. “Indeed.”

“Do you give your assent to let this man”—the creature swept his free hand toward me—“form his faction in your lands?”

“I do,” the chief replied solemnly, bowing his head in respect.

The creature grunted monosyllabically, nodded, then thumped the butt of his staff against the ground—a flare of light exploded outward from the runes in the wood, and once the light faded, the other Keepers were simply gone. Disappeared back to wherever they’d come from in the first place. Then, the Darkshard Golem turned in a lumbering circle and started back up the steps. “Follow,” he boomed, not bothering with even a cursory glance back to see if we complied.

Up our party went, trailing after the strange creature, pausing briefly at the top of the stairs, waiting as the doors swung out of their own accord. Silently, we headed into the Keep’s interior, me and Abby in the lead, with the others sticking close behind us.

The Golem trudged ahead, unconcerned as he escorted us through a large banquet hall—festooned with tattered banners, badly rotted tables, and a series of huge chandeliers suspended overhead—before passing into a connecting hallway at the far side of the room. We trudged by more hallways and a host of empty rooms, which we’d have to explore when we had a little more time. I caught Cutter casing each room in turn, his gaze sweeping over closed chests as he greedily rubbed his hands together.

The Golem, however, ignored those areas as though he’d walked these halls a thousand times and had no interest in the treasures scattered throughout this place. Finally, we hooked a right and headed down a long hallway studded with wall-mounted candelabras that burned with sickly green flame. Even more hallways branched off from this one, some leading to storage areas, others to what looked like training grounds of some sort. Still, our escort ignored them all, soldiering onward until the hallway finally dead-ended at a spiral staircase, which shot straight up into the air, the stairs quickly twisting out of view.

We climbed up and up and up, the echo of our footfalls filling the tight staircase. After what must’ve been ten flights of stairs, we came to a circular room at the very top of the largest minaret. At some point in the distant past, the roof had caved in, giving us an unrestricted view of the night sky above. The silver moon smiled down while a thousand twinkling stairs winked their approval at us. Welcome home, they seemed to say.

Several windows, set into what remained of the walls, looked out onto the jungle below, which stretched out all around us like a lush blanket covering the land. Tucked away in the dense canopy far below were the warm, yellow lights of Yunnam—I could see the whole city from here, including the chief’s tree, jabbing up defiantly into the sky.

I was never one for heights, but the view was truly spectacular.

“Wow,” Abby said, slipping an arm around my waist, snuggling up to me. “This place is incredible. Can you believe this is going to be ours?”

“Yeah,” I mumbled, not knowing what to say to that. This whole experience was more than a little overwhelming—my whole life, I’d lived in a run-down apartment that wasn’t much bigger than a broom closet. To know this place, even as decrepit as it was, was mine? It was mind blowing.

“I formally welcome you to the Darkshard Keep,” boomed the Golem, drawing my eye. The creature stood on the far side of the circular room, staring out over the land below, his giant hands clasped behind his back. With great, ponderous steps, the guardian turned toward us. “I am Brewald, the embodiment of Darkshard.”

“The embodiment of Darkshard?” Abby asked hesitantly.

“Probably means he’s the butler or something,” Cutter said, swaggering into the room like a peacock. “Are you the butler?” Cutter asked, fixing the creature in his sights.

The creature fell silent, his monstrous gaze flashing in anger.

Amara was next to Cutter in a moment, planting a sharp elbow in the thief’s ribs. “Forgive the ignorant fool,” Amara said, offering the Golem a graceful bow, eyes averted to the floor in reverent respect. “He is a true outsider and does not know the old stories.”

“Hold on a minute,” Cutter replied with a scowl, crossing his arms as he stared daggers at the Huntress. “First, I’m no fool, and second, it’s not like I was trying to insult the ugly bastard. There’s nothing wrong with being a butler—I’ve known plenty of outstanding butlers—I was merely stating the obvious. It just seems like this bloke is gonna be fetching me mutton and mead.” He paused, and cocked his head to the side. “There will be someone to fetch my mutton and mead, right?”

Amara gave him another tight jab to the ribs. “Brewald is not the butler,” she hissed. “He is the castle.”

“What the bloody hell do you mean he’s the castle?” Cutter snorted, flinging an arm out toward the stone guardian. “I’m staring right at the ugly mook, and he’s not even castle shaped.”

“This guardian,” the chief said, sliding forward and slipping an arm around Cutter’s shoulders like a father admonishing a wayward son, “is the physical manifestation of the castle itself. This land is sacred to us because it is alive, aware, and powered by a tremendous ley line of shadow magic, deep in the ground. Though this place may look like stone and wood, it is actually built entirely from shadow matter, alchemically converted into the Keep you see around you. And this Golem is actually the Keep’s avatar here in the material plane. So”—he faltered, offered Cutter a tight-lipped smile, then gestured toward the creature—“this creature is the vessel through which the land spirit Brewald speaks.”

“Right,” Cutter replied, sounding a bit more nervous than he had a moment before, “so he’s definitely not the butler. Got it.”

“So the castle is actually alive?” Abby asked, awe coating the words. It must’ve been a game feature she was unfamiliar with.

“I tire of this,” the Golem boomed, locking on me with fervent intensity. “You may ask whatever questions you want later. But this is not a place for outsiders or idle chatter. This”—the creature gestured at the room around us—“is the primary command center for the Darkshard Keep. It is the most important area of the Keep. From here you may found your faction, and perform other administrative functions. A word of warning is in order before continuing: Should an opposing faction officer capture this room, they can claim the Keep for themselves, so guard this room with your life. Now, would you like to proceed?” A text box appeared in my field of view:

<<<>>>

Quest Update: Founding Father

Congratulations! You have acquired a Faction Seal and have initiated the secret Faction-Founding Quest. If you choose to proceed, your Faction Seal will be destroyed and your faction headquarters will be permanently bound to the Dokkalfar city of Yunnam, located in the Storme Marshes. Doing so will also grant you ownership of the Darkshard Keep.

Quest Class: Ultra-Rare, Secret

Quest Difficulty: ?

Success: Present your Faction Seal to the Guardian of an appropriate Keep and found a faction.

Failure: None.

Reward: ?

Accept: Yes/No?

<<<>>>

“Yes,” I replied after reading the update.

The Golem inclined his blocky head and held out his hand, revealing the Faction Seal I’d presented to him earlier. I watched in rapt fascination as the disk rose into air, hovering above the creature’s palm. Slowly, the disk began to glow. To shine. To change. Morphing into a brilliant ball of liquid gold, hanging in the air like a burning star. “What would you like to name your faction?” the creature grumbled, fixated on the floating orb.

I only had to think about it for a second. “The Crimson Alliance,” I replied, immediately thinking of my old gaming guild. Abby smiled and nodded her approval.

The Golem extended one stony finger and lightly tapped the floating orb, giving it a little nudge. The thing let out a beautiful clarion ring, then exploded skywards like a rocket bound for the stratosphere, leaving a trail of dazzling diamond light in its wake. One hundred feet it soared. Two hundred. Three. Then, it burst in a spray of light more powerful than any Fourth of July fireworks display I’d ever seen. It was like watching a supernova detonate in low orbit. Our little band of adventurers—even stone-faced Amara—let out a collective Ahh at the magnificent sight.

A second later a notification flashed in front of me:

<<<>>>

Viridian Gate Online Universal Alert!

Notice: Traveler Grim Jack Shadowstrider, honorary member of the Ak-Hani clan, has founded the first traveler-owned faction in Viridian Gate Online! Any traveler opposed to the Viridian Empire may now request to join Grim Jack’s faction, the Crimson Alliance, bound to the Dokkalfar city of Yunnam, located deep in the heart of the Storme Marshes.

Notice: Joining the Crimson Alliance instantly lowers a player’s relationship with all Viridian-aligned factions to Unfriendly. Joining the Crimson Alliance instantly raises a player’s relationship with all Rebel-aligned factions to Friendly. Joining the Crimson Alliance entitles members to all Crimson Alliance Faction buffs.

Notice: Grim Jack Shadowstrider is now an exalted enemy of the Ever-Victorious Viridian Empire!

<<<>>>

I stared at the notice, mouth agape. I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but it hadn’t been that. Things had certainly escalated more quickly than I’d anticipated. I closed out of the Universal Alert only to be inundated with a slew of other notifications, one right after the other:

<<<>>>

Notifications:

- You have just founded a faction and are now the High Commander of the Crimson Alliance!

- You have received the Cursus Honorum (Rank) of Baron!

- You now have access to the Faction Leader Tool Screen!

- You now have access to the Leadership Skill Tree!

- You may now appoint officers to your faction!

- You have gained 1,000 Renown!

- Your relationship with the Viridian Empire has been lowered to Exalted Enemy!

- Your relationship with the Eldgard Rebellion has been raised to Honored!

- You have gained 75,000 EXP points!

- You have received an ultra-rare reward: Blessing of Sophia!

<<<>>>
x4 Level Up!

You have (55) undistributed stat points! Stat points can be allocated at any time.

You have (12) unassigned proficiency points! Proficiency points can be allocated at any time.

<<<>>>

That first alert had been a universal player notification—which meant every player, and maybe even every NPC, would’ve seen it—but I felt fairly certain I was the only one who’d received the other notifications. So, I carefully read each item off for the benefit of everyone else in the room. By the time I was done, two new PMs had hit my inbox; the first waited for me in my personal inbox, and the second waited in my brand-new faction inbox. Quickly, I opened my personal interface and pulled up the first message:

<<<>>>

Personal Message:

Jack,

I’m glad you finally came to your senses and decided to do the reasonable thing and form a faction. Well done. Unfortunately, I’m quite busy running the universe, but know that I’ll be keeping a close eye on you, even if from afar. But, I don’t want you to think I’ve completely abandoned you to the wolves, so you and your friend Abby have both received a special Blessing from yours truly—a little token of my special favor. My Blessing permanently increases your luck by 15 points, which is no small thing, and should hopefully tip things your way from time to time.

—Sophia

<<<>>>

I whistled under my breath, then stole a quick look at Abby. Her eyes were flicking back and forth, as though reading something no one else could see—a look of bewilderment and even shock lingered on her face. After a minute, she gulped, caught my eye, then mouthed we’ll talk later. Yep, she must’ve received a similar message. Without a thought, I closed the message and brought up the new PM in the faction inbox. A tight knot of fear formed in my belly when I saw the subject line of the PM waiting for me: I’m Coming For You. I hastily opened the message, and slowly read it out loud:

<<<>>>

Personal Message:

I know who you are, I know what you and your friend Abby did, and now? Now, I know where you are. You’ve made a terrible mistake and an even worse enemy. You’ve never met a man like me before, that I can promise. I’ve murdered whole families for far less than what you’ve done. I’ve publicly executed people and hung their corpses from overpasses for even minor offenses. And now I’m coming for you. For you and your friends. For everyone you’ve ever known and cared about. I will wipe Yunnam from the face of Eldgard. I will murder every NPC and raze every building until there isn’t even a memory of such a place. If you come to Rowanheath and turn yourself in, I will consider sparing your companions. Fail to do so, however, and suffer the consequences. You have until sunset, two days from now, to make up your mind—after that I will come for you.

—High Commander Carrera

<<<>>>

“Holy shite,” Cutter said as I finished reading. “We are so royally screwed. What the hell are we going to do now?”

Everyone was quiet for a long time, as if no one dared to break the uncomfortable spell hanging over us.

“We’re going to get busy,” Abby finally said. Her face was pale and waxy, but her voice hard with resolve. With conviction and anger. For the first time, I felt that same conviction and anger brewing in me. Generally, I was an easy-going, go-along-to-get-along kind of guy, but I didn’t like being threatened. I didn’t like being bullied. In high school, I’d been the butt of too many jokes; one of the best parts about growing up was leaving all the high school B.S. behind. But here this guy was—some drug-dealing thug from Colombia—threatening me and the people important to me. I wasn’t going to let that slide.

“Carrera is overconfident,” Abby said. “He’s cocky. He gave us two days because he’s sure we aren’t a threat to him. But we can use that overconfidence to our advantage.”

“Yeah, but where do we even start?” I asked, running a shaky hand through my hair.

Abby paused for a moment, then glanced over at the Golem. “Maybe we should ask him,” she said.

FOURTEEN: Initiate Tutorial

I turned toward the Golem, not quite sure what to say. “I don’t suppose you have some sort of tutorial for us, do you?”

Surprisingly, the creature nodded, his face flat and solemn, then held out one hand, palm up. For a beat nothing happened, but then emerald light began to bleed from his rocky flesh, coalescing into a globe of brilliant light the size of a beach ball, twirling lazily above the Golem’s hand as we watched. “Faction leaders have a tremendous number of tools at their disposal,” the creature intoned. As he spoke, the twirling glob of light began to change and stretch, unfurling like a flower’s petals, until a hazy interface screen hung in the air for everyone to see.

“First, as Faction Leader, you have the ability to access the Faction Leader Tool Screen, which offers you numerous options. From this menu, you can appoint officers, accept new members into your ranks, and set the rules and ordinances that govern your faction.” The creature gave a slight shake of his hand, and suddenly the hazy interface simmered, shifted, and morphed again: now we saw a new screen, labeled Darkshard Keep. “From there, you can also access the Keep’s interactive menu, used for making updates and upgrades to the compound.

“As the chieftain mentioned, this Keep sits above a powerful ley line, which constantly feeds me energy. Using alchemic spirit magic, I can directly tap into that power and convert Dark energy into physical matter. Here”—with his free hand he pointed to a number, 17,000, sitting in the top right corner of the interface—“is the amount of current Dark energy I have in my reserve. The ley line generates approximately 1,000 points of Dark energy per day. Using this menu, you can select different Keep features, which can be built or upgraded by investing these Dark energy points.”

An interfaced button labeled “Keep Features” flashed, and suddenly a huge scroll-down list of options appeared, along with a point value for each item:

- Water Well and Reservoir, 350 pts
- Kitchen, 1,200 pts
- Stables, 1,500 pts
- Alchemy Lab, 3,800 pts
- Internal Teleport Hub, 1,750 pts
- External Teleport Hub, 2,500 pts
- Armory, 1,800 pts
- Master Suite, 950 pts
- Guard Towers, 700 pts (each)
- Exterior Wall, 50 pts per 100 feet
- Training Grounds:

—Archery Range, 2,500 pts

—Melee Combat Arena, 2,500 pts

—Sorceress Laboratory, 2,500 pts

—Agility Course, 2,500 pts

On and on the list went. I whistled in awe and ran my hand along my jaw as I thought, scratching absently at my scruffy beard. Wow. There were hundreds of rooms, items, and features to choose from. Hundreds of thousands worth of points in potential upgrades available to us. On top of that, there was even a “Keep Guard Creator,” which would allow me to upgrade the Keep’s existing guardians and even unlock other types of faction-friendly mobs—Giant Moat Leeches, Roving Keep Hounds, Pit Fiends.

Even with the seventeen-thousand-point surplus currently available to us, if the Keep only generated 1,000 points of energy a day, it would take years to acquire every potential feature and upgrade this place had to offer.

“Is there any way to increase the number of points generated each day?” Abby asked, seeming to read my thoughts.

“No.” The creature shook his blocky head. “But Raw Darkshard Ore is a naturally powerful source of Dark energy. I can convert one pound of raw ore into 3 spendable points.” Hmm. That opened up some interesting possibilities—maybe I needed to reconsider that mining profession after all. Before I could think any more about that, however, the Golem’s magical projection shimmered and changed again.

Now a giant skill tree hung suspended before us. “In addition to the Faction Leader Tool Screen,” the Golem intoned, “your faction also has its own Level and Leadership Skill Tree. All skills and abilities selected from the Leadership Skill Tree will be uniformly applied to every member of your faction. Each faction starts off with six Leadership Points to invest; you will earn five additional points at each subsequent faction level—though be warned, gaining faction levels is incredibly difficult and time intensive.”

For a moment, no one spoke. The Universal Alert had briefly mentioned that all Crimson Alliance members would receive faction buffs, but I hadn’t fully understood the implications at the time. But this was a huge advantage—depending on what choices we made, our faction members would have some significant advantages over other players. I paused … but that also meant the other factions would have some nasty extras as well—surprises we’d need to take into consideration when making our plans.

“How does leveling for the faction work?” I asked.

“Factions level up in the same way as all of Eldgard’s citizens,” the creature replied placidly. “By accumulating experience points and hitting level targets. Faction experience points can be earned in a number of different ways: Recruiting new members grants a certain number of points, as does upgrading features in the Keep. The most effective way, however, is through the EXP tax. Faction members gain a number of benefits from joining, but in return, you may tax both their experience and loot—redirecting a portion of each into the faction reserves. How much you tax, if at all, is up to you. With that said, if you tax too heavily, the faction will level up quickly, but your members won’t.

“Now,” the Golem said a bit sharply, gesturing toward the floating skill tree. “There are three distinct branches you can chose from—Battle-Craft, State-Craft, Merchant-Craft—or you can mix and match from all three, depending on what you want your faction to focus on or specialize in. Unlike personal skills, however, which can be upgraded a total of seven times by investing additional Proficiency Points, there is only one available level for each Faction Skill.” The Golem’s glowing light display winked out of existence, leaving a purple afterimage briefly floating in the air. “That is the end of the overview. Do you have any other questions, Baron?”

I paused at the title, not sure how I felt about it, then shook my head. “Okay,” I said, rounding on the others. “So, obviously, I need to induct you guys into the faction, then we should probably start restoring the Keep, write some sort of constitution for our faction, then figure out what to do with our available Leadership Points.”

“That sounds fine, Jack,” Cutter replied, then paused, taking a long look around at the disheveled command center. “But let’s restore this room, eh? All this sounds like the makings of a long and exhausting night, and if we have to hash out all this bureaucratic bullshite, I for one would like to be comfortable while doing it.”

“I second that,” Abby offered, rubbing her hands along her arms, suppressing a slight shiver. During the day, the Storme Marshes were blistering hot, but at night the humidity could make things uncomfortably cool—especially since we were in a giant tower, with a stiff breeze running right through the middle of everything.

“Okay,” I said, shrugging one shoulder. The Golem had already said this was the most important room in the Keep, so I had no qualms about upgrading the place.

I pulled up my new Leader Tool Screen, then toggled over to the Darkshard Keep interface. It took me only a few seconds to locate the “Command Center” in the long list of available features; I mentally selected “restore,” spending 700 points in an eyeblink. The response to my decision was immediate and overwhelming: a flash of emerald power filled the air—emanating from the walls and bubbling up through the floors—as the room began to change. The rubble littering the ground dissolved and melted into pools of clear liquid, which evaporated into the night.

Then, right before my eyes, the ruined walls began to blur and swirl, old pitted stone giving way to dark, polished rock covered with thick tapestries, showing various battle scenes in intricate detail. A vaulted ceiling, boasting an elaborate chandelier, blinked into existence, while off to my right a massive fireplace took shape. Thick carpets grew from the cold stone floor like grass, and a second later a dark wood table—a hulking round thing, polished to a dull glow, with a huge emerald-green crystal in its center—appeared in the middle of the room, surrounded by comfortable-looking chairs with thick leather cushions. The whole process took only a handful of minutes, and by the time things had finally settled, the room was entirely transformed.

Cutter let out a bark of a laugh, then clapped his hands in approval. “Good show,” he said, a giant grin stretching out his face. “I can definitely get used to this.”

I nodded, knowing a similar grin decorated my own face. It was pretty cool, after all. “Alright,” I said, sauntering over to one of the chairs, plopping down, and letting the padded leather absorb my weight. I let out a sigh—despite its elegant and even imposing appearance, the chair was hands down the most comfortable thing I’d ever sat in. “We’ve got a lot to do and not much time to do it, so let’s sit down and work things out …”

The others—save for Baymor and his pair of Ranger pals, who stood watch at the door—took seats as we began digging into the nitty-gritty details. First, I manually added Abby, Otto, and Cutter to the faction, and after a quick discussion, Amara joined the team. Secretly, I’d been hoping Chief Kolle would sign up, but apparently as the official leader of Yunnam, he was obligated to remain apart from the faction, though he could work closely with us and offer us his invaluable advice.

With that done, I quickly elevated Abby to the rank of commander—equivalent to the faction vice-president. The promotion granted her the rank of baroness, gave her full access to the Leader Tool Screen, and authorized her to make binding decisions on behalf of the Crimson Alliance: everything from upgrading the Keep and admitting new travelers or NPCs, to spending faction money or expelling unruly faction members. Abby and I jointly elevated our other three officers to the rank of lieutenant commander, giving them full access to the Keep, authority over all lesser faction members, and limited power to act on the guild’s behalf.

Next, we set into a long conversation about the Keep’s upgrades—Otto and Amara seemed to heavily favor the notion of investing all of our points into defensive features or billeting for fighters. They wanted the walls fixed, the guard towers up and operational, the moat stocked with deadly beasts, the main gates fortified, and the barracks reconstructed ASAP, just to name a few. Cutter, by contrast, wanted to focus on the creature comforts: lavish housing quarters, restoring the luxurious subterranean hot spring and bathhouse, and upgrading the kitchen.

At first, I was inclined to agree wholeheartedly with Amara and Otto—after all, defenses seemed to be the most practical step—but Cutter actually made some pretty decent points. Mainly, we didn’t have enough points to make this place battle ready, not for at least a couple of weeks, so if Carrera decided to attack, we’d be hard-pressed to stop him. And, on top of that, we needed to live here in the meantime, and we couldn’t very well sleep in rubble and cobwebs. After a spirited conversation—with occasional threats of bodily harm—Abby and I finally settled somewhere in the middle.

We’d started out with 17,000 points in reserve, but the Command Center had dropped us down to 16,300. At this point, the outer wall was far too big to restore to operational capacity, but we restored the inner wall surrounding the Keep itself, which was still a whopping two and a half miles—6,600 points down the drain—then restored the four inner guard towers, at 700 a pop. Then, we spent another 1,800 on ten Giant Moat Leeches to guard the Keep’s outer perimeter. Total, our defenses left us at 5,100 points, which felt like next to nothing.

There were just so many other things we needed: an armory, a training grounds, additional guards, a Faction Vault. The list felt endless and overwhelming. But there was nothing we could do about that.

With our few remaining points, we opted for a few features that would make the place livable.

Abby and I splurged and picked a joint Master Suite, sporting its own connecting bath, which set us back 950 points. A lot of points, but in the grand scheme of things, I was sure it’d be worth every metaphorical penny. Then, at the urging of the chief, who vehemently insisted we’d soon have more people than we’d know what to do with, we opted for a basic barracks, capable of housing 150 people. Nothing fancy—certainly not the quartet of personal officer quarters Cutter had been lobbying for—but the barracks cost us half of the officer rooms and was far more practical.

We didn’t yet have the staff to justify a kitchen—but with the buffs V.G.O. offered for eating, I felt we shouldn’t overlook that feature, so it got thrown into the pot on principle. We also picked up a Water Well and Reservoir for 350 points—a small price to pay, considering it provided the Keep with safe drinking and bathing water. With our scant 3,400 remaining points, we picked an item that was the perfect mix of convenience and practicality: an external teleport pad in the Keep’s courtyard, which would let faction members and faction guests port directly to and from Yunnam.

The External Port Pad cost us a staggering 2,500 points, but it would save us loads of time in the long run—I mean, I wouldn’t have to spend a half-hour trekking up and down that ridiculous mountain. Totally worth it. Once we got the Keep more fully restored, we’d have to get the Internal Port Pad, which would allow select faction members to instantly port to any location in the Keep at the drop of a hat. So far, so good, but we’d only uncovered the tip of this massive bureaucratic iceberg, and there was still a lot of work to be done. I wiggled in my seat, adjusting and readjusting my position as I settled in for what was shaping up to be a long, long night.

FIFTEEN: Faction Skills

“Obviously, it has to be the Battle-Craft Tree,” Otto said for what felt like the thousandth time. “That’s the only option that makes sense, given our current position and mission objectives.”

I squeezed my eyes shut and rubbed at my temples, desperately trying to massage away the headache building in my skull. It was the lack of sleep finally starting to kick in—it also didn’t help that we’d been talking about the stupid Faction Skill Points for well over an hour already. Endlessly circling the drain and getting nowhere fast.

At first, things had gone so well.

Heck, we’d practically breezed through the Faction Guidelines and Contract settings. We decided to set the Loot Tax—which applied to both loot collected while questing as well as all merchant transactions—at a flat rate of ten percent. An easy choice. We opted for a tiered EXP tax, however. All members between levels 1 and 24 paid twelve percent; members between 25 and 49 paid ten; members between 50 and 99, eight; and, finally, members over 100 paid only six. The tier system seemed counterintuitive, but the way we figured it, a lower tax on higher level characters would provide an extra incentive to join the Crimson Alliance.

Yep, everything was going smoothly until we got to the Faction Skills. Who would’ve thought the bureaucratic nitty-gritty would be the easy part?

“Grim Jack,” Otto said again, thumping a fist against the table to get my attention. “I don’t understand why you’re giving this any thought. The Battle-Craft option is clearly the best, so what are your reservations?”

I paused, fidgeted in my seat, then shrugged uncomfortably.

Sure, Battle-Craft seemed to offer the most obvious, tangible benefits to everyone in the group: Battle Prowess added additional attack damage, and Disciple’s Mind increased combat-related EXP earned by all faction members. Fleet-Footed added some significant movement bonuses, while Iron Skin granted increased elemental and physical resistances. There was also a skill called Dread Commander, which boosted troop morale and increased unit movement rate. Basically, if there was a skill or ability related to battle or fighting—including elemental and offensive magic—it could be beefed up through the Battle-Craft tree.

What’s more, everyone wanted the Battle-Craft option. Even Cutter agreed, which had to be one of the signs of the Apocalypse. But it just didn’t sit right with my gut, even if I couldn’t quite explain why.

“With those kinds of enhancements,” Otto steamrolled onward, his eyes distant and hazy as though envisioning the possibilities, “we could truly be a force to be reckoned with.” The others were nodding along.

“No,” I finally said, cutting him off as gently as possible.

“What do you mean, no?” Otto asked, voice flat but somehow chilly at the same time. “As a small force, we’ll need all the tactical advantages we can get, and the advantages offered in the Battle-Craft skill tree are too formidable to pass up. End of story.”

I blew my cheeks out and stood, letting out a groan as I stretched sore muscles. I began to pace the room—back and forth, back and forth, my boots making a soft thud, thud, thud as I moved. “I know the Battle-Craft tree looks awesome,” I replied, feeling the weight of everyone’s eyes settle on me. “Heck, it is awesome, no question. But I just don’t think it’s for us …” I faltered, trailed off.

“It’s okay, Jack,” Abby urged, before shooting Otto a hard look—just cool it. “You’ve done remarkably well,” she said after a second, “so just speak what’s on your mind. Thinking outside the box is never a bad thing.”

I cleared my throat and nervously rubbed my hands on the sides of my trousers. “It just doesn’t make sense,” I said after a beat. “I mean, it does and it doesn’t. For us personally, the Battle-Craft tree would be awesome, because those upgrades would make us better. But I’m not sure they make sense for us corporately. As a faction. In the long run, we’re not the only ones that are going to be in the faction, right?”

“Sure,” Cutter said evenly, rationally, “but honestly, what would we do with a bunch of crafting upgrades, eh? Or intelligence briefs and dignitary skills? None of those other skill sets work for us.”

For the first time in maybe ever, Cutter was actually talking sense, but I still felt sure that it was the wrong way to go.

“Us?” I swept a hand around the room, taking in our tiny crew. “You’re right, those skills aren’t favorable for us. I’m not a crafter, and neither are you, but what’s to stop us from attracting crafters?”

Amara squinted and cocked her head to the side. “But even if we could attract such people, why would we want to? To what end? We’re trying to prevent the empire from grinding us into dirt. How in the world are crafters, merchants, architects, or orators going to help us accomplish such a thing?”

“Silence,” the chief said, the word a sharp whip-crack of command. “Grim Jack did something no one else among our people could do—he slayed the Moss Hag. And he did so using his head. He is young, but he has wisdom. Let him speak his piece.” He gave me a sly, reassuring wink.

“Well, it’s like what you just said, Abby. About thinking outside the box. Us? We’re always going to be the underdogs, while Osmark and his guys are always going to be the dominant force. They’re always going to have the upper hand—more power, more money, more alliance members—and the Battle-Craft school seems to cater to a faction with significant numbers. Like it’s meant for an army that can wage a big, frontal-assault-style war. Or maybe for a faction that specializes in large group raids. That kind of thing.”

“Geared toward a war of attrition,” Otto said, nodding slowly.

“Exactly,” I replied. “If we ever have to face Osmark on the open field of battle—army against army—we’re totally screwed. We can’t beat them that way.” I moved back over to my seat and plopped down with a sigh, feeling incredibly tired. “If we specialize in Battle-Craft, we’re going to be throwing points into a faction build we can’t win as. Abby”—I locked eyes with her—“if you were playing a game of D&D and you rolled a character with no strength and minimal constitution, would you ever pick a warrior class? No, you’d pick a class that complements their abilities. We need to do the same thing. We’re small, so we need to be sneaky and smart. We need to outthink these guys, not necessarily outfight them.”

“Okay, okay,” Cutter said, raising his hands in protest. “Let’s suppose for a moment that I sorta see your arse-backwards point—I still don’t understand how getting these other skill sets is going to help us survive what’s coming our way. This is a war against the entire bloody might of the empire. The High Commander of the Imperial Inquisitors is personally coming for us.”

“Well, here’s something to consider,” I said. “A lot of the travelers migrating to this world are going to be older people, unfamiliar with a place like Eldgard. Those travelers, they’re not going to want to run around the countryside killing monsters and raiding dungeons—especially not since the gods and goddesses running this show help nudge people toward their class based on what kind of personality they have. That means a lot of those folks are going to end up as architects and alchemists and blacksmiths, and if we invest in skills that benefit them, we’ll attract travelers who’ll have fresh ideas and interesting skill sets.”

“Yeah,” Abby said with a devilish grin. “The battle skills are all good, but they’re obvious. Who knows what kind of crazy-awesome abilities a master architect might have? Or a brilliant alchemist. You’re basically saying, since we can’t win traditionally, let’s gamble on the unknown.”

“Yeah,” I said with a wince. When put that way, it sounded a bit reckless, but what choice did we really have?

“Gawh.” Cutter threw his hands up in the air. “Fine. Whatever. You’re hopeless. Utterly hopeless. The whole bloody lot of you. But I don’t have anywhere else to go, so I guess I’m in.”

“What about the rest of you?” I asked, glancing at Amara, Chief Kolle, and Otto in turn.

“This choice seems strange to me,” Otto admitted with a shrug. “But perhaps there is wisdom in it. If Mistress Abby”—he dipped his head at mention of her name—“approves, then I will reserve my judgment for the time being.”

“I feel as the warrior does,” Amara added, face a sour grimace. “This feels backwards, but you are the Faction Chief, and in the end, this is your decision to make, so I will follow where you lead in this.”

I smiled and rubbed my palms together. “Good,” I said, “now let’s bring up the skill trees on the main display.” A wavering green wall of light formed in the air above the emerald crystal globe at the table’s center. First, we pored over the Merchant-Craft Tree:

We spent a solid hour examining and discussing the potential merits of each item in turn, making sure everyone had an opportunity to weigh in, before finally pulling up the State-Craft Skill tree on the main display:

Once more, we explored the options available to us, trying to decide what we should invest our very limited and hugely valuable points into. Finally, after yet another exhausting hour of back and forth arguing, we settled on our first six skills. There were so many cool goodies in the Merchant Tree—Barter, Investor, Entrepreneur, Caravan, and Fence basically amounted to a license to print money—but since we were specifically interested in attracting Crafters and potential innovators, we selected three skills from the Artisan path:

<<<>>>

Faction Ability: Artisan

Though adventurers may have the more glamorous calling, Artisans make up the backbone of Eldgard’s society. More likely to be found in a bakery or smithy than crawling through a dungeon, Artisans are the creators, builders, and workers of Eldgard.

Faction Ability Type/Level: Passive / Max Level

Cost: N/A

Effect 1: Durability to all crafted items increased by 15%.

Effect 2: Increases all magical and stat effects on crafted items by 20%.

Effect 3: The effectiveness of all potions, food, and other consumable items increased by 20%.

<<<>>>

Faction Ability: Industrious

In the production industry, efficiency is one of the fundamental keys to success. With the Industrious ability, Crafters can drastically increase their overall productivity, and master new skills more quickly!

Faction Ability Type/Level: Passive / Max Level

Cost: N/A

Effect 1: Gatherers procure 18% more material per hour.

Effect 2: Production time for all crafted items—including potions, armaments, and even buildings—is reduced by 15%.

Effect 3: EXP for all Gathering and Crafting Professions increased by 10%.

<<<>>>

Faction Ability: Frugal

Any savvy entrepreneur knows lowering production costs increases revenue—after all, the lower the overhead, the greater the profit margin! With the Frugal ability, all faction members can drastically reduce the cost of crafting objects, including infrastructure.

Faction Ability Type/Level: Passive / Max Level

Cost: N/A

Effect 1: Production costs (coin, ore, lumber, and all other gathered ingredients) are decreased for all Professions by 18%.

Effect 2: Buildings cost 15% less to construct, including structures at the Faction Keep.

<<<>>>

Although none of those abilities necessarily fit into my own skill set, I fervently hoped they’d lure in some of Eldgard’s finest talent. And if I was wrong … well, that wasn’t worth thinking about. We had a game plan, and as risky as it seemed, we just needed to stick with it and see it through to the end, for better or worse. With the last three points, we added a trio of abilities from the State-Craft Skill Tree to our ever-expanding list:

<<<>>>

Faction Ability: Dignitary

Eldgard can be a hard, unforgiving land where everyone is looking out for their own best interests. Dignitaries, however, carry themselves with a natural ease and confidence, which endears them to everyone they meet.

Faction Ability Type/Level: Passive / Max Level

Cost: None

Effect 1: Increase reputation with all neutral and friendly factions by one level.

Effect 2: 10% improved favorability when buying from or selling to friendly merchants.

Effect 3: 12% improved chance to receive unique and rare quests from friendly factions and citizens. Additionally, merchants will be more likely to stock and display “secret” class-specific items.

Effect 4: Cast Anonymous once per day per (10) character levels. Anonymous allows faction members to pass unnoticed for (1) hour in a hostile faction territory.

Restriction: Anonymous will only work for players with an Unfriendly and Hostile reputation.

<<<>>>

Faction Ability: Recruitment

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend …” Recruit travelers, citizens, and even whole factions to your cause. Recruitment allows faction leaders and other faction officers to form intricate alliances with the other powers of Eldgard. With the Recruitment ability, your faction can officially create treaties with NPC factions, even those that may otherwise be hostile to you.

Faction Ability Type/Level: Passive / Max Level

Cost: N/A

Effect 1: Create treaties and form alliances with NPC-controlled factions.

<<<>>>

Faction Ability: Black Market

The Black Market is an auction house and a powerful tool for the outcasts and rogues of civilized society. It is a place for those looking to trade in illicit information, traffic in stolen goods, or hire black-hearted mercenaries … All for the right price, of course.

Faction Ability Type/Level: Passive / Max Level

Cost: N/A

Effect 1: All faction members receive a new Black Market tab in their user interface.

Effect 2: All faction members gain (15) merchant slots within the Black Market.

<<<>>>

It was creeping up on 3 AM by the time we finished, and everyone was bleary-eyed with exhaustion. I pulled the faction interface up one last time and froze. We had over eighteen thousand PMs waiting to be opened in our faction inbox. Probably, a good chunk of those were spam, threats, or people looking for freebies and handouts; eighteen thousand was still eighteen thousand, however. Thankfully, V.G.O.’s smart assistant would help filter out most of the junk, but even if only ten percent of those PMs were legit, that was 1,800 messages to wade through.

As if we didn’t already have enough on our plate. I simply shook my head and closed the interface.

There was still so much to do, but all that would just have to be a problem for another day. I was too worn out to do anything else tonight—not that I needed any more confirmation, but I was already sporting an Exhausted debuff, which slowed skill improvement, sapped carrying capacity, and decreased both Attack Damage and Spell Strength. My head also felt as foggy as a San Francisco morning in August.

“Alright,” I declared, “I’m calling it for tonight. We still need to decide what we’re going to do about Carrera and company, but everyone needs sleep first. How about we reconvene tomorrow morning at ten? We’ll meet here?”

Everyone agreed with muted, exhausted grunts, and before I knew it, I was shuffling my way toward my new private room, in desperate need of rest.

SIXTEEN: The End Has Come

An alarm blared in my ear. Brrp, Brrp, Brrp, Brrp. Breaking News!

I shot up, shaking my head as I glanced around wild eyed and disoriented, searching for the source of the noise. Everything was pitch dark, and even with my Night-Eye ability, I could hardly see a thing. I knocked aside a light blanket draped across me, then swung my legs out over the edge of my new bed … well, technically it was a couch. A really nice couch, but still a couch. Our new master suite sported a bed—a humongous California King, big enough to accommodate five or six people—but I wasn’t sure Abby was comfortable splitting the mattress with me. Not yet, anyway.

Besides, I was used to sleeping on a couch anyway—I had lots of long nights of gaming to thank for that.

The alarm sounded again. Brrp, Brrp, Brrp, Brrp. Breaking News! Breaking News! Breaking News!

The noise was inside my head. “Alarm off, lights on,” I commanded groggily. The noise died as wall-mounted torches burst to life, coating the room in rich, warm yellow light. The master suite was everything my old apartment hadn’t been: spacious, luxurious, and expensive. The floors were polished granite, covered in places with thick area rugs of deep gray. There was lots of gleaming chrome, fancy modern art, and dark wood; honestly, it looked like a professional interior designer—with more money than common sense—had been let loose with reckless abandon.

I felt like a stranger here. Like an intruder. This was the posh pad of a billionaire—not the dinky, run-down hovel of a lowly EMT. It was definitely going to take a while to get used to living in a swanky place like this.

The mahogany double doors leading into the bedroom swung open, and Abby scrambled out, clad in only a flimsy nightgown, her hair frazzled, a look of worry flashing across her face. “Something’s happening, Jack. Something big.” She plopped down next to me in a huff, then turned her attention toward a glittering crystalline slab hanging from the wall in front of me. The object, labeled as a [Far-Seeing Crystal], looked like a big-screen television, which was oddly anachronistic compared to everything else I’d run across in V.G.O. so far. “On,” she said with a faint wave of one hand.

A muted flash filled the air as the Far-Seeing Crystal blinked to life, confirming my sneaking suspicion. I was guessing that a giant, magic TV wasn’t a feature most of Eldgard’s residents had access to, but then, the Faction Seals, and the Keeps that came with them, weren’t exactly meant for regular people either.

“Bring up the BBC,” Abby called out.

The TV fizzled for a moment, before a pair of news anchors materialized on the crystalline screen. There was a middle-aged man with wavy blond hair and unnaturally white teeth wearing a smart blazer. Sitting next to him was a thin Asian woman with straight black hair and an immaculate silver blouse. Though the anchors had well-coiffed hair and neatly pressed clothes, there was also an air of exhaustion mingling with desperation about them. These were two people hanging on by a thread—a fraying thread, only a moment away from snapping.

“It is with a heavy heart that I must announce we have reached the end, ladies and gentlemen,” the man said solemnly. His slightly clipped British accent reminded me of Cutter. He paused and ran trembling fingers over a stack of papers sitting on the news desk in front of him, adjusting and readjusting them, before clearing his throat.

“Despite the admirable efforts of our brightest minds,” he continued, “we have failed to split or divert the incoming asteroid. And so, we find ourselves on the verge of a catastrophe unseen since the extinction of the dinosaurs—a disaster the likes of which mankind has never known. With less than ten minutes to go, there is nothing left but to hold tightly to those we love and brace for impact. In preparation for the coming cataclysm, Lydia will now run through a rough simulation of what we can expect over the next minutes, hours, and days. Lydia?”

The camera panned to the Asian woman, Lydia, who now stood in front of a state-of-the-art holotable. “Thank you, John,” she said, her voice surprisingly pert for the end of the world. “Based on new information collected from the radio telescope in Arecibo, Puerto Rico, we believe Astraea will land somewhere in Central America or the Gulf of Mexico.” The holotable flared to life, and suddenly a perfectly rendered globe hung suspended in the air. With a few deft flicks of her hands, the globe shimmered and changed, until an enlarged view of Central America hovered in the air.

“Though the asteroid will likely land in water,” she said smoothly, professionally, “our experts have said this will make no difference.” Another flick of the wrist. Now the view of Central America was replaced by a giant hunk of rock and ice slicing through the dark expanse of space like a colossal bullet, aimed straight at the suspended Earth. “Astraea is traveling at approximately two hundred thousand kilometers an hour—or one hundred and twenty-five thousand miles per hour for our American viewers—and because of its immense size, Earth’s atmosphere will have a negligible effect on its incredible velocity.

“The asteroid will breach our atmosphere and will explode with the equivalent force of one hundred million megatons of TNT.” The holographically rendered asteroid collided into the projected Earth, and suddenly a mushroom cloud of water and fire and dirt exploded into low orbit. “Anyone within two thousand five hundred kilometers, or one thousand five hundred miles, of the impact site will likely be killed within seconds, which is devastating news for those living in coastal and southern areas of the United States. Shortly after impact, an EMP—or electric magnetic pulse—will erupt, destroying all technology not properly protected and causing world-wide blackouts. At that time, our station will likely go off air.”

She paused, took a deep breath, then tucked an imaginary strand of hair behind her ear. For the first time, there was a crack in her professional veneer. Although I couldn’t properly tell, it almost looked like unshed tears lingered just beneath her eyes.

“Now, if you live on the other side of the globe,” she finally soldiered on, her voice schooled to neutrality, “you will likely survive the impact. With that said, it’s very important you remain inside for as long as possible. Within twelve hours, the colossal amount of debris from the initial impact will start falling back through the atmosphere. Huge chunks of burning rock will rain down in a barrage of fiery hail that will destroy many major urban centers.” She spun one hand, and suddenly, in a horrific and spectacular display, the sky-bound debris on the holotable began falling, returning to Earth in a rain of burning rock and ash, peppering the surface like a barrage of artillery fire.

Abby scooted next to me until our thighs were touching and laced her fingers through mine. Her palm was clammy, slick, and trembling.

The news anchor, Lydia, seemed to crack a little more. She reached up and obliterated a lone tear, which had broken loose and run down her cheek. “Moreover,” she said, a slight quiver to the word, “the finer particulates will create a burning, suffocating cloud, which will choke out much of the life on the surface.” Once more, the hologram changed: the whole surface of the Earth was carpeted in rolling fire until it blazed like the sun.

“This burning cloud cover will hang overhead for a long time—perhaps as long as a week—and, as a result, the surface temperature will swell to well over one hundred and ten degrees Celsius. At such extreme temperatures, many forests and homes will spontaneously ignite, and even exposed water will begin to boil. It is imperative that you stay in shelter for at least a week, or longer if you are able.” Suddenly, her eyes bulged, tears leaking out wholesale, and the camera swiveled away from her, back to the male anchor.

“Well, we’ve just received a confirmation from NASA,” he said. “One minute and counting until impact.” A countdown timer appeared in the corner of the screen, making a mad sprint for zero. I could hear the anchorwoman crying softly in the background. “Good luck and Godspeed.” The anchor crossed himself before reverently bowing his head. “It’s truly been a pleasure and an honor to bring you the news.”

At seven seconds, the crystal screen went black, followed by a burst of static.

And that was it.

The end of the world.

My apartment was gone. My earthly remains and belongs incinerated. My neighbors and coworkers likely dead. My parents lived in Maine, so they probably had a little time left. Maybe.

Abby turned into me, flinging her arms around me, pulling me into a tight hug as she broke down into a racking sob. Crying seemed like the appropriate response, but I just felt numb—the whole moment was surreal and unbelievable. It seemed like a bad dream I’d surely wake up from, except I wasn’t waking up. I wouldn’t ever wake up. I wrapped my arms around Abby and pulled her into me, rubbing one hand along her back, but saying nothing. Because there was nothing to say. What words could I possibly offer in the face of the end of everything? No trite platitude would suffice in this moment.

We sat that way, listening to the static stream in from the screen for at least half an hour or more. It was the abrupt ping of a universal notification that finally drew us out of our silent grief:

<<<>>>

Viridian Gate Online Universal Alert!

Notice: Traveler Robert Osmark has founded a faction in Viridian Gate Online! Any traveler of the Viridian Empire may now request to join Robert Osmark’s faction, the Ever-Victorious Empire, bound to the Imperial city of New Viridia, the seat of power of the Viridian Empire in Eldgard.

Notice: Traveler Robert Osmark has been crowned Emperor of the Viridian Empire!

Notice: Joining the Ever-Victorious Empire instantly lowers a player’s relationship with all Rebel-aligned factions to Unfriendly. Joining the Ever-Victorious Empire instantly raises a player’s relationship with all Imperial-aligned factions to Friendly. Joining the Ever-Victorious Empire entitles members to all Ever-Victorious Empire Faction buffs.

Notice: Emperor Robert Osmark is now an exalted enemy of the Eldgard Rebellion!

<<<>>>

I stared at the notice in uncomprehending bewilderment. What? Seriously, what kind of absolute bullshit is this? A Universal Message popped up a second later, only increasing my confusion:

<<<>>>

Universal Message from the Viridian Emperor

Today is a tragic day, one that will be scorched into our collective memory for as long as we live. All of us have suffered great loss: friends, family members, coworkers, our way of life. No one is unaffected by this awful and unavoidable catastrophe—everyone watching this has my deepest condolences. Now, as you have already seen, I’ve crowned myself Emperor, and though many of you may think such an act is callous or coldhearted, I’m here to tell you that I’m doing it with a heavy heart and with the best of intentions.

In the face of such terrible grief, rage and anger are common responses. In the face of this type of tragedy, people often react violently, as we all experienced firsthand from the riots and looting which have plagued our cities and streets over the past several weeks. In order to avoid a similar situation here, we need to have a strong, stable hand at the helm of the ship, guiding us into the calm, clear waters of prosperity and peace. I intend to be that hand.

Now is not the time for fighting or squabbling. Now is a time for rationality and unity to prevail despite overwhelming grief. So, for the sake of us all, my word is now law, and any acts of rioting or lawlessness—including defection to the Eldgard Rebellion and overt disobedience—will be dealt with swiftly and harshly. Please know I don’t relish this, but it is a necessary stopgap measure until we can come up with a better system.

With Sincerest Condolences,

Robert Osmark, High Emperor of the Viridian Empire

<<<>>>

I read the message, and in seconds my bewilderment morphed into something new. Rage. This guy hadn’t waited a single day after the death of the Earth to declare himself the new Emperor of V.G.O. Sure, some part of me wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt—establishing an authority in the aftermath of this catastrophe was probably good, I told myself. Except it felt like an awful lie in my own ears, and then the rage was back, stronger than ever. I’ve never been a violent man, but at that moment, all I wanted was to cave Robert Osmark’s head in with my warhammer and smash his teeth out one by one.

My anger was quickly compounded as another Universal Alert popped up—this one declaring that Traveler Aleixo Carrera, the High Commander of the Imperial Inquisitors, had founded an Imperial-aligned faction in Rowanheath called the Knights of Holy Light.

And it didn’t stop there. More alerts followed, one right after another—all universal notifications declaring that various travelers had founded factions. The Black Legion in Harrowick. The Ancient Ones in Alaunhylles. The Arch-Masons in Stone Reach. Liberty Crossing in Glome Corrie. On and on they went, notification after notification lighting up my vision. Counting Osmark and Carrera, there were twenty-five in total, all of them with Imperial allegiances. Twenty-five.

A new message hit my personal inbox:

<<<>>>

Personal Message:

As you can see, the forces arrayed against you are vast. You are a nobody. A loser with zero ambitions and no redeeming qualities. At best, you are a child playing in a world you do not understand. We have generals, spies, assassins, and politicians at our disposal. It’s only a matter of time before we obliterate you completely—you now have a day and a half to turn yourself in.

—High Commander Carrera

<<<>>>

SEVENTEEN: Strategy

Part of me still felt numb from the weight of everything that’d happened in the last hour, another big part of me felt supremely depressed. Abby had warned me about how dangerous it would be to get involved in this shady affair, but I hadn’t really believed her. Not in my heart. But now I had a genuine inkling of just how big this conspiracy actually was, and suddenly I felt like a gnat fighting against the pull of a whipping sandstorm. Everything felt hopeless: Earth dead. My family gone. V.G.O.—the place which was supposed to offer a port of safety—on the verge of tyranny.

But I roughly shoved away the depression and the shock threatening to bludgeon me into submission. As much as I wanted to go crawl into the monstrous California King, hide beneath the thick blankets, and sleep for the next year, I knew those feelings weren’t helpful. So instead, I latched on to the ember of anger burning in my soul. Who do these people think they are? What gives them the right to do this? To declare themselves our rulers? To pretend this is for the best against our say? I stoked the fire, fanning it higher and higher until I couldn’t sense the depression or sorrow through the red-hot rage surging through me.

I turned to Abby. Her skin was sickly pale and fat tear tracks ran down each cheek. “We’re so screwed, Jack,” she whimpered, drawing into me.

“No,” I said, pulling away from her, holding her at arm’s length. “No, we’re not. And this”—I reached up and wiped away her tears with a thumb—“this isn’t you. You’re not a weepy damsel in distress, Abby. You’re tough. We’re tough. Plus we’re smart, we’ve got a good crew, and we even have the blessing of an Overmind. These jerks aren’t indestructible, Abby. They think they are, but that’ll be their downfall.

“Sure,” I said, “we can’t take them in a straight-up fight, but we already knew that. We just need to keep cool and think our way around this. Nothing’s changed. Not really.” I pulled up my interface and noted the time—8:37 AM. “We’ve still got a little over an hour before we’re supposed to meet with everyone else. I say we head up early and work out a plan. Something to keep our minds off ...” I trailed off, refusing to say it: To keep our minds off the Armageddon. Off of all the people who just died.

“Yeah, okay,” she said with a sniffle, running her clammy hands over her nightgown. “Yeah,” she said again, this time a bit more confidently, “we just need to think smart. We need to think like gamers—that’s our big advantage. Let’s do it.”

We scrambled to our feet, threw on our clothes and armor, and left for the command tower, brainstorming the whole while. By the time the others started trickling in around ten to ten, Abby and I had come up with a solid game plan. One that would catch everyone off guard.

Hopefully.

“Okay, everyone,” I said as the last person—Cutter, obviously—made his way into the council room and took his seat. “As you all probably know by now, our enemies have founded a whole bunch of factions, and for the time being we’re going to be their number one target, so we won’t have much time to act.”

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” Cutter said, sounding much more morose than his typical self, “but I don’t see how we’re going to walk away from this.” He eyed everyone in turn. “I’m a bit of a gambling man, and these are the worst odds I’ve ever seen. Even if we can somehow rally all of the Rebellion behind us, I’d still say we’re screwed. As much as I’m loath to give this place up, maybe we should all consider jumping ship. Might be the only way we survive this mess.”

“No, Cutter,” I said with a shake of my head. “We can’t run from this. These people, they won’t stop until they find us and end us. Besides, even if we could run, I still wouldn’t. Maybe we aren’t the best people to lead a rebellion, but we’re the only people who have a shot at it. If we run, what kind of world are we going to leave behind? Back where I come from, freedom—the right to say what you want, to think how you want, to pursue the things that make you happy—is something worth fighting for. My dad, he was a Marine. I don’t agree with a lot of the things he said or did, but he fought to defend those truths, and on that I agree with him. We need to win, because there’s no other option.”

“Well said,” Otto grunted in approval, “but fanciful words won’t break the empire’s back. Hope may keep us going, but it isn’t enough to earn our freedom. So, what exactly are you proposing?”

“We’re going to start a preemptive war,” Abby replied, stone-faced. “We’re going to capture Rowanheath. Steal it right from beneath Carrera’s fat nose. We can’t afford to just hole up here and ride out a siege—the empire will grind us to dust with their numbers. But if we can keep them on their toes, they’ll be too busy looking to their own borders to mess with ours.”

A heavy, uneasy silence fell over the chamber.

“Even if we can do such a thing, which I am skeptical of,” Amara said, breaking the quiet, “what purpose would it serve? Even if we take one city, they still have a far greater force than we do.”

“That’s true,” I replied, holding up a hand to fend off the barrage of questions, “but it would buy us a lot of time to come up with a better game plan. First, Rowanheath is the closest Imperial city to us, so if they’re going to stage a massive invasion, that’s where they’re going to do it. If we can take it, then they’ll have to travel significantly further to get at us. Second, if we do manage to take the city, we’ll displace Carrera, which is a huge bonus, plus it’ll show the empire we have teeth—that they can’t just steamroll over us like a bunch of lowbies. And lastly, a victory like that is exactly what we need to rally support from the Rebellion.”

“Okay, let me see if I have this right,” Cutter said, leaning forward and stretching his hands out across the table. “We’re going to do a bit of sleight of hand, and distract the empire by capturing Rowanheath—the Wode Stronghold of the South?”

“Yep,” I replied. “Basically.”

“What?!” He slapped his hands against the table, the sharp thump echoing around the room. “Am I the only one who’s actually listening to this nonsense? This is crazy. How are we”—he swept a hand around the room—“going to take Rowanheath? Rowanheath withstood a full-scale siege for four months before falling, and I should know since I was there. How are we going to do in one day, with a handful of men, what the bloody empire barely managed to do, eh? It’s impossible.” He frowned, slumped back in his chair, and folded his arms as though to say that’s the end of discussion.

“Nope,” I said, pulling the Shadow Cannon schematics from my bag. “Not impossible. Just tricky. And we’re going to be very busy because I want to attack tomorrow at sunset. That’s when Carrera expects me to turn myself in, and I want to show up at his doorstep with an army and some nasty weapons.”

The chief looked at the plan and frowned. “I’m not sure what you’re thinking of doing, but these cannons”—he reached forward and drew the schematics toward him—“will never allow us to breach Rowanheath’s walls. They simply aren’t powerful enough.”

I smiled and shook my head. “That’s okay. We’re not really going to try to take the city by siege. All we need to do is capture the Command Center of the Rowanheath Keep. If we can do that, we can make the city’s defenses work for us. But those”—I jabbed a finger at the plans—“are going to help us do it. They’re going to serve as our major distraction. When Carrera dispatches the main body of his troops to defend the front wall, we’re going to sneak in and stab him in the back.” I paused, looking at the plans. “We’re going to need to find some engineers, though. Someone who can modify these schematics so we can make these weapons mobile.”

“But there’s an inner wall defending the Keep as well,” Cutter objected, “and even if you divert most of his forces to the main wall, you’ll never get through the inner wall’s gate. Not without siege weapons, and scaling the damned thing is impossible.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” I said, pointing a cocked finger at him.

“Alright, you cheeky bastard,” he replied with a grin, eyes squinted in suspicion. “You’ve piqued my curiosity—I’m all ears.”

“Good,” I said as I pulled up my interface and started scrolling through my notes. “Now here’s what we need to get done. Abby is going to start wading through all the PMs the faction received yesterday—try to release some sort of universal reply to separate the wheat from the chaff. Her focus is going to be on recruiting.” I glanced around the room. “She’s going to get us every engineer and miner she can find. We need to get the mines open, these cannons built, and the defenses as operational as possible.” I cleared my throat and turned my gaze to the chief. “Chief, is it possible for you to contact the Dark Conclave on our behalf?”

He frowned, then nodded slowly. “It is not typical, but since you are a member in good standing—even if low-ranked—I will do so. What would you have me tell them?”

“I’m not expecting them to fight for us, but can you have them put out the word that we’re looking for any Maa-Tál that might be willing to join our faction, especially other Shadowmancers? Oh, and please speak to the villagers—if they join up, it’ll give them a bunch of great buffs, which will allow us to get those fortifications done much faster.”

“Consider it done,” he said tersely, a troubled look flashing across his face.

“Now, Otto, I need you and Amara to work with the town guard. Hopefully, it won’t come to a siege, but it’d be stupid not to prepare for it. So I want you guys going over every inch of the fortifications, start working out a watch rotation, and then see to equipping the townsfolk. Just forward any expense requests to Abby. She’ll see you have the money you need for gear and supplies—within reason, obviously.”

“Cutter,” I said, rounding on the thief, “we’re also going to need to hire some mercenaries—Summoners and Stealth types would be best, but I’ll take whatever I can get. I’m thinking you could use our new Black Market skill to get in touch with that merc Warlock we met in the restricted area, and go from there?”

“I can get us a squad of mostly reliable mercs, assuming you’ll front the gold to pay for ’em. But you still haven’t told me how you plan to get past the inner wall.”

“You’re going to help with that too,” I replied. “We need the Rowanheath smugglers. We’re going to move a small squad, let’s say twenty people, through unnoticed. Don’t suppose you could help us out there, could you?”

“Might be I know a guy.” He pulled a dagger free, then absently cleaned his fingernails with the gleaming tip. “But those sewers will only take us into the city,” he said, cocking an eyebrow at me, “not into the Keep.”

“Yeah, I figured as much,” I replied with a nod, before letting out a deep sigh. “That’s why I’m going to go recruit our way over the inner wall—I’m gonna try and strike a deal with the Spider Queen.”

EIGHTEEN: Worthy Foe

I smashed in the head of yet another [Feral Bog Wolf], watching the mangy creature crumple to the ground, dead and bloody. I eyed the small clearing, counting my victims—five total—before wiping the blood spatter from my cheek with a grimy hand. I planted my hammer into the loamy earth and leaned against it, fighting to catch my breath as I pulled up my user interface. The Spider Queen—known locally as Lowyth the Immortal Orbweaver—and her nightmare brood of spiderkin weren’t much further now, which was good because I was already exhausted and it was only an hour past noon.

It’d taken me a couple of hours to carve my way through the forest to the edge of her territory, and the forest mobs hadn’t made the trek easy. This was the first time I’d ventured out since gaining my four new levels from founding the Crimson Alliance, and I idly wondered if the game was now spawning tougher mobs for me to kill—the Overminds were certainly smart enough to do so. I closed out of my interface and looted the lupine corpses, earning myself some pelts and a handful of silver, before heading off into the deeper bush. I pushed and shoved my way through a tangle of thick vegetation and caught the sound of a babbling brook a moment later.

I grinned, feeling a sudden sense of relief mixed with white-knuckled trepidation. That stream ran from north to south for miles and miles and acted as a natural boundary between the Ak-Hani-controlled territory and the hunting grounds of the giant arachnoids of Hellweb Hollow. Once I crossed that little body of water, I’d be committed to this plan, and if things went poorly, I’d be sent for respawn in a eyeblink. At least I hoped it would be an eyeblink—the Spider Queen was well known for cocooning people alive and draining them slowly over the course of several weeks.

With a deep breath, I leapt over the meandering, unobtrusive stream and made my way deeper into the swampy marsh, avoiding fetid puddles of water and the constant tangle of vines. On this side of the stream, the jungle was strangely quiet—no chirping birds or chittering squirrels, not even the constant drone of buzzing insects. Nope, just the dull thud of my footfalls on damp earth, occasionally interrupted by a leaf crunching or twig snapping. As I got closer to the Hollow, however, I began to hear a soft but persistent rustle, an unnerving sound like two pieces of sandpaper rubbing together.

Scritch-scratch, scritch-scratch, scritch-scratch, over and over again.

The awful, low-pitched noise sent chills racing along my spine, despite the humid swamp heat. From personal experience, I knew the unnerving sound was actually unseen spiderkin rubbing their hairy legs together like a horde of massive, nightmare crickets. Crickets that would slurp out my insides if they caught me. I pushed away the awful thoughts racing through my head; at this point I couldn’t really afford to doubt or second-guess myself. I took a few deep, calming breaths, then checked my user interface and readjusted my course so I was heading straight for the Queen’s lair.

I closed the menu and headed on, confident this was the right move. The only move.

The dry rustling became louder and more insistent as I drew closer and closer to the Hollow. Before long, gauzy silver webbing began cropping up behind me, ensuring I couldn’t turn and flee the way I’d come. I also began to catch glimpses of movement at the edge of my vision—a multi-jointed leg here, a bulbous belly there, or occasionally the glint of a curved fang. Whenever I spun to catch the creature, though, the forest was always empty and quiet, save for the ever-present rustle of legs. The spiderkin were herding me like a steer headed for the slaughterhouse.

An odd sense of déjà vu settled over me as I walked.

They’d done this same thing to Cutter and me the first time we’d blundered through here, so it shouldn’t have been quite so disturbing. But it was disturbing. Part of me wished I had Cutter along, but I knew this was something I needed to do alone. There was a good chance this whole endeavor would go sideways, and I wasn’t willing to risk an NPC on such a foolhardy gamble. It was a gamble someone needed to take, though. If we were going to capture Rowanheath, we’d need to breach the inner wall surrounding the Keep, and to do that, we’d need the Queen and her disgusting children. End of story.

I just hope my new Recruitment ability worked the way I thought it did—

I paused mid-step as a spiderkin scuttled boldly into view, blocking my path. More of the creatures scuttled through the trees to either side, while several appeared from the canopy overhead, dangling above me on fat cords of spider silk. They had me boxed in nice and tight. I wasn’t sure I could kill so many of them, but with my Shadow Stride ability, I was reasonably sure I could escape if it came down to it. But I wasn’t here to fight, I reminded myself, not if I could help it. Besides, the spiderkin weren’t attacking, so maybe there was some hope yet.

After a few tense heartbeats, the spiders lifted their front legs into the air and began to wave them back and forth, huge limbs swaying like long grass in a stiff breeze.

I turned in a slow circle, trying to figure out what they were up to. I didn’t have a clue. After another second, they lifted arachnoid faces to the sky—their spidery jaws stretched wide—and began to speak.

“The troublesome fly returns,” the spiderkin said as one, their voices crooning at me from every side. “Do not be disturbed by this method of communication,” the spiders said, voices buzzing like an electric saw. “My children are all linked to my mind, and at times I choose to speak through them.”

“So this is the Queen I’m talking to?” I said, trying to sound calm and confident instead of nervous, bordering on terrified.

“Just so,” the spiders droned in reply. “Last time you visited us, you brought us an honored enemy—one that very nearly killed me. So this time, I thought it prudent to stop you before you blundered into my lair.”

“I’ve come to talk,” I said, slipping my warhammer into the frog at my belt and raising empty hands toward the sky. “I mean you no harm at all. Exactly the opposite, actually. I’ve recently formed a faction—the Crimson Alliance—and I’d like to discuss the potential terms of a peace treaty.”

“So you’re Grim Jack,” the spiderkin said, sounding almost thoughtful. “I saw the Universal Alert, as did all citizens and creatures of Eldgard, but I hadn’t yet put a face to the name. What an enigma you are, troublesome fly. But what pray tell makes you think I’d like to bargain with you and your kind in the first place? The Shadow Children across the stream are my enemies—enemies who have hunted my children for as far as memory stretches. Yet you would have me strike a truce with them? What makes you think I wouldn’t rather just eat you now?”

The spiderkin around me began to scuttle in, tightening the circle around me like a noose. Those raised, waving front legs were almost close enough to reach out and touch, and there was no direction I could move in without running right into another set of hairy legs or dull black eyes. I paused, licking my dry lips, working a little moisture into them.

“You let me go after the battle with the Moss Hag,” I said, a slight waver in my words. “You could’ve eaten me then, but you didn’t. That means you can be reasoned with. You’re not just some monster, and I think if you hear me out, you’ll see this deal will benefit you and yours as much or more than it will benefit me and mine. Sure, you could eat me here and now, but if you make a treaty with me, I can promise you enough human meat to feed your brood for a decade.”

The spiderkin stopped their slow-moving onslaught. “Human meat,” the spiders hissed, their fangs dripping with viscous strands of green drool. “We do so love the taste of man-flesh.” A long thoughtful pause followed. “I am intrigued enough to hear you out, troublesome fly.” A flood of sweet relief washed through my body like a wave at high tide. Oh my God, it worked.

“But first,” the spiderkin said, “a little test. We are predators, and we don’t make deals with prey.” The word sounded like a curse. “Prove yourself worthy and I’ll hear out the terms of your compact, though that is no guarantee of peace between us.” An alert popped up:

<<<>>>

Quest Alert: Worthy Foe

Prove your worth as a predator and worthy foe by successfully battling your way to the Royal Throne Room of Lowyth the Immortal Orbweaver. If you can overcome her legion of minions, you’ll earn the right to an audience.

Quest Class: Rare, Faction-Based

Quest Difficulty: Infernal

Success: Battle your way to the Royal Throne Room of the Spider Queen.

Failure: Die before reaching the Royal Throne Room.

Reward: Audience with the Spider Queen.

Accept: Yes/No?

<<<>>>

I read over the quest, feeling just a tad queasy at the “Infernal” difficulty level, but accepted it all the same. What else could I possibly do?

The second I selected yes, a terrible screech reverberated through the forest as the spiderkin burst into manic motion, rushing at me from all sides. I dismissed the quest screen in a blink, then fished my warhammer from my belt just as one of the spiderkin lunged for me, its venom-coated fangs flashing out. I threw myself into a hasty dive and rolled back to my feet in a single fluid motion—remembering Cutter’s training, which felt like a lifetime ago—before pivoting and smashing my hammer into the creature’s exposed side.

The first blow punched a nasty hole in its abdomen, and a quick follow-up put the creature down for keeps. I offered the dying creature a fierce smile before spinning to engage another brown-legged monster. I blasted this one in the face with an Umbra Bolt, which sheared through the creature’s skull like a laser blast, knocking off three-quarters of its hit points, leaving it reeling drunkenly on its many legs. I thrust the spiked tip of my hammer right into the creature’s fanged maw and killed it in a flash. The last time I’d tangled with spiderkin, I’d been seven levels lower and I hadn’t even managed to unlock my class.

This was a downright cakewalk.

I spun, twirling my hammer in an overhead arch before one-shotting another spider as I triggered Savage Blow, which earned me a critical hit. These things really were a breeze—at least individually—but more and more were pouring in every second, and I was beginning to worry they’d simply overwhelm me before long. Even easy mobs in big enough numbers are a threat. I dropped to a knee and rolled left, avoiding a spider descending from the trees above, then triggered Shadow Stride with a burst of inky power. The horde of advancing spiderkin came to a herky-jerky halt all around me, frozen in place like horrific monster-movie props.

I blew out a quick breath, then quickly legged it through the jungle, sprinting as fast as my Stamina would allow while I kept one eye on the Shadow Stride countdown timer spinning away in the corner of my vision. I ducked under low hanging vines, hurdled moldering tree trunks, and leapt over pools of water, fighting to put as much distance between me and the horde as possible. My countdown timer flashed right before time came crashing back down on me, accompanied by the enraged screeches of an army of spiders off in the distance. I had a forty-five second cooldown on Shadow Stride, so I crossed my fingers and dropped into Stealth.

The deep shadows of the jungle reached out and embraced me, swallowing me whole as I vanished from sight. Safe for now.

I carefully wound my way through the warren of trees and jungle growth to the edge of a giant clearing, marked on my interface map as the Hellweb Hollow. My destination. The meadow was ringed by towering old-growth trees, and in its center sat an enormous concave pit, covered in gauzy webbing: the entrance to the Queen’s lair. I’d half expected to see the monstrous matriarch waiting patiently for me, but she was absent, biding her time below, no doubt. There were a lot of spiders, though. Fifty or more, loitering about, guarding the entrance against uninvited guests.

My Shadow Stride ability had finally recharged, but I decided to try and Stealth my way past them instead—I could always trigger Shadow Stride if things went south. I took a few deep breaths, then stole forward, moving in a low crouch toward the yawning hole, as big around as a subway tunnel. I held my breath the whole way, terrified that even the slightest noise would bring every spider crashing down on my head in an avalanche of legs, hair, and fangs.

Five feet out, I stopped dead in my tracks as a huge spider—this one muted gray in color, which was new—rappelled down from the trees and settled near the entrance of the pit. The creature, close enough to reach out and poke, turned its ugly face directly toward me and seemed to stare at me. Great beads of nervous sweat rolled down my face as I waited for the spider’s war cry to go up. But it never did. After a few seconds, the creature simply turned away and scampered toward the clearing’s perimeter. I let out a silent, shuddering breath, then crept forward and slipped over the edge of the pit, lowering myself into darkness.

NINETEEN: Spider’s Lair

I dropped into a sloping tunnel, the walls were coated with gossamer webbing generously littered with leaves, twigs, and other bits of debris, including the bones of a few small animals. I expected to find the Royal Throne Room right away, but I was wrong. Instead, a circular passageway cut into the earth before snaking out of view. Still cloaked in Stealth, I crept onward, tentatively feeling my way along, on high alert for any potential traps or attackers. Once I rounded the bend, the sunlight died completely, swallowed by the dark, but odd glowing fungi lined the ceiling like a living carpet, shedding feeble light along the path.

After a few seconds, my Night Eye ability kicked on, giving everything a pale blue tint. Deeper I went. It didn’t take long before the first mobs appeared: a quartet of muddy-brown spiders scuttling toward me. They seemed oblivious to my presence, but between the four of them, they took up the entire passageway and would blunder right into me. Even with my Stealth abilities, there was simply no way to avoid them. No way around them. Looked like I’d have to do a bit more fighting, which actually didn’t bother me too much—after all, these things weren’t all that hard to kill, and I could use all the extra EXP I could get my hands on.

I pulled my warhammer free, planted my feet, then patiently waited for them to creep closer. I launched a Stealth attack as the first spiderkin entered my range—I put my full body weight into the swing, pretending the spiderkin’s misshapen head was a baseball. The blunt face of my weapon landed with a thud, earning me some significant backstab damage and a critical hit, which absolutely obliterated the creature’s skull in the process. The other three let out a chorus of angry screeches, but I was already moving before they could coordinate any sort of proper defense. I twirled through them like a tornado of flesh, steel, and shady magic: thrusting here, smashing there, unleashing an Umbra Bolt at a spiderkin trying to flee.

The whole encounter took a handful of seconds, and I barely felt winded. That was nice for a change, since most of the mobs I’d encountered so far hadn’t exactly been easy prey. I collected some shoddy loot—a Rusty Dagger (shoddy), a Copper Buckler, and a handful of silver coins—along with a bit of EXP before moving on.

It didn’t take long before I discovered this place wasn’t just a few dinky hallways with a handful of extra rooms; no, this place was a full-on dungeon—an impressive one with a seemingly endless number of twisting tunnelways. I also found plenty of mobs to battle. At first, it was just a bunch of the brown-haired spiderkin, which I quickly dispatched and looted, but those quickly gave way to chitinous, gray spiderkin called [Sword-Slayers], which moved like greased lightning and hit harder than Mack Trucks. Much, much tougher. And they were aptly named since their arachnoid legs were razor-blade sharp along the edges and ended in a stabbing point.

Eventually, the Sword-Slayers were replaced by sleek black spiders [Poison Darters], which were a bit smaller, but armed with some formidable toxic attacks—including the ability to launch a barrage of venom-slick fangs through the air like arrows. Much tougher and much smarter, but they also doled out significantly more EXP and loot. A few even dropped a gold mark, which wasn’t shabby at all. On and on it seemed to go: Poison Darters disappeared after a time, replaced by [Portal-Crawlers]—electric blue spiders that could teleport in an eyeblink—followed by [Colossal Spiderkin]. The name really said everything that needed to be said about them.

On the plus side, I managed to score a new ring—Ring of Leech Tongue, which granted me 25 points of life absorption per kill—and a sweet new cloak to replace the Rough-Worn Cloak of Stealth I was currently sporting:

<<<>>>

Cloak of Web-Walking

Weapon Type: Cloak

Class: Magical, Attire

Base Armor Rating: 12

Effect: 15% increased chance to avoid Movement Restricting Debuffs.

<<<>>>

I put both of those on without a second thought before moving on.

Eventually, the main passageway opened up into a labyrinth of interconnected tunnels and strange rooms filled with all sorts of bizarre stuff. One cavernous space contained a forest of oversized mushrooms, some as large as trees, in a hundred different varieties and a riot of hues: fire-hydrant red, sickly neon green, eye-burning electric blue. The whole room glowed with their spectral light. The gamer in me wanted to explore the area—there were undoubtedly some ultra-rare ingredients in there—but then I caught sight of a pair of bulging yellow eyes just before something enormous and studded with thick tentacles slipped out of sight.

Yeah. On second thought, I really needed to stick to the quest at hand, cool loot or no.

There were lots of rooms besides Fungus City. A few looked suspiciously like communal living spaces: the rocky walls were littered with honeycombed nooks and crannies, which seemed to serve as sleeping quarters for the monster bugs. There were also treasure rooms, filled with chests of gold and silver, and scattered with weapons and armor of all sorts. Those, I wanted to raid, and consequences be damned, but unfortunately they were also jam-packed with thick webbing and the forms of hulking spiders just waiting to attack like junkyard dogs.

I’d need a proper team to clear some of those areas. Another time, I scolded myself before moving on.

The most disconcerting room, though, was what could only be a combination meat locker and kitchen. Bodies—some human, most not—covered every surface. Many hung from the ceiling in silken sacs. Others were strapped to stalagmites and stalactites jutting from the ceiling and floor. Even more were stacked against the craggy walls like firewood, just waiting to be used up. Consumed. Looking at all of those bodies—and some were still clearly alive, judging by the way the sacs wriggled or swung—made me sick down to my core.

Is this really the right move?

Despite what I’d convinced myself of, these creatures were clearly monsters. Maybe intelligent monsters, but still monsters. Could I really justify striking a bargain with these things? And even if I did, how could I be sure that deal wouldn’t come back to bite me in the ass big-time later on? I didn’t have any good answers, but my mind instantly recalled the first line from the Recruitment skill description: “The enemy of my enemy is my friend …” Maybe the Spider Queen and her children would be a problem later on, but for now they might just keep me and my friends alive.

So, I pushed the awful thoughts from mind and left the horrific pantry behind, skirting around another bend, which terminated at the biggest cavern I’d seen yet. The place was easily the size of a football stadium. Impressive to say the least. Scattered across the floor and lined up against the walls were bulging egg sacs, filled with the shadowy forms of spiderkin. Eight-legged, nightmare babies waiting to be born. Directly in the center of the cavernous room sat a dilapidated pyramid of rough stone. Huge steps led up to a flat dais with an elaborately carved throne at its middle, and hanging above that—suspended by a thousand threads of silk from the ceiling—was a gigantic ball of webbing with a hole in the bottom.

The web-orb was at least thirty feet in diameter, but instead of silvery gauze, the whole thing was built from golden silk which glowed like an indoor sun. This place had to be the Royal Throne Room; it practically screamed “Spider Queen” at the top of its lungs. I took one tentative step forward, and a small platoon of purple spiders—their bodies studded with wicked barbs—materialized in the air before me. The things were at least twice the size of the brown-haired spiderkin from above and pulsed with a ghostly light, which reminded me of my own Umbra Bolt abilities.

I took one glance at their name and immediately felt sick to my stomach: [Umbra Crawlers]. Of course.

The Umbra Crawlers shot forward en masse, moving with astonishing speed for creatures their size. A flair of panic raced through me as I triggered my Shadow Stride skill on instinct. I didn’t need to kill these things to complete the quest—I just needed to get to the top of that dais—so I intended to run. Inky black smoke exploded out from me, swallowing me in a swirl of shadow, but something sticky and viscous splattered against my feet at the same instant. Panicked, I glanced down and saw great gobs of webbing pinning me in place, earning me a pair of combat notifications:

<<<>>>

Debuff Added

Snared: You have been snared by Web Vomit, slowing your movement by 50%; duration, 3 minutes.

<<<>>>

Shadow Stride failed! You’ve been snared and are unable to Shadow Stride until your movement is restored.

<<<>>>

The panic increased in intensity, turning into a bright, angry knot of fear in my stomach.

I launched an Umbra Bolt at an encroaching spider, but the attack glanced off its side with little effect, ricocheting harmlessly into the Throne Room beyond. With adrenaline coursing through me, I lashed out with my hammer, but something slammed into me from the side, tackling me to the ground. I landed badly, a flash of pain lancing through my body, and before I knew what was happening, one of the purple monsters was straddling me, its bloated abdomen throbbing and pulsing as it spewed more webbing over me, cocooning my legs together in quick, fluid motions, then moving up to my waist and hands.

I fought feebly, trying to wrestle my warhammer up so I could fight back.

The effort was futile, though—the thick webbing was like superglue, pinning my right hand uselessly against my body. My left hand was still free, though, so I slashed at the creature above me with my bladed gauntlet. The attack opened a nasty gash in its pulsating belly, spilling out gelatinous green gore that reeked like soiled meat and raw sewage. The creature chittered in protest but kept working tirelessly away, wrapping me up tighter and tighter. Mummifying me. In a last-ditch effort, I conjured Umbra Bog around me, hoping to slow down the other Umbra Crawlers, but that earned me another fail notification:

<<<>>>

Umbra Bog Failed! Umbra Crawlers resist Umbra Bog with the Web-Walker ability!

<<<>>>

Great. I went back to fruitlessly slashing at the creature with my lone gauntlet, but after another few seconds, even that option was taken from me as fine strands of gossamer bound my arm. The creature kept working, until only my head was left free. I continued to struggle, shaking myself back and forth, straining to break loose, but the cocoon was as snug as a straightjacket. There was no way I was getting out.

TWENTY: Wheeling and Dealing

“Relax, troublesome fly.” The words echoed around the cavernous room. “You fought valiantly, but I can’t allow you to get too close without some proper restraint. You’re very clever, after all, and perhaps you mean me ill will. If your deal is as good as you say, you have nothing to fear. If you have some trickery planned, though, you’d best prepare yourself for a very long and painful death.” A quest alert appeared as she fell silent:

<<<>>>

Quest Alert: Worthy Foe

Despite being captured, you’ve managed to reach the Royal Throne Room of Lowyth the Immortal Orbweaver alive, thus proving yourself to be a worthy foe and dangerous predator. In return for your valiant endeavor, you’ve earned a begrudging audience with the Spider Matriarch! Because you possess the “Blessing of the Forest,” your relationship with the Spider Nation has improved to from Hostile to Neutral. You’ve been awarded 100 renown—in-world fame—for completing this rare, faction-based quest. Greater renown elevates you within the ranks of Eldgard and can affect merchant prices when selling or buying.

<<<>>>

I dismissed the notice as my spider captor lifted me from the ground, slung me across its broad, bulbous back, and scuttled to the top of the pyramid, where it unceremoniously dropped me to the stone floor like a sack of flour. I lay on my back wriggling against my bonds, but finally stopped as the Spider Queen dropped down from the hole in the web-orb above, creeping down on a thread of pure gold. I could only stare on with silent revulsion.

Though I’d come face-to-face with the Spider Queen twice now, I was still taken aback by how horrendously hideous she was. Her thorax was fat, bloated, and deeply black, with looping swirls of neon red, which pulsed with uneasy light. She seemed to have legs upon legs upon legs—more than any normal spider could possibly possess—which were covered with bristling red hairs the color of a fresh nosebleed. Her arachnoid head was the size of a vintage slug bug and studded with about a thousand gleaming eyes and a set of barbed fangs more closely resembling swords than teeth.

Whatever Dev had invented this particular creature was seriously sick in the head.

The Spider Queen descended with a regal slowness, touching down softly on her too many legs as she regarded me with cold calculation. “I welcome you to my humble abode,” she buzzed, her voice the sound of an entire colony of wasps, though there was a subtle femininity to it.

Bloody light enveloped the Queen’s body, and her form began to shimmer and quiver, to dance and twirl before my eyes as her massive body shrank and morphed into something new. Her terrible, multi-jointed legs shriveled, her fat abdomen disappeared in a wash of conjured light, and her arachnoid head began to distort and shrink. One last flare of brilliant, scarlet light temporarily blinded me, but when my vision returned, the Spider Queen was gone, replaced by something almost, but not quite human. This new Lowyth was surprisingly feminine, with long legs, a slim waist, and a cute heart-shaped face.

But to call her fully human would be wrong.

Her skin was still black chitin covered in slashes of fire-engine-red light. Her hair was bristly maroon and unnatural. Formidable talons tipped her fingers, and her face was covered with dull black eyes. Strangest of all, spider legs jutted from her back like wings, constantly curling and uncurling like grotesque fingers. “Since you are technically here as a guest, I thought I’d put on something a little more comfortable,” she offered with a quirked eyebrow, her voice now equal parts smoky and sultry. She turned smartly and sauntered toward the throne, taking a seat, then carefully, slowly, crossed her shapely legs.

“If you really want to make me more comfortable,” I replied, “you could cut me loose from this cocoon.”

She laughed, her bloodred lips pulling back to reveal teeth filed to sharp points. “No, Traveler, I think not. The first rule in negotiations is maintain control, and right now I’m in utter control. I’m also negotiating from a position of power, since you are quite at my mercy.”

“Yeah, I suppose,” I said with a shrug, the motion supremely awkward since I was so tightly bound. “But not really. I mean, yes, you can kill me—I’m in the heart of your kingdom and there’s no way I could get out of here if you decide you want me dead. With that said, I’m a traveler, so I won’t stay dead, and the offer I have for you is a onetime opportunity. You kill me and your one chance to expand your territory and feast on human flesh goes bye-bye.

“And maybe you should also remember,” I added after a brief pause, “I’m the head of a faction now—I could always make it a priority to wipe this dungeon right off the face of the map in the not-too-distant future. It wouldn’t be easy, but with the tools I have at my disposal, it would be possible. Just imagine, a flood of magic and cold steel raining down on your kind. I’m willing to negotiate because I’d rather make a genuine ally than a reluctant one, but you don’t hold all the cards here. You might have the upper hand in the short term, but I have the upper hand in the long term.”

She canted her head, pursed her lips, and regarded me solemnly. “Maybe there’s more to you than meets the eye,” she purred softly, “but I still won’t let you out. Not until we strike a compact. As I said, what if this is some ruse? You’ve already escaped me twice”—she raised two talon-tipped fingers into the air—“and you dispatched the Moss Hag through trickery and deception. Not that I mind, of course. Trickery and deception are coveted qualities in my realm. Still, I suppose I could at least offer you a seat if we are to negotiate properly.” She snapped her fingers and suddenly a spider was dropping from the ceiling with a rickety wooden chair, which looked Ak-Hani built, in its lanky limbs.

In short order, I found myself perched in a chair, secured in place with a spurt of webbing. “That’s a little better,” I offered, resigned.

“Perfect,” she said, tapping at the corner of her full lips with one razor-sharp nail. “Now, my children grow restless, so let us get down to business. What exactly are the terms you’re proposing?”

“It’s pretty straightforward,” I said. “We started a war with the Viridian Empire, and soon, Imperial troops are going to be flooding the Storme Marshes, intent on wiping us off the face of the Earth. I want you to expand your territory so your spiderkin roam the jungles and swamps around Yunnam as well. Then you do what you do best: when the Imperials come, you get to eat.”

“No,” she replied, shaking her head. “Unacceptable. We will not merely be your watch dogs, even if it earns us a hearty meal.”

“But you’ll expanded your territory, gain a constant supply of fresh meat, and you’ll have peace with the Ak-Hani hunters. That’s a win, win, win for you. The best possible deal.”

“This is true,” she replied with a hiss, “but we would be seen as subservient to your kind, and that will never do, fly. Your kind may call us monsters, but we are a proud nation and we will only form a compact as equals.”

Though she was saying no, I felt a wave of relief, because she wasn’t saying no, never, she was saying no, not yet. I could work with no, not yet. Heck, I hadn’t been expecting her to say yes in the first place. I had other chips to bargain with—and a few other favors to ask for in return—but the fact that she was negotiating was good.

I smiled. “Look, I’m new to this,” I said, “but it sounds like there’s common ground here. I’m prepared to hear you out, I just need to know what you’re looking to get out of this deal.”

“How shrewd of you,” she replied, staring at me through a host of squinted eyes. “Perhaps we can work something out yet. As the compact stands now, you gain much, but lose little. You grant us territory, but my children are the ones who will pay in blood. So, you must pay something too.” She paused, as though thinking. I got the sense, however, that it was all an act—she already knew exactly what she wanted. “Your lands are studded with mines full of Darkshard Ore,” she finally said, “a rare ingredient invaluable to the growth of dungeon space. Dungeons—like your Keep—draw power from the ley lines deep in the earth, but Darkshard Ore can be converted and used to make changes. Upgrades. So, I want a cut of everything you mine. Five percent of all ore extracted will come directly to me …”

And so the haggling commenced.

Back and forth we went, making offer and counteroffer, arguing over percentage points and territory rights. Discussing the exact terms of our future peace accord: Could the spiderkin attack Ak-Hani clansfolk that wandered into their territory? What about travelers crossing the swamps with friendly intentions? Caravans? How would defensive patrols work? Would the spiderkin be required to report Imperial incursions? Our conversation lasted a solid hour, and by the end I felt the arrangement was as good as I was going to get. I wasn’t completely satisfied, but then I also felt I’d given as good as I’d gotten.

She’d receive two-and-a-half percent of all the Darkshard Ore we mined, which I felt was a win, considering we’d started at five percent. Her brood couldn’t attack any Ak-Hani or Crimson Alliance members, though they could defend themselves if attacked unprovoked. Unfortunately, the spiderkin would be allowed to kill any neutral travelers or citizens—such as merchant caravans, or adventurers seeking to join the faction—with impunity, unless they had a specific agreement with the faction. That particular point bugged me a great deal since it would have a negative impact on trade, but she was unwilling to budge on the point.

On the plus side, I managed to sell her on the one item I really needed in the short term: troops. She committed to lend us a detachment of spiderkin, thirty strong, for our assault on Rowanheath, which might well make the difference between life and death.

“The only thing to do now”—Lowyth stood and stretched, her lithe muscles straining beneath her chitinous skin—“is to finalize our bargain.” She glided toward me like a predator on the prowl. She smiled as she drew close to me and extended one hand, tracing her nails along my cheek. The tips were wickedly sharp; just a tad more pressure and they’d slice right through my skin. She circled me, talons sliding over the nape of my neck, before her hand finally settled in my hair.

“Though this is nothing you could know,” she said, the words a satisfied whisper, “it is customary for all bargains to be sealed with a blood sacrifice. It is a custom of my kin. One final act of brutality to satiate all hunger and hate before any truce commences. Best to start on a genuinely clean slate.” She waved, and a fat spider scuttled up the stairs and crouched just to her right. I glanced at the bug. It was the same Umbra Crawler that’d captured me and brought me here—I could tell from the string of gore hanging down from its belly, compliments of my bladed gauntlets.

The Queen cocked her head to one side, then struck with lightning-fast fury. Her hand jabbed straight down, her fingers punching through the creature’s skull, killing it in an instant. She pulled her hand free and regarded her digits, now coated in slick gore. “I make you this offering,” she said, holding her blood-smeared hand toward me, “blood of my blood, pledged to you in good faith. And now, for your offering.”

I paused, dumbstruck. What exactly did she expect me to do? “My kind aren’t really the blood-sacrificing types,” I replied slowly. “Plus, even if that wasn’t totally awful, I don’t have anyone to sacrifice.”

She smiled and slinked closer, once more dragging her nail down my cheek, this time hard enough to draw blood and knock off a fraction of my hit points. The Queen held up her claw and examined the blood dripping down her talon. “Are you sure about that?” she asked, her voice a hungry buzz.

My stomach dropped as realization dawned on me: she’d set this whole thing up from the beginning. She’d always intended to kill me, she just intended to kill me and get the opportunity of a lifetime from it. Now, there was no way I could go back. She’d maneuvered me firmly into a corner using trickery and deception, and if I didn’t willingly let her murder me, our contract would be void and she’d kill me anyway. Oh boy, was this going to suck hard. I gulped and pressed my eyes shut tight so I wouldn’t have to watch. “Okay,” I said, voice quivering in fear. “I offer you my life, just please make it quick.”

“Oh course,” she whispered, her lips brushing against my ear. Something sharp jabbed straight through my armor and into my chest; fiery agony rolled along my nerve endings as I struggled to breathe—except no air would come. Her hand was inside of me, wriggling around, perforating my lungs and slashing at my internal organs. I wheezed and coughed, blood filling my mouth and dribbling from my lips. Not for the first time, I found myself wondering what kind of monsters the Devs were to allow events like this to happen to players. That thought quickly fled, though, as the Queen leaned into me, filling my nose with a sickly-sweet scent like rotting fruit.

“No one escapes me three times, troublesome fly,” she said. “Consider this a warning in case you should ever try to double-cross me. No one is more devious than me …” The words faded to a muted whisper as my HP plummeted to zero and the world went dark around me.

TWENTY-ONE: Debuff, Death

Ocean waves lapped at my feet as muddy sand squished up through my toes. I turned my head and smiled, regarding the magnificent sunset as a cool breeze blew in, ruffling my hair. The water glowed in rippling shades of yellow, orange, and pink, and the sky overhead was just as impressive: a patchwork of drifting clouds in a multitude of hues. A gull squawked somewhere out of sight, complementing the soft wash of the water against the sand. It was a perfect moment. Someone squeezed my hand, and I looked down, surprised to find a petite hand interlaced with mine.

I followed the hand up.

Jessica was smiling at me, her perfect white teeth brilliant against her suntanned skin. She reached up and ran her other hand through her blonde locks, absently brushing a wind-tussled strand off her face. She was beautiful. The fading sunlight stained her white tank top with color, turning it into a dreamy tie-dye. I smiled at her, but underneath, confusion surged through me. Everything felt so real, so right, but I knew we’d broken things off over a year ago. Right after she finished her Bachelors in Education at San Diego State. She’d found a job in Colorado. She’d left me to be a middle school teacher.

She’d thrown away three years together for an entry-level 30K a year job in Boulder. A flash of anger burned in my gut, but I quickly doused it, not wanting to ruin the sublime moment.

No, instead I squeezed her hand tight because I missed her so much and I wanted this to be my world, my reality. It felt so good to be back on the beach again, to see the palm trees and taste the salty tang in the air.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, except now it was Abby’s voice.

I glanced over to find my friend walking next to me, and not the perfectly rendered VR Wode version, either. The Real Abby. Dark skin, just a little overweight, beautiful smile and great dimples. She was wearing a nondescript tank top and dark jeans, rolled up at the cuffs so the incoming surf wouldn’t get them wet. “Why didn’t we ever make this work?” she asked, looking out over the water instead of at me. “Us, I mean.”

I shrugged. “Timing was always off. You were with Jordan, then I was with Jessica. The stars just never really lined up, I guess. Besides, our friendship was too good—you weren’t interested in risking that. Your words.”

She looked at me and nodded, her lips pressed into a tight line. “Yeah, but we were good together, you know? I think I was just scared. We could’ve had something, could’ve been something good maybe.” Her words faded, and the conversation was replaced by the slap of waves and the cry of gulls. I glanced away, watching the waves race up the beach ahead, then sprint back toward the ocean. “The stars are aligned now,” she said, though she didn’t sound quite right. There was an unnatural buzz to her words, like the crooning of some giant bug.

I turned back toward her, but she was gone.

Now, I was holding hands with a nightmare woman with black skin, arachnoid eyes, and spidery legs protruding from her back. Her vibrant lips were stained red with blood. My blood. I jerked my hand free and ran as fast as my feet would carry me, but the wet sand sucked me down like a tar pit—or maybe spider webbing—and try as I might, I couldn’t get away. It was like running on a treadmill: no matter how hard I tried, or how many steps I took, I never really moved.

I stole a frantic look back over my shoulder. The nightmare woman strode forward with a swish and sway of her hips, completely untroubled by the mucky sand, gliding freely over its surface. “No one is more devious than me …” she called out, “and no one can escape my web …”

I jolted upright, sweat rolling down my face, my heart thumping manically.

Where am I? How did I get here?

I leaned back on my palms, feeling silk sheets and a soft mattress beneath my hands. I was in a bed—and not just any bed, the California King back in my personal suite at the Keep—but I couldn’t remember going to sleep. No, the last thing I clearly remembered was being cocooned alive, then having that psycho-monster tear though my armor like it was made of wet paper instead of heavily enchanted leather and blackened ring mail. The same psycho-monster from my dream.

The Spider Queen.

Remembering her brought back a flash of pain; hesitantly, I reached down and ran a trembling hand over my pecs, searching for the gaping hole I knew would be there. Except it wasn’t, and neither was my armor. My fingers ghosted over gunmetal gray skin, and there wasn’t a mark on me, not even a scratch. Everything looked whole and healthy, exactly the way it should, but I couldn’t shake the memory of her ripping through my skin. Of her smashing past my breastbone, then rupturing my lungs and heart. That had happened, I was sure of it.

I took a few deep calming breaths, pressing my eyes shut as I worked to get my head on straight. It was so hard, though, mostly because I felt absolutely awful. Worse than the worst hangover on the planet. A throbbing headache pounded away inside my skull, and though there were no physical signs of injury, it sure felt like someone had pushed me into an industrial meatgrinder, shoveled up my remains, then fed those into the meatgrinder again. Everything hurt. My skin felt tight and raw—as if I’d sustained a blistering sunburn—my muscles were basically Jell-O, and my bones ached with muted fury.

This had to be some kind of debuff, that was the only thing that made any sense.

With a grimace, I pulled up my interface and was immediately inundated with notifications:

<<<>>>

Ability: Shadow-Spark

Ability Type/Level: Passive / Level 3

Cost: None

Effect: Umbra unlocked. All Shadow-based skill stats are increased by 3% per Shadow-Spark level (Current: 9%).

<<<>>>

Skill: Stealth

Skill Type/Level: Active / Level 10

Cost: 20 Stamina

Effect: Stealth 20% chance to hide from enemies (+15.6% augmented Stealth).

<<<>>>

Skill: Backstab

Skill Type/Level: Active / Level 8

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: 8% increased chance of critical hit while backstabbing.

<<<>>>

Skill: Blunt Weapons

Skill Type/Level: Active / Level 11

Cost: None

Effect: Increases blunt weapon damage by 25%; increases blunt weapon attack rate by 5%.

<<<>>>

Skill: Medium Armor

Skill Type/Level: Passive / Level 5

Cost: None

Effect 1: 16% increased base armor rating while wearing Medium Armor.

Effect 2: +0.5% 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 a section listing my current active effects:

<<<>>>

Current Debuffs

Death’s Curse: You have died! You have lost 22,920 EXP! Skills improve 20% slower; duration, 8 hours. All EXP earned reduced by 15%; duration, 8 hours. Attack Damage and Spell Strength reduced by 20%; duration, 8 hours. Health, Stamina, and Spirit Regeneration reduced by 25%; duration, 8 hours. Carry Capacity -50 lbs; duration, 8 hours.

Death’s Sting: Suffer extreme physical discomfort and waves of weakness; duration, 4 hours.

<<<>>>

I read the various debuffs over much more slowly, my head pulsing as I tried to focus, and swore silently under my breath.

Wasn’t actually suffering a horrific death bad enough? This was just cruel. Sadistic, even. I wasn’t a big believer in God or the afterlife, but I sure hoped there was some cosmic force responsible for doling out Karma, because these Devs had some serious payback coming their way. Although, a part of me begrudgingly admitted the debuffs made a certain sense—if death wasn’t permanent, what exactly was the incentive to not die? Why not take big risks unless there were real and awful consequences associated with failure?

Losing all current EXP—which would be devastating at high levels—and living through these debuffs were a pretty damn good deterrent, in my opinion. Still, knowing there was a good reason for my suffering didn’t make it any easier or less painful.

Disgruntled, I opened my inventory and let out a sigh of relief as I found my gear, unequipped but waiting for me in my bag. That meant V.G.O. didn’t require corpse runs, which was great considering where I’d kicked the bucket. I hastily equipped my various items—Night Blessed Armor, Cloak of Web-Walking, Belt of Agility, Fortified Braided Leather Leggings, Helm of the Owl, plus all my various rings and talismans. I immediately felt better. All the Stat and Regen boosts my equipment offered eased the pain rampaging through me.

A little, anyway.

I couldn’t believe the Spider Queen had killed me—I’d been so close to completing that stupid quest without getting captured. Really, though, I was angrier at myself than at her. She was a monster—a semi-intelligent one, but still a monster. I shouldn’t have expected anything else from her. She was a crafty killer who respected strength and cunning, but had no room for mercy or weakness. It was my fault for thinking she would behave like a human.

I also felt a flash of irritation at myself for not going in there better prepared. I was a level twenty-eight now, and I had 55 undistributed Attribute Points and 12 Proficiency Points doing absolutely nothing. Nothing. I couldn’t help but wonder if that whole encounter would’ve played out differently in the end, had I just distributed those damned Proficiency and Attribute points earlier on. I couldn’t ever know for certain, but it was definitely possible. So far, I’d been hesitant to commit my points, because once spent, I could never get them back, but I now realized how much of a handicap I was putting myself at by doing that.

A handicap which might’ve just killed me.

Well, I wouldn’t let that happen again. My dad was a hard man—a career in the Corps will do that to anyone—but he was always gracious when it came to mistakes and failures. So long as I learned from them, of course. To him there was no failure, only an opportunity to learn, to grow, and to do things better the next time around. In the end, things had worked out okay with the spiderkin, but there was no doubt in my mind that I’d screwed up. Thankfully, this mistake was something I could rectify. So, even though my head felt like a smashed watermelon, I gritted my teeth and pulled up my character menu.
No reason to put this off any longer.

First, I turned my attention to my Attribute Points. My Attack Strength was calculated like a Rogue class—based primarily off of Dexterity instead of Strength—so I immediately dumped 15 points into Dexterity, bringing my damage up significantly. Spirit and Intelligence were both obvious necessities, so I dropped 12 points into each of those, leaving me 20 points left to divide up between the other stats. A measly three went into Strength, bringing me up to an even forty, and 5 more went into vitality, since a little extra Health was never bad to have.

My battle style revolved around speed and agility, and I’d noticed my lagging Stamina had cost me more than once in the last few days, so the last 8 points went into Constitution. Satisfied, I surveyed my new character stats:

Everything looked good to me, except that big fat goose-egg of a zero staring at me from the Current EXP box. I couldn’t believe how much experience death had cost me. I’d been nearly half-way to my next level. There was no point beating myself up about it further, though; I just needed to be smarter in the future. Next, I pulled up my Shadowmancer Skill Tree screen and took a long look at the abilities available to me. Many of the previously blocked skills were now open, which made me feel marginally better even if it didn’t actually do anything for the pain crashing through me like a goblin raiding party.

First, I decided to beef up the skills I already had and loved.

Immediately, I invested two more points into Shadow Stride—since it was easily my coolest ability—bringing it up to level 3, Adept. Surprisingly, the spell cost increased from 100 Spirit to 150, but the range shot up to 100 meters, the length of time I could spend in the Shadowverse also jumped by 20 seconds, and the cooldown time dropped from 45 to 35 seconds. And best of all, I earned a new effect: increased Health-Regen rate by 15% while Shadow Striding, which was a killer bonus. Definitely a good investment.

Umbra Bog had also been super useful, so it got another point—bumping the “slow-movement” rate from 75% to 80%, while increasing the spell’s duration by 10 seconds. I couldn’t neglect Umbra Bolt, since it was my go-to range attack, so that got a point as well, bringing it up to the Journeyman level, which increased the attack damage to 200% Spell Strength and added a new effect: Umbra Bolt has a 10% chance to confuse enemies, causing them to randomly attack other hostile forces. I smiled. I could just imagine the kinds of crazy-chaos an ability like that could cause if utilized properly.

Void Terror earned itself another point, so that if, on the off chance, I ran across another formidable shadow minion, I could capture it without a problem. That dropped me down to seven points with a lot of skills left to explore. Dark Harmony, Night Armor, and Dark Shield, I left alone, since they were mainly passive and defensive abilities, and so far my play style had focused more heavily on Stealth, quick attacks, and crowd control tactics. Instead, I decided to pick up a few new abilities that looked promising:

<<<>>>

Skill: Black Caress

With the power of the Black Caress, you can charge your weapon with a potent bolt of shadow energy, which will inflict harm on enemies while simultaneously allowing you to absorb a portion of their health. At higher proficiency levels, both damage and amount of life absorbed increase.

Skill Type/Level: Spell/Initiate

Cost: 120 Spirit

Range: Weapon

Cast Time: Instant

Cooldown: 45 seconds

Effect 1: Add shadow damage to one regular attack.

Effect 2: Shadow Damage for 190% of Spell Power, plus regular attack damage.

Effect 2: Absorb 15% Health of total attack damage dealt during the attack.

<<<>>>

Skill: Plague Burst

Summon a billowing, toxic plague fog from the deepest recess of the Shadowverse. This spell unleashes powerful forces capable of killing most lesser-summoned beings on contact while causing significant poison damage to everyone and everything—friends, foes, and even the Caster—within the area of effect.

Skill Type/Level: Spell/Initiate

Cost: 375 Spirit Initial; 5 Spirit/per second for 1 minute.

Range: 40 Meters

Cast Time: 10 seconds

Cooldown: 5 minutes

Effect 1: 50% chance to instantly kill lesser-summoned creatures on contact.

Effect 2: Shadow Damage for 275% of Spell Power on contact. Initial Plague cloud lasts for 5 seconds.

Effect 3: Disease Damage for 5% of Spell Power/per second to all exposed combatants; duration, 1 minute.

Restriction: If the caster runs out of Spirit before the duration of the Disease Damage Debuff expires, the Debuff will terminate prematurely.

<<<>>>

I was excited to try Black Caress, since it seemed more or less like the Shadowmancer version of Savage Blow: adding a bunch of Shadow Damage to a single strike.

By itself, Black Caress didn’t deal much more damage than my Umbra Bolt, but I was pretty sure I’d be able to stack it on top of the Savage Blow ability, which could further be combined with Backstab. If I was right—and there was no reason to think I wasn’t—then I had a potentially devastating attack, which could KO most regular mobs in a single shot. I was also excited about Plague Burst, which seemed perfectly tailored for use with the Umbra Bog skill: just pin the monsters in place with the first, then hit them hard with the second for big damage.

Really big damage. With my current spell strength at 87, that Plague Burst would deal over 250 points of initial Shadow Damage, plus an additional 275 points of disease damage over time. I’d have to be careful of friendly fire, though, since I could just as easily kill Cutter, Abby, Amara, or even myself by mistake. Next, I chose a passive ability that drastically boosted Spirit Regen—an essential, considering how much some of these new spells cost.

<<<>>>

Ability: Shadow Minded

Draw on the ever-present power of the Umbra to restore your Spirit from the strains of battle and spell casting.

Ability Type/Level: Passive/Initiate

Cost: None

Range: N/A

Cast Time: N/A

Cooldown: N/A

Effect: Increase Spirit Regeneration by 15%.

<<<>>>

That left me 4 points left to work with.

I looked over the other skills in my tree, and though all of them looked awesome, I figured it would be better to invest what I had left into some of my more mundane abilities—something that didn’t depend solely on Spirit to use. I toggled over to the General Skills menu, then brought up Blunt Weapons; since I was now at level 11, I could finally pick up the Crush Armor ability: a special power attack activated like Savage Blow. It cost 100 Stamina per shot—nearly a sixth of what I had—but the result was a blow with 250% attack bonus against opponents in heavy plate armor. Wicked cool.

Since Dark Templars were specifically designed to be natural enemies to the Holy Templars of the empire—who were renowned for their specialty heavy armor—that seemed like a skill too good to pass up. One more point down. Though I relied heavily on Stealth, I already had a bunch of points invested there, so instead I turned my sights on the Medium Armor Skill Tree. I was still relatively low level, but I had one option, called Sprint, which increased my movement rate by 2% for every piece of medium armor I wore—since speed was central to my character, that seemed like a real no-brainer.

The last two points … Well, those I saved. Maybe it would’ve made sense to spend it, but in my experience, it was always better to have an extra point in reserve, just in case.

With all of my points divvied up and parceled out, I scrolled over to my main interface to check the time: 10:19 PM. I swore under my breath. On top of everything else, dying had cost me eight hours. Great. Perfect. I had a little less than a day left before the planned raid on Rowanheath was supposed to go down. In a huff, I closed my interface, swung my legs over the edge of the bed, and pushed myself upright with a heave and a groan. Even with all of my new perks, the pain was still too much, and my legs buckled beneath me, landing me back on the mattress.

I ground my teeth in frustration. A part of me liked the idea of flopping down and closing my eyes for the next eight hours—just try to sleep through these awful debuffs—but I couldn’t afford to lose any more time. So I pulled a Health Regen vial from a pouch at my belt, downed the contents in one gulp, then quickly cast my Night Armor ability, wrapping myself in a swirling, second skin of shadowy energy. Obviously, I didn’t have to worry about enemies here in the Keep, but Night Armor also came with the uncanny ability to ease a small amount of physical pain.

TWENTY-TWO: Reports, Reports, Reports

Between the potion and the spell, the hardest edge of the fatigue and pain faded to the background, giving me enough strength to stand, though only barely. I took a deep breath, then gingerly shuffled for the door, bent on finding Abby and figuring out what I’d missed in the ten hours I’d been gone. I hobbled down a passageway, moving like a recent car-wreck victim, and took turn after turn until I eventually found myself at the base of the stairs that spiraled up toward the Keep’s control room. If Abby was here, that’s where she’d be.

I didn’t relish the notion of climbing all those stairs, though.

I really should’ve splurged for the Keep’s internal teleportation system. A sudden flash of inspiration hit me a second later, and I pulled open my Keep interface, my lips stretching into a devious grin. There were all kinds of kickass abilities, and it only took me a few moments to find what I wanted: “Summon Keeper.” I activated the button; immediately, there was a burst of angry red light as one of the stone guardians pulled itself from the Keep’s floor. Thankfully, it wasn’t Brewald the Golem, just some nameless Keeper.

The creature mutely regarded me with its single giant eye, patiently waiting for instructions. I cleared my throat, shifting uncomfortably under the thing’s gaze. “I need a ride to the control room,” I said, waving a hand toward the stairs.

The creature didn’t speak, but it stared at me for a long hard second. Seriously? that look seemed to say. But after a beat, the Keeper complied, shuffling forward, then scooping me up in burly arms, before wheeling around and taking the stairs two at a time. The ride wasn’t comfortable, but in next to no time, we rounded a bend and emerged into the Keep’s control room, which was filled with a spattering of people, including Abby and the chief. All conversation ceased as the Keeper carried me into the room, cradling me in its oversized arms like a newborn.

For a second everything fell silent, then Abby broke the spell by busting out in laughter, which quickly started a chain reaction of hoots and knee slapping. Red crept into my cheeks, but I fought to brush off the embarrassment—they could laugh all they wanted, because I hadn’t had to hoof it up all those stairs in my sad state.

“Welcome, your majesty,” Abby giggled, dabbing at her eyes, “glad to see you’re alive and misusing our guards. Why didn’t I think of riding them around as mounts instead of just using my legs?”

“Funny,” I said, quirking an eyebrow at her. “But I wouldn’t be doing this if I could walk. I died, the Spider Queen killed me, and now I can hardly move.”

“Death’s Curse?” she offered with a wince.
“Yeah,” I replied as I motioned for the Keeper to set me down. Gingerly, I hobbled over to one of the highbacked chairs. “Why didn’t anyone tell me how bad it sucks to die?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “It’s one of those things you just have to experience for yourself. I’ve died four times so far, and it never gets better—in fact, it actually gets worse the higher up you go. The debuffs last the same amount of time but the effects are all amped up, and the pain …” She trailed off, her lips turning down into a frown. “I’ve heard that after you hit level fifty, you’re pretty much incapacitated by Death’s Sting. Just hearsay, but I believe it.”

“Is that really you, Jacky-boy?” someone boomed from across the room, cutting through my conversation with Abby. I glanced up to find a whip-thin Dawn Elf, sporting expensive robes covered in golden scrollwork, striding purposefully toward me. His face didn’t look familiar, but his voice rang a bell inside my head. Jacky-boy, he’d called me. Only one person I knew ever called me that.

“Wait, Anton Black?” I said, taken aback.

IRL, Anton was a tax accountant from the UK. Bradford, I thought. He’d been with our old gaming guild for as long as it’d been around, but the character before me couldn’t have been Anton. Anton always played hard-hitting, melee characters—warriors, barbs, berserkers, and endless variations thereof were all in his wheelhouse. But the lanky elf before me, with his fine robes and his delicate features, wasn’t a fighter by any stretch of the imagination. He looked far closer to an alchemist or a merchant than a sword-wielding meathead.

“One and the same,” the man said with a grin and a cheesy bow.

“But, but look at you,” I stammered. “What class are you?”

He paused and blushed. “Merchant. I thought about picking a Risi,” he said, as though reading the question directly from my mind, “but this is real life now. Being a warrior is great in games, but that’s not how I want to spend my existence. Not to mention, my wife, Angie, put her foot down hard on the notion. ‘I refuse to be married to one of those green monsters,’” he mimed in a bad falsetto, before shrugging.

“She’s right though”—he leaned in conspiratorially—“they are ugly. Plus, at the end of the day, I’m a tax accountant, not a fighter. I’m way more comfortable crunching numbers and balancing ledgers than bashing skulls, so this seemed like a better fit. I contacted our girl there,” he continued, jerking his head toward Abby, “the second the Universal Alert about the Crimson Alliance went out. I knew it had to be you, though damned if I know how you pulled this whole thing off.” He paused and stared around the Command Center with a certain admiration. “For the time being, I’m going to be working as the faction quartermaster and logistics officer.”

“Well holy crap is that good news,” I replied. “We need all the help we can get around here. Besides, it sure is good to see some more familiar faces. Out of curiosity, is your wife here with you?”

“Oh yeah,” he said, crossing his arms. “She’s a deadly chef. The absolute best. Abby already got us set up in the new housing development on the edge of Yunnam, and she’s downstairs working in the kitchen. Our little girl’s here, too. Rachael. Only eleven, but she seems to be adjusting okay to all of this. Heck, I’d say she’s adjusting better than we are. Alright,” he said, clapping his hands together, “we’ll catch up a little more later—I’ve got to deal with this joker over here.” He hooked a thumb toward a boxy, dour-faced Dwarf with an epic beard across the room.

“He’s our new Mine Overseer, Mark Muller.” He paused, and pinched at the bridge of his nose. “He’s a good guy, very competent, but there’re already a load of issues. It’s those damned Void Terrors. They keep respawning and harassing our diggers. It’s a real headache. But you’ve got enough to sort out, Jacky-Boy. We’ll talk more later,” he said, before shuffling off toward the surly dwarf with a sigh. I knew from firsthand experience how much of a nuisance the Terrors could be, but I was glad to hear they’d respawned. That meant more potential minions for me, though admittedly it was going to be a pain in the ass for everyone else.

I turned back to Abby, a lopsided smile on my face. “It’s good to see him, isn’t it?” she asked.

I nodded. “Yeah, it really is.” I paused, glancing around at all the people hustling and bustling through the room. “So, care to fill me in on what’s going on around here?”

“Absolutely,” she replied, “but first, I’ve got a little surprise for you. I took the liberty of ordering you some breakfast”—she waved toward the far door—“well, dinner actually, but you get the idea. The food should help with the pain a bit.”

I turned in my seat and found a mousy Murk Elf woman scurrying toward me with a tray laden down with food. Some of it was clearly Eldgard fare—honeyed porridge and seared pork—but another plate held something that looked suspiciously like flapjacks. My stomach rumbled in anticipation. The woman set the tray down with a brief curtsy. I fished a silver mark from my bag and pressed it into her hand as she was preparing to turn away. “Thank you, ma’am,” I muttered sheepishly.

She offered me a toothy, grateful smile in return, then hurried off, back the way she’d come.

I picked up the silverware in shaky hands and tore into the food, taking huge bites with great gusto. Amazing. The flapjacks, called [Old Fashioned Hotcakes], tasted spot on and even came with something eerily similar to maple syrup. “Wow,” I moaned around a mouthful of food.

“Good, right?” Abby asked, more statement than question, a ghost of a smile dancing on her lips as she watched me devour each bite.

“So good,” I mumbled.

“Now try that.” She gestured toward a porcelain cup filled with something dark, steaming, and potent smelling. Slowly, I lifted the cup, inhaled a deep whiff of the rich aroma, and took a sip: nutty, rich, delicious. I almost cried. It was coffee. And not crappy instant coffee. Good coffee. I felt a little teary-eyed. Back IRL, coffee had been a staple of my existence, and I’d sincerely thought I’d never enjoy another cup. Even better, it did help with the Death debuffs, even if only indirectly, since it offered some awesome benefits:

<<<>>>

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 grinned. Despite being mentally unhinged, apparently the Devs still had some small sense of humor.

“This is so, so, so amazing,” I murmured contentedly. “It’s heaven. Delicious coffee heaven. Maybe I can make it here, after all.”

“Well, enjoy it sparingly,” she said. “Unfortunately, the beans needed to brew it only grow in a couple of dirt-speck farming towns on the other side of the Barren Sands, so it costs a fortune to acquire and ship. Anton brought it with him, so you need to thank him later.”

“Yeah,” I said, inhaling another deep whiff. “I know you’re already crazy busy, but let’s find someone with a farming specialization and see if we can’t manage to get this growing around here. Everyone is gonna want to get their hands on this. Everyone.”

She smiled, her nose crinkling. “You’re so cute, Jack,” she said, reaching up and patting me on the cheek. “I’m already on it—I’ve got headhunters searching for compatible farmers as we speak.”

“You’re really on the ball here”—I gestured with my syrup-covered fork—“you’ve got everything in hand. I feel like you don’t even need me.”

“I’m good with organizing,” she said with a noncommittal shrug. “Program management was a big part of what I did back at Osmark Tech. Good management is all about finding good people. Once you’ve got a solid team, you just need to delegate appropriately, then get the hell out of the way so they can do their work. The hardest part was sorting through the flood of emails we got last night, but once I found some good candidates, everything else sort of clicked into place. Anton’s running logistics. Delor Damian”—he was another former Crimson Alliance Clan member—“is in the fold now, too. He’s an Accipiter Scout, and he brought along a couple of others with him. They’ve been absolutely invaluable.

“And that’s only the tip of the iceberg,” she said, clearly excited by the progress. “We’ve seen a flood of craftsmen and gatherers. We’ve got miners, engineers, woodworkers—those faction buffs have been a huge draw, especially among Rebel-aligned NPCs. We’ve probably only managed to snag a handful of people compared to the Viridian factions, but I still think we’re doing good. We even picked up another Shadowmancer—a fourteen-year-old kid from Denmark named Michael.” She paused, her lips pressed into a thoughtful line. “Real sad story, that kid. Parents could only afford one capsule, so he’s in here on his own.”

She glanced away for a second, a hint of pain lingering in the lines of her face. “Anyway,” she said after a beat, “with him on the team, we’ve even managed to get the Darkshard Mine up and in full swing. Churning out Raw Darkshard Ore like there’s no tomorrow. There’s about a thousand pounds down there, and it replenishes every eight hours or so. It’s good. All good. The only real hiccup we’ve had so far is with the Arcane Shadow Cannons. We haven’t been able to find an engineer with the chops or the skill set to alter the plans. We’re working on it, though. I’m sure things will come together.”

She tried to sound reassuring, but I knew her well enough to hear the hint of worry simmering beneath the words.

I took a huge bite of greasy seared pork, savoring the flavor as I processed. “Any other Dark Templars besides the Danish kid?” I asked, trying to change the topic.

“A few,” she said with a nod. “Hold on, let me just pull it up.” She paused, her eyes scanning over something invisible—likely her user interface. “Ah, there it is. Yeah, we picked up one Necromancer from Houston, one Plague Bringer from Belgium, and four more Dark Templars who don’t have specializations yet. Not bad, considering it seems like a pretty rare class overall.”

“Wow,” I said again, feeling a little thunderstruck.

This was all happening so fast. Less than a day ago, we’d been a handful of people with little hope, and now? Now we were an army. Even if a small one. “How are you getting all these people here?” I asked, incredulous. “The swamp’s damn near impossible to navigate. And how in the world are you vetting them?”

She smiled again. “I located a trio of Rebel-aligned initiates from the Mystica Ordo—a cohort of transport specalists in the making. Except, they defected to us in exhange for some hefty bonuses, and now they’re doing all kinds of port skips. Picking people up at a variety of rallying points on the border of the Storme Marshes, then ferrying them back to Yunnam. As to vetting …”She paused, then waved the question away. “The answer is long, tedious, and unimportant, but we’ve got a system worked out.”

Man, Abby was way better at this faction business than I was.

Suprisingly, that didn’t bother me. I wasn’t much of an organizer anyway, so all of this stuff sounded like absolute torture. I was just glad I had someone efficent and capable on my team; I was going to take her advice: find good people, then get out of their way so they could work their magic.

“What about enemies?” I asked before setting down my fork and taking another deep, long pull of coffee, letting the warm liquid heat me up from the inside out.

“A few,” came the chief’s voice. The man dropped into a seat across from me. He looked content, but tired—deep purple bags lingered under his eyes as though he hadn’t gotten a proper wink of sleep in days. “No organized incursions, though,” he continued. “Amara and the Scouts believe they’re unaffiliated travelers, likely looking to curry favor with the empire, or earn a lucrative bounty. But enough of all that,” he said, slouching back in his chair, letting it cradle him. “Tell us how things turned out with the Spider Queen. The Accipiter Scouts report the spiderkin are moving into the jungle around Yunnam, so I assumed it went according to plan, but …” He faded off, leaving the obvious question unasked:

But if you died, maybe things didn’t go so well.

I grinned at the chief. “No, things went fine. Well, mostly. Apparently, the Spider Nation seals their bargains with a blood sacrifice,” I said, before launching into a brief account of my encounter with the spiderkin and the terms of our deal with the arachnoid matriarch.

The chief seemed to deflate a bit after that, built-up tension easing out of his shoulders as he let out a pent-up breath. “Thank all the great gods and goddesses above,” he said as I finished. “In truth, I thought your plan was something of a fool’s errand, but I am genuinely glad to be wrong. With the orbweavers prowling our borders and freeing up our scouts, our manpower and defensive capabilities will increase ten-fold at least. As to the Queen’s act of treachery: do not be overly concerned, Grim Jack. No one has much experience with their kind, but I have more than most, and I’ll tell you this—you should feel honored. The spiderkin are predators to their very core. For the Queen herself to dispatch you in such a grisly fashion is a sign of respect between equals. It means she is taking you seriously and respects your strength and cunning.”

I grunted noncommittally. That was certainly a different way to look at it. But maybe the chief was right—why would I expect them to think or act like humans? With that said, knowing the Queen had “honored” me didn’t do much to mollify me. I shoveled down the last of my pork and flapjacks, enjoying every second, then pushed the tray away and leaned back in my seat, fat and happy. “Any word from Cutter?” I asked, taking a quick survey of the room to make sure I hadn’t missed him.

“Yeah,” Abby replied. “Last I saw him, he was in Yunnam—he’s probably still there. We ended up with a quite a few rogues, but they’re all lowbies. Can barely tell one end of a dagger from the other. He begrudgingly consented to train them up so they won’t be dangerous to themselves. He also got ahold of the mercs in Harrowick—he’s surprisingly competent when he wants to be—and Otto took off a few hours ago to get everything set up. We should have forty or fifty mercs when the time comes. It’ll cost us a pretty penny, but with this influx of new recruits, our faction coffers should manage to cover it.”

“Any word about the Thieves’ Guild or the smugglers?”

She slapped a hand against her forehead. “Yeah, sorry, with everything else on my plate it slipped my mind. He says there’s some sort of complication—I think it might be quest related. You need to go see him as soon as you get done here. Just PM and let me know the deets once you find out.”

I nodded, downed the last of my coffee, and pushed myself to my feet with a groan. Everything still hurt, but with all of the buffs running through me like jet fuel, it felt manageable.

“Hey, Abby,” I said, slipping over and placing a hand on her shoulder. “I just wanted to say thank you, for all this. You’ve done a really good job.”

“You’re doing pretty good too, Jack,” she offered, dimples blossoming as she patted my arm. “And if we pull this Rowanheath thing off, we'll have plenty of time to celebrate properly. Now get out of here, and go take care of the Thieves’ Guild.”

TWENTY-THREE: Changes

After a brief round of goodbyes, I ambled through the Keep and into the courtyard, staring around all wide-eyed and mystified. Wow, what a difference ten hours could make. The grounds were still run down, sure, but the place already looked completely different. Transformed. The inner wall surrounding the Keep now stood strong and proud, the stones gleaming and clean, free from decay or black water stains. The inner guard towers were operational as well, each manned by hulking stone Keepers to boot; they even sported strange, stationary blasters.

Arcane Shadow Cannons if I didn’t miss my guess completely.

Aside from schematics, this was my first time seeing the cannons, and they were awfully impressing. Bulky things, which burned with a shadowy fire. They looked like the illegitimate child of a Civil War–era cannon and a Tesla Death Ray. I approved wholeheartedly.

A lot of the debris and rubble had been cleared away, while the vines and trees had been trimmed back into something that almost looked orderly. Most surprising of all, though, was the sheer number of people. Not twenty-four hours ago, this place had been a ghost town, home only to a deadly demon that would rip the arms and legs off any unwelcome intruder. And now? Now people of every assortment fluttered around the grounds, talking, training, building, working—even at this ungodly hour. They were everywhere.

Impromptu tents had cropped up, and a few rough wooden structures littered the grounds.

I needed to get down into Yunnam, so I cut through a row of shanty tents—big canvas things built of tan leather and crude stitching—and headed for the port pad, located in the outer courtyard. I weaved my way through a few more lean-tos, keeping my head down, but nodding politely at the people I passed. It took me a few minutes, but eventually, I emerged from the tent city and skirted around the outside of the barracks: a boxy, three-story stone structure with folks loitering along terraces jutting from each floor. The port pad, an elaborate metal circle, carved with intricate runes and inlaid directly into the earth, was just next to the building.

Unfortunately, there was a line of people, fifteen deep, waiting patiently to hitch a ride into town.

Some Wode mage, clad in brown beginner robes, stood near the pad, lazily waving people through, his eyes glazed over in boredom. Probably just some lowbie recruit, stuck pulling a combination of guard duty and crowd control. I sighed, went to the back of the line, crossed my arms, and tapped a foot impatiently. I endured in silence for a few minutes, but the line was moving at a snail’s pace, and finally I got fed up and slipped to the front. I really didn’t want to be some kind of entitled jerk, but I needed to find Cutter ASAP—everything was riding on the Smugglers Union, and we didn’t have a ton of time.

Besides, technically I owned this property. I didn’t want to lord that over anyone, but at the same time, I figured it probably afforded me a fast-pass at the very least.

Some hulking, armor-clad Risi near the front eyed me making my move and pivoted out of line, maneuvering until he was firmly in my way. He was a big, beefy guy with tree-trunk arms and a thin Mohawk racing down the center of his head. He was built like a post-apocalyptic brick shithouse and looked like he belonged in one of those classic Mad Max flicks from back in the day. In V.G.O., you couldn’t tell someone’s level at a glance—that info was private, which made PvP a particular challenge—but his shoddy, rust-speckled armor and dull, low-quality axe told me he was still a lowbie.

The Risi grunted at me and dropped one hand to the head of his axe blade, clearly trying to intimidate me. “Hey, pal,” he said, voice guttural and unfriendly, “everyone’s in a rush, but we all wait our turn. Fair and square. That’s how this whole thing works.”

“Normally, I’d agree with you—” I started. Before I could finish, however, the Risi interrupted me.

“Nope,” he grunted with a shake of his head. “Everyone’s got excuses, and I don’t have a mind to hear ’em. Now, I don’t want to get in a knock-down-drag-out with you, bub, but you ain’t cutting me.” He paused, glancing around. “You ain’t cutting none of us. So get back in line, unless you have a mind to lose a few teeth.” He reached out a ham-hock hand and gave me a gentle shove in the chest. Not enough to hurt me, but enough to warn that there’d be consequences if I didn’t listen.

Unfortunately, touching me like that on the Keep grounds seemed to be the absolute worst possible thing to do.

Two pillars of molten fire erupted on either side of me as a pair of stony Keepers materialized from the ground. In an eyeblink, one of them had the meathead pinned in a tight bear hug and was hefting him into the air like a naughty toddler. Poor guy looked like he was about to swallow his tongue from the shock. I felt genuinely bad for him. He was a little pushy, true, but he was just trying to keep things fair. In a way, that’s what this whole faction was all about: fighting back against a bunch of unfair, elitist bullshit.

“It’s cool,” I said, eyeing each of the disgruntled Keepers in turn. “Please put him down, we were joking around. A little roughhousing between friends. Just drop him and go back to doing whatever you were doing before. I’ve got this.”

The Keeper holding the man aloft growled, a deep rumble in his chest, but he did drop the Risi as instructed. Then, showing a remarkable degree of intelligence, the Keeper snarled at the warrior—the warning clear—before turning and shambling back toward the Keep with his buddy, leaving the line of onlookers at the pad in shocked silence.

The Risi stared at me for a long moment, then glanced away, shuffling anxiously from foot to foot. “You must be some kinda bigshot, then?” he asked.

“Faction Leader,” I replied softly. Everyone in the line seemed to wince and groan in unison.

“Figures,” the big man said, resigned, his giant frame wilting. “I always do this,” he muttered before reaching up and thumping his skull with a fist the size of a dinner plate. “It’s my temper. Couldn’t keep a job back in the real world. I get a new chance here, and what do I do? Pick a fight with the boss on day one. Idiot. Idiot.” He shook his head, shoulders slumped in defeat. “I’ll just get my stuff and go.”

“What?” I asked, dropping a reassuring hand onto his shoulder. “No, don’t do that. You were trying to do the right thing—I can respect that. You don’t have to go.”

“Really?” he asked hesitantly, glancing at me through heavily lidded eyes. “You mean it?”

“Yeah,” I said with a forced chuckle. “Don’t sweat it. We’re all in this thing together, man. What’s your name, anyway? Where you from?”

“Jack Forge,” he replied, his voice suddenly firmer, more sure, “but people, well they just call me Forge. Used to be with the Second Battalion Second Marine, outta Lejeune. That was ’bout ten years back. I’m in construction now. Down in Texas. Well”—he paused and pressed his eyes shut—“well, I used to be in construction. Before the end, I mean,” he finished weakly.

“Forge,” I said, “mind if I ask you a question?”

He shifted uncomfortably again, as though he were afraid my lenience was all some ruse, and I was now about to bring the hammer down on him. Still, he reluctantly nodded.

“Why’d you join this faction?” I asked. “You’re a Risi, and clearly a warrior, so it seems like the empire would’ve been a better fit.”

The man squinted at me, his lips pulling back into a frightful sneer, revealing a pair of sharp fangs jutting from his lower lip. “Not on my life,” he replied, then leaned over and hawked a loogie onto the grass. “Bunch of cocksuckers if you ask me. Absolute turdbaggery, what that Osmark fella did. I’m an American, and I don’t truck with no empire.” He imbued the word with absolute scorn. “Why, we broke away from kings and empires back in 1776, and I’ll be damned if I give all that up to follow some tech billionaire who thinks he’s got a divine mandate to rule. I’m no slave. You folks seem to be against what he’s about, so here I am.”

He ended his little spiel with a shrug, as though to say what else could I have done.

I offered him a lopsided smile.

Back IRL, I’d known more than a few people like Forge—down-to-earth, levelheaded folks who weren’t afraid to work hard or stand up for what they believed in. It was good to see some of that spirit still alive and kicking despite everything that’d happened. “Well, I’m Grim Jack,” I said, offering him my hand. He accepted my proffered limb and pumped hard enough to leave my shoulder aching. “And you’ve got a place here, Forge. We need people like you. People who are willing to buck the system. That’s all of us, am I right? Now I’m really sorry, but I have to get to Yunnam—our future depends on it, but I’ll keep an eye out for you.”

“Thank you,” he said awkwardly as I pried my hand away and stepped onto the port pad. “If you ever need someone, I’m your man. I’m the toughest sumabitch in Bell County, and I’ve got your back, Jack.” He offered me a terrifying grin that made me think he probably was the toughest SOB in all of Texas. Period.

I nodded politely as the pad engaged with a blinding flash.

In a wink, I found myself on an identical metal ring down in the center of Yunnam, not far from the chief’s towering, moss-covered tree. Forge. I’d have to tell Abby to keep an eye out for him, see if there wasn’t something we could do for him. I put the man from mind as I made my way through town, asking sleepy-looking residents about Cutter, until I found him in a new area that the clansfolk were calling “the training ground.” Really it was just a shallow pit the size of a basketball court filled with gritty, gray swamp sand. Almost unbelievably, Cutter was marching around the pit’s edge, shouting at sixteen or so lowbie Rogues training in the dirt.

He watched them fight through squinted eyes, his hands laced behind his back. The pose reminded me of my dad, a former Marine and Drill Instructor. My dad made us clean house once a week—an event he endearingly called field day—and when I was done, he’d inspect my room with that same scrutinizing look plastered on his face.

“Adjust your blade, boy,” Cutter barked at one of his new recruits, his voice sharp and unwavering. Very out of character. “You want it parallel to your forearm for that maneuver.” He moved on to the next trainee in line, shouting about sloppy footwork, before laying into the next recruit about shoddy dagger technique. I knew from experience that Cutter was a good teacher—he’d trained me in the art of Stealth and had shown me the ropes of basic fighting—but this just didn’t seem like him.

I noticed Amara standing in the deep shadow of a nearby building, arms crossed, watching our resident Rogue work. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, her head canted slightly to one side, a look of not-quite-admiration lingering on her face. She had issues with Cutter, but watching her watch him … I couldn’t help but think maybe she also sort of liked him. Or at least respected him. I edged up next to her; she was so absorbed in scrutinizing the training session that she didn’t even notice my presence until I was leaning against the wall right next to her.

“Amara,” I whispered, trying not to startle her.

She jumped a little anyway, shaking her head, then turning a frosty glare on me. Her features softened a bit when she saw it was only me, and the sneer on her lips slipped away. “Oh,” she said, “it’s you. I thought for a moment it was another fool Rogue, come to try their luck at pickpocketing me. Cutter”—she nodded at the man—“has tasked all the new recruits with trying to steal a token from my pouch. A great feat of skill, he calls it.” She almost sounded pleased. “It has not ended well for any of them, but Cutter seems to find it vastly amusing nonetheless.”

“I can’t believe he’s training people,” I murmured, leaning up against the wall, watching him pace back and forth, correcting technique with every pass.

“It is strange,” Amara agreed after a lapse of silence. “Most times, he is so lazy. So arrogant. So brazen and disrespectful. Yet at other times, there are glimpses of something else. Of someone else. Of a man with honor and resolve and great skill. He confuses me. He is driven by a nature which I cannot wrap my mind around—very different from Baymor or any other Dokkalfar I have ever met.” She pressed her lips into a humorless smile, eyes squinted as though, if she just looked hard enough, she might be able to make sense of him.

Cutter was making another round when he glanced up and noticed me and Amara hiding out in the deep shadow. “Alright,” he shouted, “that’s enough for tonight, class. It’s been a long bloody day for all of us. You lot are far from trained, but hopefully you should be able to keep from stabbing yourselves. Good work, now go get some rest. But shower first—you all smell like the inside of an old boot.” With that, he turned and beelined toward us.

“Amara,” he said with a crooked grin. “Hope the trainees haven’t been too much trouble.”

She stared at him, face flat and unamused. “No trouble for me,” she replied, completely deadpan, “though the next one to try to pickpocket me is going to lose a finger instead of merely having it broken. Now, if you’ll excuse me—there are fortifications to see to yet.” She gave me a polite nod and Cutter a scathing glower before strutting off and disappearing around one of the stilt houses.

“Helluva woman, she is,” Cutter said, staring after her.

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. “Be careful with her,” I said, “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone more terrifying. She’ll break you in two.”

“Not terrifying,” he muttered absently, “fiery. I admire fiery.”

I snorted. “You’re something else, you know that? And what was all that with the recruits? Since when did you start caring about people? Or helping them?”

“Helped you, didn’t I?” he shot back with a shrug. “Besides, I’m just tryin’ to do my part. And, they’re good blokes, most of ’em. Couple of sods, but mostly good. Awful Rogues, though. Tripping all over themselves. Couldn’t pick a lock to save their lives. Embarrassing, really.” He frowned and shook his head.

“Yeah, but babysitter just doesn’t seem to fit you,” I said, shooting for lighthearted.

“Look, let’s not make this weird, alright?” Cutter replied, sour as a lemon. “My old man passed away when I was a wee lad, and Gentleman Georgie, well he took me under his wing and showed me the ropes when no one else would. So now, I have a certain soft spot for wayward misfits like that bunch there. It’s the same reason I helped you out in the first place—because you were a hapless loser. So there it is. I’m a bit of a bleeding heart. Now, lay off or I won’t tell you about the Thieves’ Guild.” He paused and cocked an eyebrow at me. “You do want to know what they said, right?”

“Tell me,” I replied, suppressing a laugh. To think, Cutter wasn’t all about money, women, and booze after all. There was something legitimately decent hiding beneath his rough edges. Eldgard seemed to become a stranger place every day.

My good mood quickly vanished as Cutter started to spill the beans on Rowanheath’s most illustrious and clandestine organization.

Apparently, there were serious complications revolving around an outstanding quest I had regarding the guild’s unofficial leader, Gentleman Georgie. It looked like, if we wanted any help from the guild or the Smugglers Union, we were going to have to solve the mystery and put things right. Worse, due to quest restrictions, Cutter and I were going to have to do it alone. With a sigh, I pinged Abby, letting her know what I’d found out, then we set off in search of one of those new transport specialists.

TWENTY-FOUR: Thief in the Night

We ported to a little one-horse, Wode town called Kaldalen, about two hours south of Rowanheath. A tiny place of maybe three hundred residents with dirt streets, wooden houses, and thatched roofs, all surrounded by grassy plains, a spattering of pine trees, and domineering mountains cutting across the darkened skyline to the north. An idyllic place, taken straight off a Swedish travel brochure.

We’d wanted to port directly into Rowanheath, but unfortunately that option was no longer on the table. Since all members of the Crimson Alliance were now classified as Imperial enemies, we couldn’t directly teleport into any city owned by an Imperial faction. A nasty fact we’d learned from one of the magical transport specialists Abby had managed to poach for our cause. It was severely inconvenient, but it was also something of a relief, since that meant none of Osmark’s goons could just appear inside Yunnam and unleash havoc wholesale.

We weren’t completely out of luck though.

Any non-faction-controlled city, regardless of “allegiance,” was fair game for porting and trading, and there were loads and loads of those littering Eldgard’s countryside. In terms of defense, I’d even say we had an advantage over the empire, since there were a comparatively small number of cities in the Storme Marshes, and none of them were close to Yunnam. If the Imperials wanted to sack our town, they’d have to trek all the way through the Marshes with their force; I almost laughed at the thought of someone trying to push a siege tower through the dense forests and murky bogs.

The trek up the North Road took us twice as long as it should have since I still had the crippling pain from Death’s Sting to deal with. I had to stop, rest, and eat every mile or so, otherwise my legs would simply give out and refuse to work. I’d be limping along okay one minute, only to find myself facedown on the gritty road the next. On the plus side, by the time we did finally trudge up to the gates of the Rowanheath, Death’s Sting had worn off, taking the godawful pain with it. I still sported the debuffs from Death’s Curse for another four hours, but so long as I could walk and fight, I considered it a win.

Rowanheath’s fortified defensive wall—an enormous thing, which formed a giant horseshoe across the front of the city proper—gave me a small pause though. For a long beat, I just stood there staring up at the giant Keep looming high above the city, framed in by a series of treacherous mountain peaks. The place was a hulking monstrosity: all hard lines, gray stone, high walls, and domineering circular turrets carved directly into the mountain face itself. It wasn’t a place designed for beauty, it was a place designed for war. Designed to repel enemies and withstand a prolonged siege.

By sunset tomorrow, I was going to try and storm it. The cold flutter of butterfly wings in my belly sent shivers along my arms. Cutter nudged me hard in the ribs, breaking me away from my dark thoughts.

“Ready to do this, friend?” he asked, stealing a sly sidelong glance at a quartet of mean-looking NPC Legionaries standing at the gate. They all wore Roman-looking lorica armor—segmented, overlapping leather plates in dark reds and blacks—and crested helms, and each carried a gleaming halberd. According to Cutter, only those with the highest levels of Stealth and a Master’s level proficiency or higher in both the Whisper Step and Silent Master abilities could successfully sneak past gate guards. Apparently, not even Cutter could slip past the hard-chargers on post.

But with our new faction ability, Dignitary, he could cast Anonymous and walk right on in.

Theoretically, at least. Assuming everything went right.

I, on the other hand, couldn’t use the Anonymous ability on account of being an “Exalted Enemy” of the empire. Still, I had a few tricks up my sleeve. I watched nervously from the shadows, the hood of my cloak pulled up around my face, as Cutter activated Dignitary and strutted forward like a man without a care in the world. He walked tall, back straight, chin raised, confidence oozing off him in waves. The guards stopped him at the gate, of course, but after a few tense minutes, they broke out in affable smiles and waved him through, before turning their hard gazes back to the road.

I watched Cutter shuffle into a dark alley, well away from the sentries, then took a deep calming breath and triggered my Shadow Stride ability.

A flash of dark power, a swirl of purple shadow, exploded out of me, and suddenly I found myself in the monochromatic Shadowverse with everyone frozen around me. I had thirty seconds on the clock. With a nervous grin, I stole from my hiding spot and scrambled toward the gate, irrationally expecting the guards to somehow spring to life and apprehend me, despite the fact that I was currently strolling through a different dimension. My worries were misplaced, though, and I managed to walk right by without a hitch.

They just stood there, stupid and still like a bunch of statues, as I breached the city’s defenses.

I found myself silently thanking God above for my class—maybe I wasn’t the most powerful warrior on the planet, but damn did the Shadowmancer Kit have some cool perks.

With the countdown timer rushing toward zero, I hastily made my way into the alley, past Cutter, who was pressed against one wall, then stepped back into reality from the Shadowverse. Cutter jumped a little, startled by my abrupt reappearance, but no one else seemed to notice.

“I’ve got to admit,” he said, giving me a once-over, “I wasn’t sure that was going to work. Good plan. Maybe you’re more useful than I give you credit for,” he offered before heading out onto the street, only lightly packed with foot traffic at such a late hour. “Now”—he glanced at me over one shoulder—“all we have to do is get to the Broken Dagger in one piece. The residents shouldn’t take any notice of you, not unless they’re very, very patriotic—and this lot isn’t—but if you see guard patrols, duck and cover. Got it?”

“Loud and clear,” I said. “Lead the way.” I waved toward the cobblestone street beyond.

We made our way through a chaotic warren of twisting streets and dirty alleys, careful to keep our hoods up and our faces down. It was probably just my overactive imagination, but it sure seemed like all of the olive-skinned, robe-wearing Viridians were staring at us, even though they said nothing. Just nerves, I suppose.

Still, I made sure not to make eye contact with any of them, instead turning my attention to the cityscape around us. Most of the buildings stood two or three stories tall and were built in a sporadic, haphazard fashion, many leaning drunkenly to one side or the other. The place was a patchwork of homes and shops—some smooth stone, others rough wood, a few built from pasty white plaster—which reflected a wide array of backgrounds. I hadn’t traveled very widely in V.G.O., but after spending so much time in-game, it was easy to see the slapdash elements of the various game cultures:

The hard edges and intricately designed Celtic artwork, which seemed to adorn every Wode building. The clean lines and elegant tooled script, which was a hallmark of the Dawn Elves. The plain but meticulous craftsmanship of the Dwarves was easy to spot, even at a distance. Only the Murk Elves and the bird-winged Accipiter seemed underrepresented.

Cutter led us down the main thoroughfare for a few minutes before slipping into a narrow alley, which connected to a smaller side street of dirt and gravel. We trudged on while a handful of hardworking hawkers cried their wares—meat pies, knives, skill training, potions, and just about everything else under the sun—though there were far fewer vendors out and about than the first time I’d come through here. Probably because we were creeping up on 1 AM—this might’ve been a game in theory, but it mimicked real life, and even the NPCs needed rest. One man, a lanky-limbed Wode with greasy hair and a potbelly, tried to stop Cutter and sell him a dagger.

One hard look from the thief sent the seller on his way, and that was the last time the vendors bothered us.

After a few more minutes, we hooked right, cutting through a claustrophobic cross street, which dumped us onto a wider boulevard of paved stone worn from hard use, but almost empty at this hour. This, I’d come to learn, was Porter’s Road—the main thoroughfare for coaches, carts, and caravans. The road was also home to a good chunk of the cities mid-end businesses. Nothing too fancy here, but a traveler could find just about anything they needed: there were tailors, weavers, apothecaries, grocers, fletchers, bakers, and blacksmiths. Wooden signs, decorated with pictures displaying each shop’s purpose, hung above rough doorways.

An anvil and hammer on one. A pair of scissors and a bolt of fabric adorned another. A potter’s wheel a little further on.

We hastily made our way up the road, before darting into the mouth of yet another alley—this one cloaked in deep shadow—and heading for an unmarked three-story building of plaster with an unassuming black door, devoid of any kind of markings. The Broken Dagger. A members-only tavern and inn, which also happened to be home to the Rowanheath Thieves’ Guild. Or union, as Cutter insisted, since guild was too formal a term.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a voice hissed at us from a deep pool of black as Cutter reached for the door handle. A second later, a whip-thin man, maybe 5'10", garbed in dark leathers with a pair of daggers tucked into his belt, materialized in front of our eyes. I didn’t know his name, but I vaguely recognized him from my first visit to the Broken Dagger. He’d been guarding the door that sectioned off the training facilities and Guild barracks from the rest of the inn.

“Neriah, you dirty sod,” Cutter said with a grin, striding forward and embracing the man in a rough hug. “Good to bloody see you, mate.”

“You too.” The man gave Cutter a thump on the back. “Who’s the outsider?” he asked, nodding to me.

Cutter glanced at me. “No worries, he’s a friend. Not a thief, but I’ll vouch for him.”

“Good ’nough for me,” Neriah replied with a sniff. “You dropped off the face of the map for a while, there,” he said to Cutter, “but for once I’m glad. Things have been …” He trailed off, furtively glancing this way and that as though the night itself might have ears. “Well, odd, mate. Very odd. Best if we talk about it elsewhere, well away from here, if you take my meaning.”

“Of course,” Cutter replied, thumbing his nose conspiratorially.

Silently, we edged away from the Broken Dagger, moving from shadow to shadow, sticking mostly to back alleys as we made our way into a different section of town. The streets, here, were poorly maintained and lined with garbage and grime of all sorts, not to mention the snoring bodies tucked under thick blankets. Apparently, even in Eldgard homelessness was a real problem—though whether the sleepers were travelers or NPCs, I couldn’t say. The buildings were shoddy more often than not, the roofs thatch instead of wooden slats or ceramic tile.

We were in the slums.

“So what the hell is going on?” Cutter asked as we walked, his voice just above a whisper.

“It’s Georgie,” Neriah said. “He’s been wonky ever since he came back from the business trip a week ago. There’s something wrong with him. He ain’t right in the head.” He tapped a thin finger against his temple. “Not anymore. Worse, all the higher-ups, why they’ve gone just as bleeding mad in the noggin. Believe it or not, but you’re now our highest ranked member—at least the highest ranked member still playing with all his chips.” He shook his head. “Our whole operation is bollocks now. Complete bollocks. Can’t get a thing done. And the smugglers are in a damned pickle.”

“The smugglers?” Cutter asked, confusion in his voice. “What do they have to do with this? They run their own show.”

“Right on the nose,” the man replied as we cut through a claustrophobic alley which dead-ended at a giant hole, covered with a rusted metal grate. “But Georgie and his crew of loonies moved into the sewers. Well, technically, they’re holed up in the Plague Tunnels, but it’s wreaking havoc for the smugglers. Anyone they send down there goes missing”—he snapped his fingers—“gone in a blink. One sorry bloke made it back topside. Raving mad, he was. Blathering on about monsters, demons, torture, experimentation. Well, we can’t get a damn thing done, and since Georgie is one of our own, we have to handle it in-house.”
Cutter’s eyes touched on the sewer grate, then flicked back over to his friend. He groaned, finally putting two and two together. “Gods, Neriah. You want me to go down there?” He hooked a thumb toward the sewer. “And not just there, but into the Plague Tunnels.”

The man grimaced, then nodded. “Sorry, mate, but it’s your obligation as highest ranking member to handle it, but more than that: if you want help from the smugglers, you’ll need to fix this first. No way around it. So, what do you say?”

“Bollocks,” Cutter muttered before turning to me. “I need to do this one way or the other, friend, but this is your show, so if you don’t want to come, I’ll understand. What say you?”

A quest update flashed before me.

<<<>>>

Quest Update: Imposter Georgie

Gentleman Georgie has been acting strange, and it’s likely a black priest of Serth-Rog has replaced him and his top lieutenants with doppelgangers. Now, Gentleman Georgie has moved his operation into the Plague Tunnels deep beneath Rowanheath, preventing the Smugglers from accessing the sewer ways. Get to the bottom of Gentleman Georgie’s strange shift in personality.

Quest Class: Unique, Personal

Quest Difficulty: Hard

Success: Help Cutter get to the bottom of the mystery surrounding Gentleman Georgie’s sudden personality change and clear out the cultists obstructing the sewer ways.

Failure: Refuse to help Cutter or allow him to die before the mission is complete.

Reward: In gratitude, the Smugglers will agree to guide you and your men through the exterior mining shafts, located outside of Rowanheath, and into the sewers free of charge.

Accept: Yes/No?

<<<>>>

I wasn’t too keen on tromping through a bunch of smelly sludge, and the Plague Tunnels sounded pretty horrific, but this was the only way, so reluctantly I accepted.

TWENTY-FIVE: The Weaponeer

Cutter and I skirted along the narrow catwalks lining either side of the sewer way. In between us ran a river of mucky slime with a terrible odor like an old porta-john left to sit too long in the noonday sun. It was a bit strange actually, since I hadn’t run across a single toilet anywhere in Eldgard and no one—players or NPCs alike—actually seemed to have any need for the bathroom. Yet, here, flowing beneath Rowanheath like a sludgy, disgusting river, was actual sewage. Rancid crap, to be precise. And despite the obvious discrepancy, Cutter just took it in stride like every other wonky thing in V.G.O.

I chalked it up as an oddity—like Bags of Holding or a hundred other completely improbable RPG features—and refused to ask Cutter about it. That wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have.

Despite the unfortunate smell, the sewers were surprisingly easy to navigate and hadn’t posed much of a challenge so far. The tunnels were laid out in an orderly grid, wall-mounted torches—presumably used by the local smugglers—illuminated everything, and the few mobs present, all [Sewer Rats], went down without a fight. A flick of Cutter’s blade or a twirl of my warhammer saw them off in a blink. As a gamer, I was guessing this zone was probably a lowbie starting area. Most MMO cities had locations like this, which always seemed to be the scene of clear-out-the-rat-infestation type quests assigned by NPCs of all sorts.

“Pretty easy going so far,” I remarked offhandedly.

Another rat—gray, mangy, and about the size of a large cat—skittered around a corner at the noise and lunged at me. I blasted it with Umbra Bolt from a distance, sending its furry corpse to the bottom of the sewage trough. I kept right on walking—that was one body I didn’t intend to loot. Wading through that foul sludge for a rat pelt and a handful of coppers wasn’t worth it.

“Yeah,” Cutter replied, twirling his blade in anxious motion, eyes scanning the waterline, “no one likes coming down here—it’s the smell of piss and shite—but the mobs aren’t nothing to write home about. Most dangerous things around these parts is the occasional Shite-Blob. True story, that’s actually what they’re called. Shite-Blobs. Sometimes, bits of spirit energy from above leaks down and contaminates the waste water, animates it for a bit. Disgusting little buggers. But it won’t be long until we reach the Plague Tunnels, and that’s a whole different story.”

Another rat burst from the muck not two feet away from Cutter, but the thief sliced it down in midair without a moment’s hesitation or worry. His dagger parted the furry rodent’s head cleanly from its neck, and a splatter of fetid blood rained down on the ground.

“So what should I expect to find in the Plague Tunnels?” I asked, purposefully not looking at the bloody rat corpse adorning the walkway.

He held up a wait-a-minute finger as we passed through a gray-stone archway and emerged into a circular hub with new tunnels shooting off like the spokes of a bike wheel. The whole intersection looked oddly out of place. The tunnels we’d traversed so far had been built from rugged yellow brick, but this whole chamber was carved from slabs of ancient gray granite, which featured a host of runic inscriptions and carvings of one variety or another. I couldn’t read any of it, but even at a glance I could tell it was old—far older than the rest of the sewer system.

“What is this?” I asked, spinning slowly as I glanced at the glyphs covering the slab walls.

“This?” Cutter replied. “Used to be part of a temple. Long before Rowanheath was here, before the Wodes came, the Vogthar lived here. Nasty bastards. They ruled over most of Eldgard, but they’re dead now. Their cities gone. Razed to the ground. Their people exterminated. Wodes wiped ’em out during the purge—about eight, nine hundred years ago, this was. A few ruins remain along with some of their sacred sites, but there’s not much. Here in the valley, this room and the Plague Tunnels beyond, that’s what’s left. Come on,” he said, bobbing his head toward a tunnel off to the left, “that’s our path.”

Unfortunately, this new section of sewer didn’t have any nifty catwalks, so we had to slog through hazy, knee-deep goop, the slosh, slosh, slosh of our movements echoing off the old stonework and crumbling brick. “For a long, long time, the Plague Tunnels sat abandoned,” Cutter said idly as we trudged along. “But about a hundred years ago, there was a big famine and with it came the Plague.

“The Blood Plague, people called it. Killed lots of folks, but it was a slow process. Real slow. Could take weeks, sometimes even a month or more. And sometimes, those who died wouldn’t stay dead. They’d get right back up and start attacking healthy folks. Least, that’s the way legend has it. The Plague Tunnels have some powerful containment wards—left over from the time of the Vogthar—so the city militia rounded up everyone who was sick or dead and corralled ’em in there. Left ’em to rot down in the dark. An ugly bit of our history, I’ll admit,” he finished with a half-hearted shrug.

He fell silent after that, strangely somber.

We moved on in silence, following the sour waterway for another ten minutes—killing a small platoon of bothersome rats along the way—before finally winding up at a dry section of tunnel, built from more of the ancient gray stone tattooed with glowing runes and ancient script. “Not far at all now,” he whispered at me over one shoulder before dropping into a crouch and vanishing as he embraced Stealth. I followed suit, not knowing what to expect. Cutter froze a minute later as a round of muffled cursing floated to us from up ahead, reverberating off the walls. We weren’t alone down here. It was a man’s voice. A Russian from the sound of him.

I shot a look at Cutter and mouthed what’s going on?

He just frowned and offered me a no-clue shrug. My inbox pinged a second later, which seemed suspiciously timed. I reached out and grabbed Cutter by the shoulder before he could ghost away. “Hold on a sec,” I whispered urgently while pulling up my interface. Quickly, I scrolled over to my inbox—the new PM was from none other than Sophia. Sophia the Overmind.

<<<>>>

Personal Message:

Sorry I’ve been a bit aloof, running the world is surprisingly more complicated than you might imagine, but I haven’t forgotten about you. Not completely. First, let me say I wholeheartedly approve of the job you and Abby are doing—bang-up work, really. Making a deal with the Spider Queen was a bold move, and your plan to take on Carrera is brilliant. Frankly, that’s exactly the kind of unconventional thinking I was hoping for from a couple of wild-card humans. There’s one hitch in the plan, unfortunately: Abby still hasn’t found someone capable of modifying the Arcane Shadow Cannons. Believe it or not, but it’s a bit trickier than you’re thinking. Siege engines are specifically designed to be big or immovable, so you can’t teleport them. But never fear, there’s a loophole.

Just down the corridor is a very unique traveler, a former Russian weapons engineer, who is on the verge of acquiring a truly rare class kit: Alchemic Weaponeer. There are less than a handful of them in V.G.O., and this one is Factionless. Admittedly, he’s a bit useless now—a clueless newb who’s never played an RPG in his life—and not a fighter by any stretch of the imagination, but once he acquires his proper class, just get some weapon or machine blueprints into his hands and stand back. As the Overmind of Quest Creation, I gave him a class-specific assignment that would guarantee you’d cross paths. I can’t promise he’ll join you, but if you help him out, I’d say there’s a good chance of it. Now, off you go—and don’t “screw the pooch” as you Americans sometimes say.

You’re Welcome

—Sophia

<<<>>>

I grinned in spite of myself.

I was still wary of Sophia’s help and interference, but she certainly had a knack for pitching in at exactly the right moments. Maybe having her on our side wasn’t such a bad thing after all. I inched up next to Cutter, gave him an abbreviated rundown of what I’d just found out, and then together, we crept up to a “T” intersection. The path on the right quickly dead-ended at a wall of rubble and debris—caved in at some point in the distant past. The path on the left, however, continued on for another fifty feet or so before stopping at a hulking, circular stone door, carved with glowing green runes, which reminded me of a bank vault.

A man stood in front of the door, beating on it with curled fists, muttering angry curses in both English and Russian. He was a Dawn Elf with golden skin and a sheet of platinum hair hanging down to his shoulders. His gear was rough and threadbare—beginner equipment if I’d ever seen it—and he looked both exhausted and hungry. I wasn’t sure what he’d experienced so far, but I was guessing it hadn’t been good. The man gave one more hearty pound on the door’s front, then threw his hands up in frustration and began to pace back and forth across the breadth of the hallway.

“Bozhe, ya nenavizhu eto mesto!” He screamed into the air, shaking a fist at the heavens.

Finally, he took a deep, shuddering breath, slumped against one of the tunnel walls, and slid down onto his ass. He laced his hands through his hair and bowed his head—the look of a man utterly broken and completely defeated. “Why did I choose this?” he asked no one, his voice hollow and flat. “Perhaps I could have survived on the outside—but no, I had to take all my savings and buy a capsule. A derr`mo, American capsule. Now here I am, stuck in this awful place—where a guy can’t even get a bowl of borscht—by myself, forever.” He squeezed his eyes shut and pulled his knees into his chest, slinging his arms around his shins. “I wish I were dead.”

Poor guy, I thought. If he’d never played an MMORPG before, this would definitely be the worst kind of culture shock—not to mention he was surely dealing with the emotional fallout of the entire world ending less than a day ago.

I stood, letting Stealth fall away, then took a few, exaggerated steps so the sound of my footfalls carried down the hallway. I didn’t want to scare the guy.

His head shot up in an instant, and his eyes, a soft purple, shot wide as he spotted me and Cutter. He scrambled to his feet in a hurry, dropping low, fishing a rusty dagger from his side as a snarl split his face. “Leave me alone,” he said, his accent made thicker by fear. “You mu’daks have already had your fun, now leave me be.”

I raised my hands slowly, keeping my weapon at my side. “Hey, I don’t know who you think we are, but we’re not them, and we’re not here to hurt you.”

The man squinted suspiciously, scrutinizing us thoroughly before finally giving a brief nod and standing. He didn’t sheath his dagger, though. “Apologies,” he said curtly. “It has been a bad couple of days for me. These Imperial-aligned thugs, they keep finding me and killing me. I had one friend, an NPC I started with—they killed him, too. Now, I’m by myself with next to no money, next to no gear, and stuck at this stupid door.” He spun and slammed his hand against the slab in anger. “I have one final quest in order to unlock my specialist kit and no way to complete it.”

Yep, this poor guy sure had a rough go of things—it sounded like some higher-level players had grave camped him. “Why do these people keep killing you?” I asked.

He screwed his face up in distaste. “The Imperial-aligned players are going through the town, purging any travelers who refuse to join one of the Imperial factions. The NPCs, they seem to get a pass, but everyone else has a target on their back. Most people have either signed up or moved on to different towns, but me?” He hooked a thumb at himself. “I can’t go. I need to get my class specialization first, and the only way to do that is to defeat a bunch of cultists hiding out in the Plague Tunnels. First chance I get, I’m leaving. Now, if you are one such Imperial, then kill me and be done with it.”

“Bollocks, I like this guy,” Cutter said to me with a lopsided grin. The thief rounded on the man, a shifty smile parting his lips. “Got some stones on you, haven’t you? Well, you just happen to be in luck, friend. You’re not gonna even believe it, but this bloke right here”—he jerked his head toward me—“is none other than Grim Jack Shadowstrider. Leader of the Crimson Alliance, which happens to be the only Rebel-aligned traveler faction in all of Eldgard. At least for the time being.”

For a moment, the man didn’t respond; we all just stood there while the silence stretched into a painfully uncomfortable thing. “This is true?” he finally asked, suspicion thick in his words. “You are a Rebel faction leader?”

I nodded, doing my best to look intimidating and powerful. The way a faction leader should look, instead of like a thirty-two-year-old EMT with no leadership experience.

“Now, as you might imagine,” Cutter continued, slicker than any used car salesman I’d ever seen, “we’re sorta the underdogs in this situation, and we’re looking for people just like you to join our cause—”

“Like me,” the Russian interrupted, slipping his knife into its sheath, then folding his arms. “I’m a level four Alchemist with no money, weapons, skills, or combat ability.”

Cutter waved his protest away and offered him a reassuring smile. “Trust me, friend, we’re looking for people exactly like you. Now, as it turns out, we also have business in the Plague Tunnels. So how’s about we join up, eh? You sign on with the Crimson Alliance, we’ll help you complete your quest as a show of good faith, then we’ll bring you back to our base camp in the Storme Marshes. You’ll find it a much more agreeable place, I’ll wager. We can set you up with a place to stay, get you a decent meal to eat, even see you get out of that tattered garbage you’re currently sporting.”

“But this stupid door,” the man protested weakly, waving at the unmoving slab.

Cutter shrugged, then casually sauntered past him. He ran his hands over the surface of the rock, pushing here, prodding there, tracing a finger over a few of the glowing runes. After a few seconds, there was an audible click followed by a clang and a crunch as the door swung outward, a fine shower of dust raining down in its wake. “A deadlock door,” he said nonchalantly, glancing over his shoulder, smugness radiating off him in waves. “She’s got a specialty lock built right into the stone—you either need a town guard with a key or a world-class thief for a thing like this.”

The man broke into an uneven smile, eyeing the passageway beyond.

“I’m Vlad Nardoir, from Saint Petersburg. It is truly a pleasure to meet you both. Now, how do I sign up?”

TWENTY-SIX: Plague Tunnels

Our new companion, Vlad, was forty-three, very Russian, and a former weapons designer for some company called Almaz-Antey. He also wasn’t much of a talker—even getting that much personal information out of him was like pulling teeth from an angry crocodile. Aside from a semester I spent overseas in Prague, I’d never really traveled abroad, nor did I have any Russian friends, so I wasn’t sure if his tight-lipped nature was a cultural trait or strictly a Vlad trait. It was okay, though, since we didn’t have much time for chitchat, not with all the atrociously difficult mobs the Plague Tunnels offered.

No easily dispatched sewer rats, here.

Oh no.

Mostly, there were zombies—heaps and heaps and heaps of zombies, all in different stages of decay. Some were little more than shambling piles of sinew and bone, clad in the tatters of old armor, wielding rusty weapons. Others looked a bit fresher: their skin molted and sloughing off in places, revealing slick patches of rotting muscles beneath. Worse, the zombies seemed to retain whatever skill set they’d had in life, so we had to deal with Stealth attacks from fleet-footed thief-zombies, brutal heavy assaults from tank-like fighters, and even the occasional fireball or lightning bolt from a mage-zombie.

On top of that, every single hit had a chance to deal either poison or plague damage, sometimes both, which ate through both my Health and Stamina with a hungry ferocity. As a Murk Elf, my resistance to both disease and poison was naturally higher—currently at 37.8 percent—but Vlad had no such protection. If a zombie so much as looked at the lowbie, he seemed to catch the plague. Literally. The only true saving grace was the fact that the mobs seemed mindless despite retaining their class abilities in death—if they’d worked together as an actual team, they would’ve smoked us in a blink.

I carefully edged around a pile of bones, giving it a wide berth in case it was warded or booby-trapped. Aside from terrible mobs, the Plague Tunnels were also filled to the gills with assorted traps—spiked pits, poison darts, magical flamethrowers. Cutter was ahead somewhere, scouting the way, disarming the various dangers, but I still wasn’t interested in being peppered by an impromptu bone-bomb. Cutter had already missed one trap—something he would never, ever live down in my book—which had earned me a face full of skeletal shrapnel and a temporary, but painful, Plague debuff.

Pretty much, these Tunnels were the worst.

They were all ancient gray stone walls, dusty floors, rusted-out torture equipment, and bones: heaps and heaps of bones. Yellowed femurs, cracked rib cages, fractured skulls—some human, others not. Hulking stone columns ran up the center of each hallway. Dilapidated metal cages and old worn leather restraints dotted the ground, no doubt restraints against plague victims in the grip of debilitating pain. Rusty chains hung sporadically from the ceiling, studded with cruel meat hooks stained with old, rusty-red flakes of blood. Basically, this place would provide me with nightmare fuel for the next hundred years.

At least the mobs gave out better than mediocre loot and some decent EXP.

I’d already crept up past 10,000 points, which put me nearly a quarter of the way to the next level. Vlad was tight-lipped, so he hadn’t mentioned any level gains, but since he’d started at level four, there was a good chance he’d already banked three or four new levels since entering this section of the dungeon.

“Got another group!” Cutter screamed as he scrambled around a corner and tore ass toward me, legs pumping as fast they would go. “Big one,” he yelled, stealing a panicked glance over his shoulder. “They’ve got a couple of Rat Kings, too!”

I groaned and prepared myself.

Cutter skittered to a stop next to me, huffing and puffing from his sprint, as a horde of shambling undead rounded the bend, their moans and groans echoing off the walls as they shuffled toward us on jittery feet. A big group was right. There were at least twenty undead—a couple tanks, a bunch of generic miners with pick axes, some rotting archers, and even a pair of wizards in the back—not to mention a few Rat Kings. The Rat Kings were even worse than the zombies: hulking things which walked on two legs and more closely resembled rabid werewolves than rodents.

Despite every survival instinct screaming at me to run away, I sprinted toward the group, drawing aggro so they’d focus on me instead of Cutter or Vlad.

An inhuman howl went up and suddenly a hail of arrows and a soccer-ball-sized comet of flame were streaking toward me. I thrust my left hand out, conjuring Dark Shield as I ran. A dome of flickering, purple light burst to life in front of me, absorbing or deflecting the incoming projectiles, though eating through my Spirit like a school of hungry piranha. I dismissed the shield a heartbeat later and lashed out with Umbra Bog before they could unleash another volley of arrows. Inky black exploded from the floors and walls beneath the oncoming horde, tendrils of shadow wrapping tight around arms and legs.

With a malicious grin, I dropped my weight and activated my new Plague Burst spell, excited to see it in action for the first time. Knowledge bloomed in the back of my head—a burst of utter inspiration—and suddenly my empty left hand was whipping through the air in a complex series of motions, foreign to me and yet somehow completely natural. Flick, twirl, snap, fingers splayed out, then hand curling into a fist as cold power trickled into my palm. It was mesmerizing to watch, but also a bit disconcerting: all my other spells were instant effect, but the 8 second cast time on this one seemed to take forever and a day.

Beads of nervous sweat broke out along my brow and trickled down my face. Although the mobs were pinned down under the effects of Umbra Bog, the archers could still launch ranged attacks, and I was just standing out here in the open, flapping my hand around without a shred of cover.

I let out a soft sigh of relief as raw power ripped its way free from my body, taking a huge bite out of my dwindling Spirit reserve—the spell was complete. Sadly, I finished just as the snap of bowstrings filled the air with a round of thwangs. I didn’t have time to get a shield in place, and as a result, a trio of arrows peppered my body: one smashed into my gut, another into my shoulder, while the last punched into my thigh. Pain lanced through me like a lightning bolt; I had Shadow Armor firmly in place, which took the edge off the hurt, but I still dropped to a knee, grimacing as I groped at the wood shafts jutting from my body.

As a kid, I once stepped on a rusty nail in my dad’s toolshed—this was like that times a million.

I really needed to bring a proper tank with me in the future: some giant uber goon with a shield as big as a door to duck behind.

Cutter and Vlad were both by my side in a blink, wriggling the shafts free, then tossing them to the side. I was grateful for their help, and even more grateful for the Health Regen potion Vlad slipped me from a pouch at his side. The arrows had only shaved off a fifth of my life, but the gesture was still welcome, and I downed it greedily.

I threw the empty bottle aside and glanced up at the trapped mobs … I nearly sputtered and choked in surprise.

A rancid yellow cloud—thick, billowing, and positively toxic—bled from the air itself and swirled around the small army of monsters, digging at their eyes, clawing at their skin, boring into their yawning mouths. Many of them simply keeled over on the spot, grasping throats as they choked and desperately fought for air. I glanced down at my left hand, then back up at the horde. Damn was that impressive. The cloud dissipated and vanished a few seconds later, though my Spirit meter continued to plummet as the Plague debuff chewed through enemy hit points.

Total, Plague Burst had cost me fifteen seconds, but since I’d upgraded Umbra Bog, we still had a full twenty-five seconds before the spell lapsed.

I crawled back to my feet, hefted my warhammer, and charged at the mob—Cutter and Vlad trailed a step or two behind. More arrows and fireballs flew toward us, but this time I had Dark Shield ready to go, batting aside the attacks with ease. In seconds, we crashed into the horde and began to work our way through them. Cutter moved like smoke and shadow, slitting throats, thrusting his blades into desiccated eyeballs—earning huge Crits—and throwing out a fan of smoky conjured blades which sliced through armor and rotting flesh.

Those shadow blades were definitely a new ability, which could only mean that Cutter was growing as well—his skill set expanding along with mine.

Vlad kept close to the edge of the action, all the better to retreat in case things got too hot, and dealt what miniscule damage he could with his rusty starter dagger.

I put them both from mind as I danced among the undead, swinging, thrusting, smashing, twirling. I was still struggling under the Death’s Curse debuff, which meant my attacks weren’t quite as powerful as they should’ve been, but I still felt good. With those extra points I’d invested into Constitution, I moved faster and breathed easier, and with those 15 extra points invested in Dexterity, my hammer felt as light as a feather in my hands. Zombie heads and skeletal torsos exploded as I whirled by, leaving a cloud of bone dust and bloody mist in my wake.

Sadly, Umbra Bog wore off much too quickly, and the whole mob lurched back into motion, swarming us. The heavy-armor-clad zombie tanks tried to engage me, but I ignored them, feinting, ducking, dodging, and rolling as I headed for the archers and the spellcasters located near the back. Those guys dished out the most damage, but they couldn’t take much, so they were our primary targets. I ducked a big overhand strike from a Risi zombie in plate mail, then blasted him right in the gut with Umbra Bolt.

My attack dropped his HP into the red, but didn’t put him down for good.

An interesting thing happened next, though: instead of coming at me again, the undead warrior pivoted and promptly launched himself at a nearby archer. The Risi tackled the archer around the waist, took him to the ground, then laid into the skeleton with decaying fists, smashing in its bony head with furious blows. It didn’t take long for the rest of the horde to unleash absolute hell on the traitorous zombie warrior, but by the time they’d dispatched him, he’d already taken the archer to the grave.

That was my new Umbra Bolt effect in action, right there. I felt absurdly happy at the small victory.

I didn’t have time to gloat, though, because the pair of fire-wielding mages had retreated to the rear of the hasty formation, while a pair of horrifying Rat Kings blundered toward me, beef-slab arms outthrust, lips pulled back in ferocious snarls. Pound for pound, the Rat Kings were the toughest mobs I’d fought in V.G.O. so far, and I wasn’t even remotely interested in trying to go toe-to-toe with them. They were simply too fast, hit too hard, and could take far too much damage. So instead, I launched into Shadow Stride. The Shadowverse exploded around me in all its monochromatic glory, and the monstrous Rat Kings ground to a halt, only inches away from mauling me.

I slipped behind one, dropped into Stealth, took a few practice swings with my hammer, then emerged back into the real world. The Rat King before me spun wildly, confusion etched into the lines of its fur-covered body, but it was already too late. I smashed in the side of its neck, stacking both Savage Blow and Black Caress into a single, focused blow. Combined with Backstab, those attacks landed for nearly 700 points of damage: the monster Rat didn’t stand a chance. My warhammer ripped through its throat and sent its stumpy, hideous head sailing into the air like a ghoulish pop fly.

The sight was ugly, brutal, and disgusting, but also strangely satisfying.

A flash of light on the right caught my eye—a nasty fireball was streaking my way. I spun and threw out a hand to conjure my Dark Shield, expecting to feel the cold tingle of shadow power rush out of me like hurricane winds … Except nothing happened. I hadn’t been paying attention; my Spirit bar was flashing on empty after all my spell-slinging, and I didn’t have the juice for anything else. I sighed as the undead mage’s fireball smacked into my chest like a jackhammer, hurling me across the hall. My back smashed against the wall and I crumpled to the floor, wheezing for air as tendrils of sooty smoke wafted up from my armor.

I hastily fumbled a Spirit Regen potion from my belt and downed the vial, feeling power immediately wash back through me. But in the time it’d taken to drink the concoction, the remaining Rat King had slipped up in front of me: its huge claws flashed out. I got one gauntlet up in time to prevent the creature from removing my face, but the talons still sliced into my arm, leaving deep, painful furrows behind. I swore and scrambled to swing my warhammer, but the Rat King was already clutching at its neck. A bright red line had appeared almost miraculously across the front of its throat.

Cutter’s grinning face popped up a second later; he held up a dagger dripping with blood.

The Rat King took one staggering step back, then dropped to the floor, taking a last hitching breath before dying. Cutter offered me a hand, which I gladly took, and pulled me upright. I quickly scanned the hallway, expecting to see more zombies rushing toward us, but they were dead. Everything was dead. Between me and Cutter, there wasn’t a monster left standing. Heck, there wasn’t a monster left twitching. Meanwhile, Vlad was hunched over a zombie, carefully rummaging its corpse.

“Everyone okay?” I asked as I idly wiped away a bit of gore that had splattered onto my cheek. Gross.

“Fine,” Vlad called, glancing up as he moved on to another corpse, this one riddled with Cutter’s new shadow blades. The Russian’s expression was frozen somewhere between bliss and greed. “These creatures”—he swept a hand toward the dead—“they carry silver—no measly copper coins. Real silver. And the loot.” He shook his head.

“Already I’ve discovered a Fine Dagger with a +2 to Intelligence, and some Good Quality Light Armor—all much better than anything I’ve seen so far.” Vlad grinned, then faltered, as though realizing he hadn’t waited to divide up the drops, which was a pretty big taboo in gamer circles. “Apologies,” he said, standing. “Please, you and your companion did all the heavy lifting. This”—he gestured toward the remaining corpses—“is yours.”

I hesitated for a second. Getting loot was the best part of playing games like this, but he needed this stuff way more than I did. I grimaced and shook my head. “Nah, don’t worry about it. I’ve already had more than my fair share of lucky breaks. Why don’t you take this stuff?”

Vlad stared at me long and hard—weighing my words, looking for some trap—then he simply shrugged and set back to work. Clearly, this was a guy who understood the expression don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

It took another couple of minutes to finish going through the dropped items. I used the time to grab a quick bite to eat, earning myself the Well-Fed buff—an essential, considering all of the negative debuffs I still had working against me. Once Vlad was finally done, we moved on, heading ever deeper into these god-awful tunnels.

TWENTY-SEVEN: Gentleman Georgie

Another hour and a double fistful of mobs later, saw us to an ancient stone doorway, set into the time-worn rock at the end of a broad tunnel. An intricately carved demonic visage protruded from the surface of the door like a cancerous growth, while pulsing runes ran along the edges of the doorframe. For a time, everyone just stood there staring at the unsettling bas-relief. The carving boasted deep-set eyes, meticulously crafted from emerald, cruel lips pulled back from wicked fangs, and curling ram’s horns sprouting from the sides of the demon’s misshapen head. It almost radiated a foul miasma of death and decay.

A bloody handprint marred the creature’s forehead, asking to be touched. To be opened.

I knew I was looking at Serth-Rog, the Daemon Prince of Morsheim, the prime evil hellbent on murdering the world—transforming the grassy plains into rolling deserts, draining the crystalline lakes until they were only barren craters in the ground, and nuking the forests until nothing but burnt husks remained. Those awful green eyes were a dead giveaway. I pulled up my interface map, and—surprise, surprise—a small dot marked the entrance as the Forgotten Temple of Serth-Rog. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind: this was the door to the boss room.

Gentleman Georgie and his crew of top lieutenants were on the other side of that door.

In order to win the help of the Smugglers Guild, all we needed to do was waltz in there, mop up the bad guys, collect whatever loot there was to earn, and hightail it back to Yunnam with our new Alchemic Weaponeer in hand. All simple, in theory. Except, I had a sneaking suspicion it wouldn’t be quite so easy. No, that awful face staring at me from the door seemed to promise this was going to go badly.

“Well, it’s not going to open itself,” Vlad said from behind me.

I shifted awkwardly, moving from foot to foot, then cleared my throat and nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. We just need to get in there and do this.” I faltered for a moment, then turned to face my teammates. “I’ve got a sinking feeling this might not pan out so well. If things look like they’re going to go sideways, I’ll stick behind and cover the retreat. You guys just focus on getting clear, and Vlad”—I jabbed a finger at the Russian—“leave the fighting to us. Your only job here is to get the ingredients you need to complete your quest. We’ll take care of everything else. Everyone got it?”

A round of muted nods followed.

I turned back around, took a few calming breaths, steeling myself for whatever we might find, then inched up next to the door and did what seemed natural: I placed my palm onto the bloody handprint marring the demon’s forehead.

Heat exploded beneath my sweat-slicked palm followed by a flare of iridescent light as the world spun, twirled, and vanished around us. My stomach shot up into my throat as the ground dropped out from under me, and then darkness was whipping past me and gale-force wind beat against me as I fell. The stupid demon door was a port-hub. I’d heard about them on the game wikis—they were unique transport artifacts which allowed a dungeon’s final room to be perfectly tailored to unique players and quests. Port-hubs basically made it possible for an infinite number of potential “Boss Rooms” to exist at the end of any particular location.

It made perfect sense that the Devs would drop one in a popular location like the Plague Tunnels.

Off-key chanting and sooty orange firelight exploded around me as I crashed into rough stone. My knees buckled from the abrupt impact, and a wave of wooziness and vertigo washed through me, but I kept my feet through sheer force of will. I pressed my eyes shut to dispel a bout of nausea, and after a second the feeling fled. Finally, I cracked my eyes and stole a quick glance to my left and right: Cutter was reeling drunkenly from the fall, and Vlad sat on the ground like a crumpled soda can, but they’d both managed to make it.

I quickly turned my attention on the torture chamber before me—a room which reminded me of the dungeon I’d ended up in after first entering V.G.O. The same dungeon where I’d met Cutter and the dying Murk Elf Shaman who’d set me on this whole crazy path.

Hulking iron cages, covered with spots of rust, lined the left wall, housing a handful of prisoners, all of different races. Many bore fresh lacerations and fading scars; all of them looked emaciated and sleep deprived. A series of rudimentary wooden tables lined the far wall, and strapped to those tables were bodies. Corpses, actually, since none of them seemed to be alive. Thick stone columns, pitted and worn from age, held up a vaulted, cathedral-style ceiling, and the walls were absolutely studded with skulls. Cavernous eye sockets stared at us from a thousand—or even ten thousand—bone-white faces. Weighing us. Warning us. Pleading with us.

Turn back now, those dead, empty stares seemed to say. Run before it’s too late.

But it was already too late for us.

We were in too deep and we needed to face Georgie if we wanted to fulfill our mission and win over the smugglers. Besides, we’d already attracted the unwanted eyes of the cultists loitering around the room. There were four thieves sporting creased, black-leather armor and dark cloaks which hid their faces. My eyes flickered past them, noting the gleaming blades tucked into their belts, before moving on to a small group of robe-wearing priests chanting in an alcove at the far side of the room.

A huge circular symbol, all sharp lines and jagged edges, had been painted onto the floor with what looked like blood.

The priests slowly marched around it, eyes fixed on the floor while they waved their hands overhead in a series of elaborate and well-rehearsed gestures: wrists flicking, fingers dancing, hands swaying rhythmically to some unheard melody. Magic—obsidian and angry—swirled around the assembled priests in a cloud; tendrils of greasy power wafted out, caressing the circle like the fingers of a patient lover. This whole scene was new to me, but I’d played enough RPGs to know a summoning ritual when I spotted one.

These guys were no doubt calling up some Lovecraftian horror-show from the darkest regions of Serth-Rog’s realm, Morsheim.

“Cutter,” a voice boomed out, as warm and welcoming as a hot cup of coffee. “It’s so good to see you’ve found your way back into the fold.” One of the hooded thieves shuffled forward, pulling down his cowl to reveal a middle-aged man with wavy black hair, a thin mustache, and an utterly disarming smile. This guy was one part politician, one part suave riverboat gambler. Unlike the others present, he wore a fancy black-and-gold doublet and knee-high leather boots, and had a slim golden rapier at his side. He looked more like a European nobleman than a typical cutthroat.

“I was going to find you,” the man said, swishing forward a few steps, then laying one hand on the hilt of his weapon, “but then you slipped off before we had a chance to speak.”

“Cut the horseshite,” Cutter said, stepping past me as he pulled dual daggers free and gave them a nervous spin. “Everyone here knows you’re not Georgie. You might look like him, but you’re not. Georgie wasn’t what anyone would call a good man, but he’d never get mixed up in something like this—it’d hurt his bottom line too much. Now,” Cutter snarled, a dangerous glint in his eye, “I want to know where the real Georgie is. I want to know what you’ve done with him, and I want to know what this”—he gestured around the room with the gleaming tip of his dagger—“is. What kinda black magic are you about, eh?”

Not--Georgie smiled and placed one hand against his chest, as though offended by the accusation. “Cutter,” he said reproachfully, canting his head to one side, “I can quite assure you, I am the real Georgie. Everything that I was, everything that I am, is all still right up here.” He reached up and tapped at his temple. “We’re all the same,” he said, spinning slowly, waving at the other thieves. “All of your brothers and sisters are still here. We have the same names, the same faces, the same skills. Even the same memories. Why, I remember when you were still a young lad—this was right after your father passed—and I took you in and gave you your first blade. Do you remember what I told you then?”

“The world is a hard place, boy,” Cutter replied slowly, the words barely more than a whisper.

“And the only one you can trust is you,” not-Georgie finished, before winking. “That’s right, boy. I’m still me. Not even black magic can change that. And as to what all this is … Well, this is progress. This is the future. A new order is coming, and I’ll be there to see it ushered in, bright and bold.”

“Bollocks,” Cutter replied, taking another menacing step toward the Cutthroat King. “Don’t forget, Georgie, not so long ago, I was in a cell just like that”—he jerked his head toward one of the cages on the left—“waiting for one of those Black Priests to carve me up. To hollow me out. I’ve seen what goes on in places like this. The people that survived, they weren’t the same, not by a country mile.”

“It is true, not all survive the Remaking,” not-Georgie replied with an unconcerned shrug. “But those that do, are improved a thousand-fold. We’ve been granted strength and powerful new abilities—rewards for becoming thralls of the Dark Master.”

“Is that so?” Cutter said, voice oozing sarcasm. “There’s another saying you were fond of, Georgie. Nothing in this world is free—one way or another, there’s always a price to pay. So what’s the price, eh? Where’s the hook?”

The man grimaced, his face screwing up in annoyance. “The price? An inconsequential thing, lad. Your soul is all. The Remaking rips out that meaningless shard of spirit and replaces it with the essence from one of the long-dead Vogthar. The original inhabitants of these lands, which our Wode ancestors so callously murdered. Their souls are trapped in the eternally frozen tundra of Morsheim with our glorious Lord, Serth-Rog. But with this”—he pulled a black dagger, which radiated cold death, from a sheath at his side—“we can rip the soul from one body, send it on to Morsheim, and then invite a new host in. It sounds costly, but I can assure you, for men like us, it’s hardly a loss. Your soul is already such a withered and pitiful thing, you won’t even feel it pass.”

It was odd that he was spilling the beans like this—it had the ring of a villain monologue and I had to wonder if it was some sort of in-game, scripted event. I glanced back at the priests: their chanting had increased in pitch and intensity, building to a fervent crescendo. To an inevitable climax. Either this was a scripted event … or they were stalling for time.

“You’re a monster,” Cutter said, interrupting my thoughts, “and that means something coming from me. Georgie wouldn’t want to live like this, and I intend to see him put to rest good and proper, just the way he deserves.” Without hesitation, the scrappy thief darted forward, slashing wildly with his blades, a sudden tornado of steel and red-hot fury.

But Gentleman Georgie was awfully quick—before I could even blink, he had his rapier free and was fending off Cutter’s attacks, parrying and feinting, his movements precise and economical. I didn’t know much about sword fighting, but it sure looked like Georgie did.

“Leave this one to me, but get the others,” not-Georgie hollered at his lieutenants, before making a lightning-fast thrust, which Cutter narrowly avoided. “And whatever you do, protect the ritual, we need more time!”

The other thieves broke into action, charging Vlad and me en masse.

“Go get your quest ingredient,” I hissed, grabbing the alchemist by the shoulder, then rudely shoving him toward a series of rickety wooden shelves on the right, loaded down with moldering old books, piles of raw ingredients, and glass test tubes just waiting to be taken. Whatever he was looking for had to be over there. I turned and bolted toward the oncoming wave of leather-clad bodies, warhammer raised in one hand, an Umbra Bolt forming in the other.

TWENTY-EIGHT: Bloodletting

I lashed out with Umbra Bolt, staggering a beanpole with a pockmarked face and a slim blade. Purple shadow slammed into his chest and clawed its way up his skin and into his eyes. He shrieked, then, in a fit of confusion and rage, he spun and threw himself at a stocky man circling to my right. The two went to the ground in a tangle of limbs, blood flying as blackened steel flashed out. Boy, was I loving that new Umbra Bolt feature. True, the confusion didn’t last for all that long, but it was grade-A for causing distractions.

With the two thieves frantically wrestling on the ground, each fighting for dear life, I spun left just in time to catch an incoming blade on the shaft of my hammer. I parried the strike with a flick of my wrist and shot forward in a blur, dropping my weapon low, then swinging up with a brutal uppercut which smashed into the thief’s chin and sent him sailing, his arms and legs pinwheeling madly. In a single fluid motion, I spun right, smacking away another incoming dagger thrust—courtesy of Pock Mark, who’d finally recovered from my Umbra Bolt—with my bracer.

I offered him a nasty grin as I stepped through and planted an elbow in his neck while simultaneously triggering Black Caress.

Savage Blow was tied to my Blunt Weapon skill, which meant it could only be used in connection with my warhammer, but Black Caress had no such limitations. Any weapon—even a fist or an elbow—could be super-charged with that ability. Violet fire erupted from my forearm, searing the thief’s skin like a hot fire poker, earning me a nice critical hit in the process, while sweet life flowed into me. The man dropped his blade and staggered back a step then two, clutching at his ruined throat, fighting for air while his eyes bulged. I swung my hammer in a wide arc and planted the spiked end directly into his temple, killing him on the spot.

Though this wasn’t the first time I’d killed an NPC, seeing scarlet blood stain the man’s face made me feel ill. Offing undead shamblers and hulking Rat Kings didn’t hold a candle to killing men and women that looked so human, so real—it wasn’t murder, I knew intellectually, but it sort of felt like murder. Still, I couldn’t afford a crisis of conscience right now, so I jerked my weapon free and wheeled around, searching for another enemy.

A second later, a crippling flash of pain brought me to my knees as a dagger blade slipped into my side, wiping out over a quarter of my hit points in a single stroke. The sensation was like having a branding iron shoved into my kidney, then wiggled around. So that’s what it was like to be on the other end of the Backstab. Very unpleasant. I gasped as the blade slipped free—hot blood rolling down my side—but then, before I could even think about acting, the blade plunged down again, this time through my back and directly into my lung. A combat notification flashed as I wheezed for sweet, delicious air:

<<<>>>

Debuffs Added

Punctured Lung: You have suffered a punctured lung; Stamina Regeneration reduced by 15% for 5 minutes.

<<<>>>

The blade jerked free again, accompanied by another hot wash of blood. I knew he was going to stab me again, but this time I was ready for the move. I heard the whoosh of the blade and pitched forward, dropping flat onto my belly, then rolling onto my back despite the horrendous pain radiating along my spine and ripping at my side. The treacherous Cutthroat—a rather squat Wode, with a haggard face and thinning hair—stumbled forward, caught off guard by my unexpected maneuver.

I exploited the minor opening, jabbing the spiked top of my hammer straight up into his nether bits as I triggered Savage Blow. The man audibly gasped as he fumbled at his crotch—but I followed up with an Umbra Bolt for good measure, blasting his head from his shoulders with a sickening wet rip. Two down, three to go—not counting Georgie or those priests, still crying out their undulating chant in the background. With a heave, I crawled to my knees. I was almost back to my feet when another blade punched into my gut and a nondescript killer materialized in front of me.

Another fifth of my HP vanished right down the drain.

I clutched at the wound with one hand, and was completely unprepared as a second blade slammed into my neck, courtesy of a petite blonde Cutthroat with a puckered white scar running down one cheek. The brutal strike earned her a critical hit and knocked my HP down to a troubling 10 percent. On top of that, more debuff notifications popped up in the corner of my vision:

<<<>>>

Debuffs Added

Bloodletting: You have sustained severe slashing damage; Health Regeneration reduced by 15% for 5 minutes.

Lingering Wound: You have sustained severe piercing damage; 1 HP/sec; duration 45 seconds.

Assassin’s Poison: You have been poisoned: 2 HP/sec; duration, 2 minutes or until cured.

<<<>>>

Wow, these guys hit fast and hard.

I couldn’t fight them in a straight-up brawl—no way.

Speed and Stealth were my main assets, but these jerks had both of those in spades, plus I was outnumbered. The math was not in my favor, so I triggered Shadow Stride while I still could, and let out a sigh of relief as time ground to a halt. The pair of blades, piercing my body a moment before, simply slipped through me as I stood. I crept over to the far side of the room, taking my time since I had the benefit of added Health Regen while in the Shadowverse, then dropped into Stealth and waited patiently for the clock to run down.

Cutter was on the far side of the expansive room and Vlad was close by, still rooting through the shelves, which meant the coast was clear. As soon as time came lurching back into motion, I cast Umbra Bog on the thieves, then immediately launched Plague Burst, my hands flying through the complex motions while my wily opponents struggled to free themselves from the quagmire of goopy shadow. This time, they were out of luck. The toxic, yellow cloud seeped into the air a few seconds later, dealing massive Shadow Damage, then heaped on added Plague Damage like an underhanded kick to the shins.

The remaining thieves—tough as they might’ve been on offense—were absolute lightweights in the defense department. Plague Burst decimated their ranks like a wildfire in dry grass, and a few added Umbra Bolt spells from afar saw them all into early graves.

“It’s here,” Vlad called, thrusting a glowing vial high into the air, a fierce grin splitting his face. He looked like a kid who’d just won first prize in the science fair. Another lucky break. True, Cutter was still duking it out with Georgie, and I was in pretty pitiful shape, but overall things were really looking up. Since Vlad now had his ultra-rare quest ingredient, all we had to do was polish off Georgie and take out the four occult priests. It wouldn’t be easy, but it might just be doable.

I took a quick glance at Cutter and immediately winced. Our resident Rogue had managed to do some serious damage—the unofficial King of Thieves was now down to 50% Health—but Cutter looked about as terrible as I felt. The poor guy was bleeding out from a myriad of little nicks and cuts, which seemed to cover him from head to toe. He fought on valiantly, but he was dragging his left leg a little, and his right arm, his dominant arm, seemed just a tad slower than it should’ve been. Due, no doubt, to the long gash running across the front of his bicep.

“Just stay out of the way unless everything completely falls apart,” I yelled at Vlad as I sprinted past him, beelining to join the fray against Gentleman Georgie.

I was almost there when a thundercrack of power and a brilliant flash of light ripped through the air and stopped me dead in my tracks. When the light faded, the four priests were on the floor, unmoving, blood pooling around them like crimson halos: the loony idiots had slit their own throats. Meanwhile, the gigantic runic symbol on the floor had morphed into a swirling vortex of dark magic. Looking at that thing was like staring directly into the eye of a black hole. Except black holes were supposed to eat everything, and this one was actually vomiting something out into the world.

A pair of beef-slab arms—each one bigger around than I was—pebbled with arctic-blue skin and covered in wisps of gnarled yellow hair, were dragging a monstrous body into our plane of existence. A malformed head with a gorilla’s flat face and deformed jaws came next, followed by a thickly muscled torso and a pair of giant legs, covered in even more of the coarse yellow fur. I stared on in horror as the creature emerged completely and climbed to its feet, looming over everyone at a whopping fifteen feet tall. The thing was a cross between an arctic polar bear and the legendary Bigfoot.

A tag briefly popped up above its head, which really said everything that needed to be said. [Demonic Snow Yeti]. Yep, that was an apt description, alright.

The creature took one hasty look around the room, surveying the scene with beady black eyes like twin pieces of coal, then threw its head back and roared. The sound was as loud as a train’s whistle and shook the room—a few skulls, so carefully crammed into the walls, broke free and tumbled to the ground. The noise left me trembling in my boots. This was impossible. Absolutely impossible. Cutter was barely hanging on by a thread, I wasn’t much better off, and Vlad was all but worthless to the cause. On top of that, Gentleman Georgie still had some pep in his step and now we had a fifteen-foot-tall Demonic Yeti to fight.

Impossible.

After what felt like an eternity, the Yeti fixed its gaze squarely on me, dropped to all fours, and charged, running with a rolling, simian gait which literally rattled the floors with each and every step. Oh man, I was so screwed. A colossal fist, big as a truck tire, careened toward me with enough force to one-shot me for sure. I dove right, and threw myself flat—letting the blow skim right over the top of me—before frantically barrel-rolling left, over and over again. I narrowly avoided a crushing stomp, which left a crater in the earth, then scrambled back in retreat.

Distance was definitely my friend—

Or so I thought until the monster threw one massive mitt forward, releasing a hail of razor-sharp ice spikes, which looked more than capable of impaling me clean through. I conjured a wavering defensive barrier, which saved my neck, but I still didn’t have a game plan. I stole a quick glance at Cutter—he was holding his own, but he was bleeding fiercely now, and his movements were slowing down by the second. Obviously, Georgie was the King of the Thieves for a good reason.

I dove beneath another onslaught of ice spikes when a lightning bolt of sheer inspiration struck.

What I really needed here was backup, and though Vlad was essentially useless, I had one companion just waiting to be used: my new Void Drake, Devil. Sure, he was still a level higher than me, which meant he might attack me instead of the Demonic Yeti, but at this point that was a risk I was willing to take. “Find something to hide behind!” I yelled at Vlad as I activated my Void Terror ability and summoned my minion from the Shadowverse. There was a pop of sooty smoke and in an eyeblink the monstrous lizard appeared in the middle of the room like a nightmare apparition given life.

Instead of immediately laying into the Yeti, Devil rounded on me—fixing me with a deathly glare as his tar-black lips pulled back in a snarl. I gulped, sure it was going to pounce, then the stupid Yeti smashed a fist right into Devil’s wing joint. The serpent rounded with a screech—completely forgetting me—and launched itself at the fur-covered monster. Devil’s talons ripped at the Yeti’s pebbly skin while his jaws slammed shut around one fur-covered bicep, drawing yellow blood that reeked of sulphur. The Yeti headbutted Devil, biting down on one of the Drake’s membranous wings.

A big part of me really, really, really wanted to watch the fight unfold, but Cutter and Georgie were the priority here. We needed to kill him to complete our end of the quest chain, and after that we could probably split if we really needed to. I downed a Health Regen potion, then triggered Shadow Step, darting across the room and positioning myself behind Georgie, who was frozen with a malicious snarl on his face, poised to drive his rapier straight through Cutter’s chest. Not on my watch, I thought as I disengaged Shadow Stride and laid into Georgie with my hammer, triggering Black Caress and Savage Blow in one massive attack.

My weapon landed like a meteor, blasting into Georgie’s face; the hit spun him around over and over again, before he dropped, his weapon flying free and clattering along the floor. Despite his shoddy physical condition, Cutter didn’t hesitate for a moment. He leapt onto the downed thief and sank both daggers directly into Georgie’s eyes, pinning his head to the floor. The Thief King’s body went rigid in shock, legs and arms hyperextended, and then, after one last final twitch and gurgle, he fell still.

I wanted to stand up and do a celebration dance at our victory, but we had a demon to worry about yet.

“Loot his corpse,” I yelled to Cutter, before wheeling around to see how Devil was faring in his first brawl. After such a hard-fought battle, I was pleasantly surprised to see the Drake was doing incredibly well. True, one of his wings had been torn entirely off, and huge furrows crisscrossed his hide, but he was alive and the Demonic Yeti was very nearly dead. Devil was currently wrapped around the hairy beast like some kind of mythical anaconda, his jaws latched in a death grip around the Yeti’s throat

The conjured Demonic Yeti beat at my pet, pounding at Devil with bone-breaking blows, but the Drake simply refused to let go. He constricted tighter and tighter, jaws sinking deeper into blue flesh. After another second, the Yeti’s attacks lessened then stopped altogether, its eyes taking on the glassy sheen of death. With its work done, I quickly unsummoned my Drake before he could unwind himself from the Yeti’s corpse and come after us—my minion disappeared in a poof of inky smoke just as he’d arrived.

“It is over?” Vlad called out, his head popping up from behind a shelf.

“Yeah,” I said, dropping to the ground, lying on my back as I stared up at the ceiling. I chuckled softly and ran shaky hands through my hair. “Yeah, it’s over,” I said again once my giggling fit passed. I couldn’t believe it—somehow we’d survived. “Alright, let’s loot this place for all it’s worth, find a way to set these prisoners free, then get the hell out of this dump.”

TWENTY-NINE: Mop Up

After Cutter was patched up, our resident thief kindly picked the locks on the prisoner cells, setting the whole lot of them free, before we turned our attention on the dungeon. We’d really hit pay dirt. First, completing the Imposter Georgie quest chain had earned me a staggering 50,000 points of EXP, which pushed me up to level twenty-nine. Heck, combined with the points I’d scored from killing the thieves and taking out the Yeti, I was already a quarter of the way to thirty. The 5 Stat Points and the extra Proficiency Point were awesome, obviously, but the real victory was that I’d finally pulled even with Devil: I could now summon my minion without fear of him ripping me to shreds.

After seeing his first performance against the Yeti, I consider that a giant win.

And then, there was the loot to consider … All of Georgie’s lieutenants had been pretty high level and their gear reflected it. Most of the items had buffs tailored specifically for Rogue classes—bracers that added additional “Poison Blade” damage, for example, or a set of gloves with +15 to “Lock Picking”—but it was all good stuff, and I took it gladly. We had a whole army of lowbies to equip, after all, so this stuff was going into whatever passed for the Faction Armory. I also turned up a beefy battle-axe with a +5 Strength bonus, which dealt bonus cold damage.

I could probably sell it for a good profit, but for some reason, I couldn’t help but think of Forge—the former Marine from Texas—with his fighting spirit, but pitiful, rusted-out gear.

Strangely, Cutter passed over all the loot save for Gentleman Georgie’s elegant golden rapier, which he slipped into his belt with trembling hands and a look of reverence dancing across his face. He kept muttering, “this is certainly going to change things,” under his breath, but when I pressed him on it, he only shook his head and replied with a cryptic, “all in due time, all in due time.”

Unlike the dead thieves, the Demonic Yeti dropped some custom gear far more suitable for me and Vlad. The aspiring Weaponeer received the Robes of Azure Alchemy, which came with some hefty crafting bonuses and stat bumps. Naturally, he accepted them with stoic grace, but I could tell he was beaming with joy underneath the deadpan exterior. I scored a crown, crafted of worn yellow bone, bound together with gold, and studded with chunks of polished jade: an Ancient Artifact helm with some wickedly good stats, which was absolutely perfect for my character class.

<<<>>>

Crown of the Jade Lord

Armor Type: Medium; Bone Helm

Class: Ancient Artifact; Set Item

Base Defense: 41

Primary Effects:

Vitality Bonus = .5 x Character Level

Dexterity Bonus = .5 x Character Level

15% 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 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.

<<<>>>

The headgear was an incredible find—far better than my current Helm of the Owl with its +15% Night Eye boost—but there was something off-putting about it. Some oddity that tickled at the back of my memory, but which I couldn’t quite place my finger on. Plus, it felt a little pretentious and slimy to wear a crown, when I was literally leading a rebellion against a tyrannical king … well, in this case an emperor, but that was really just semantics. Regardless about how I felt, though, good gear was good gear, so I took off my old helm, added it to my bulging pack, and slipped on the new one.

The second I had the thing situated on my brow, a new quest alert popped up:

<<<>>>

Quest Alert: The Jade Lord

Congratulations! You’ve found the Ancient Crown of the Jade Lord, the deposed ruler of the Nangkri Dynasty. Speak with the Dark Conclave about the “Downfall” and show them the artifact.

Quest Class: Ultra-Rare, Secret

Quest Difficulty: ?

Success: Speak with the Dark Conclave and show them the crown.

Failure: Lose or sell the Crown of the Jade Lord.

Reward: ?

Accept: Yes/No?

<<<>>>

I read over the quest with intense interest, then accepted without hesitation—of course I wanted to learn more about the Downfall and whatever awesome quest came along with it. True, I had bigger things to worry about right now—like building my faction and the coming war against the entire Imperial Army—but I was still a gamer at heart, and the idea of partaking in some awesome adventure with uber-loot as a reward practically gave me shivers. By the time I dismissed the notification, Cutter padded toward me with a slim leather-bound notebook in one hand and a midnight-black dagger in the other.

The book didn’t look like anything too special—certainly no ancient arcane text bursting with secret spells—but that dagger was familiar.

It looked identical to the ceremonial blade Gentleman Georgie had shown us earlier: the one capable of ripping the soul from someone’s body. Cutter held the knife by the pommel with his thumb and forefinger, dangling it out in front of him like it was a dead animal he couldn’t stand to touch. “Think you should probably take a look at this, boss,” he said, thrusting both items toward me, eager to be rid of them. “I worked with Georgie for a long time,” he said offhandedly, “and the man always kept a hidden stash. This stuff was in a secret wall compartment behind the torturer’s rack.”

I reluctantly accepted the dagger, flinching away as the unnaturally cold steel touched my skin and crawled into the flesh beneath. I turned it over in my hand. The weapon had a double-edged blade of black, folded steel and an ornate ebony handle, intricately carved with scenes of torture and brutality: A Wode man being sawed in two. A Murk Elf woman being drawn and quartered. A surly Dwarf facing the headsman’s axe. The pommel, heavy and round, bore the same demonic face as the bas-relief I’d seen on the door leading into this hellhole. Aside from being frigid and sickening to look at, the dagger also felt wrong.

Evil, even.

It was slick, almost oily in my grasp, and reeked faintly of rotten fruit and decaying meat, somehow sickly sweet and pungent all at the same time. It also felt alive. Alive and malevolent, like a deadly diamondback baring venom-slick fangs, waiting to bite. Holding it was like holding death itself. I stowed the dagger in my pack, eager to have it out of my hand, and brought up the item description:

<<<>>>

Black Hexblade of Serth-Rog

Weapon Type: Bladed; Dagger

Class: Unique, One-handed

Base Damage: 25

Primary Effects:

+10 to Strength

+10 to Dexterity

+100 pts Cold Damage

+5% to Critical Hit when Backstabbing

Unique Usable Effect:

Soul Sacrifice: Activate Soul Sacrifice when an enemy is at Critical Health to suck the soul from their body and send it to the Frozen Realm of Morsheim. (Charge: 1)

Note 1: Using Soul Sacrifice will permanently destroy this weapon!

Note 2: If a player does not have an “evil” alignment, Soul Sacrifice causes the player to permanently lose 5 points of Spirit!

Note 3: If a player does not have an “evil” alignment, Soul Sacrifice activates the Entwined-Fate Debuff, causing the player to die when the victim dies, and respawn in their normal location!

Note 4: Any Player killed using Soul Sacrifice will become a Spectral Reverent; their respawn point will be changed to Skálaholt, capital of Morsheim, until they can find a way to return to the land of the living!

The Black Blade of Serth-Rog is granted only to the darkest, most bloodthirsty servants of Serth-Rog: the Black Priests of the Hexblade. It is a wicked artifact, forged from the essence of the Dark Lord Himself …

<<<>>>

Reading over the description made my blood run cold.

This was a blade that could kill players—maybe not forever, but I had to imagine being trapped as a Spectral Reverent in the realm of Morsheim couldn’t be a good thing. I didn’t know how many of these weapons were floating around Eldgard, but this was definitely a game changer even if the price for using it was awfully steep for anyone without an “evil” alignment. Deeply troubled, I closed out of the description and opened up the little leather-bound journal Cutter had discovered.

It was chock-full of names. Just page after page of names: maybe two hundred total with no other information. I looked up at Cutter, confusion evident on my face.

He pressed his lips into a tight line and shrugged. “I’m not sure either, but ol’ Georgie went through a lot of trouble to hide it. Must need some sort of cypher, but whatever it is, it has to be important.”

I nodded mutely, thumped the book against my palm, and slipped it into my bag along with the Hexblade. Obviously, I couldn’t make heads or tails of it, but maybe Abby, Otto, or the chief would have some extra insight.

With the room cleared and the prisoners free, we made our way to the end of the short dungeon and discovered a port-stone—the boss room equivalent of a port-door—which dumped us at the entrance to the Plague Tunnels. It would’ve been nice to avoid wading through the stink and muck of the sewers proper, but at least we didn’t need to fight our way back through halls bursting with murderous zombies and nightmarish Rat Kings. Another few minutes of morose backtracking brought us to the Rowanheath entrance and into crisp night air, watched over by a silver moon high above.

Cutter’s friend Neriah was waiting patiently for us at the sewer mouth with a stocky Dwarf, who turned out to be a rep from the Smugglers Guild.

Baxter the Shifty was his name.

A handle like “the Shifty” didn’t exactly inspire my confidence, but Cutter seemed to know and trust him—as far as Cutter trusted anyone. I was eager to get back to Yunnam, so I immediately cornered the surly Dwarf and launched into the details of our upcoming raid. Or at least I tried to. The smuggler shut me down in an instant, first demanding assurances that the situation below had been taken care of, then politely informing me that smugglers didn’t deal directly with outsiders—no matter that I was the leader of the Rebel-aligned faction.

Oh, no.

Smugglers had agreements, he solemnly informed me. They had contracts and middlemen. Smugglers had more important things to do than vet outsiders, so they only dealt with fellow professionals, which apparently meant someone with concrete ties to the unofficial Thieves’ Guild.

Someone like Cutter.

Cutter, of course, gave the man a slick, confident smile and a polite bow, before launching into a brief account of what had happened below, flashing Georgie’s golden rapier to prove the problem had been dealt with. The sword mollified the Dwarf, but Neriah, on the other hand, nearly choked when he saw the thin blade and the glint of gold.

“No, that can’t be? Is that …” Neriah said, trailing off without finishing the question, just staring bug-eyed at the rapier like he’d seen a ghost. “You know what this means?” he asked, stealing a secretive glance in my direction.

“Course I do,” Cutter snapped, a hard edge to his words. “I’m not a new fish, you sod. Georgie was a like a father to me—I know this organization better than anyone. Anyone that’s left alive, anyway,” he finished weakly.

“Cutter, we need to talk about that—” Neriah began.

Cutter silenced him with a curt slash of his hand. “I know, Neriah. I know. But later. We’ve got a lot to do and I can’t afford to get distracted. None of us can. Once we’ve dealt with Rowanheath, we’ll straighten all this out as well, understand?”

Neriah gave him a sidelong glance—a measuring look—then nodded deferentially. “Of course. You know I’ll hold my tongue, but you can’t expect such developments will remain a secret for long,” he finished, shooting a quick look toward Baxter the Shifty. “Now, why don’t we go over here and work things out?”

Cutter clapped me on a shoulder. “Don’t worry, Jack, I know the plan,” he whispered into my ear. “I’ll get these knuckleheads sorted out right as rain.” He strutted forward, slung an arm around Baxter, then pulled the smuggler off into the deep shadows. Neriah trailed behind, his shoulders tight with tension and anxiety.

“Wonder what that was all about?” I mused out loud.

“Who can say?” Vlad replied, sliding up next to me, hands on his hips. “This is a strange world, my friend—it seems like everything is one quest after another. No doubt that sword has triggered some sort of event. This friend of yours, is he an NPC or a real person?” He said NPC slowly and deliberately, as though unused to the term.

“NPC,” I replied in a whisper, trying to make sure Cutter couldn’t possibly overhear me. “But I don’t think you should use that term. From what I’ve been able to find out, they might actually be aware. Not necessarily of the outside world, but maybe aware of themselves and this world. Best to avoid insulting them.”

“Of course,” the man replied thoughtfully, lacing his hands behind his back. “I am a weapons designer—we’ve been using advanced tech in my industry for decades. Smart missiles. Fuzzy control systems for cyber hacking. Advanced Bayesian networks for intelligence analysis and information mapping. What we have done … it is amazing and frightful. At times, I find the line between what is and what isn’t blurry, you understand this?”

“I know how you feel.” I sighed, looking at Cutter, currently hunched over, tracing out operational details with a stick in the dirt. Maybe I’d never know if he was real—at least real in the way I was—but in my mind, he’d ceased being an NPC. He was a friend now, no matter what else he was. “Okay,” I said, turning to our new Alchemic Weaponeer in the making. “We’re sort of on a time crunch, and we need to get back to Yunnam ASAP, so where do you need to go to finish your class quest?”

“It is not far from here,” he replied, gaze distant—clearly, he was looking over his interface map. “I need to bring the ingredients to a local Apothecary. A woman by the name of Reann, who runs the Boiling Cauldron. It shouldn’t take but a minute. I know you are in a great rush, but I would greatly appreciate it if you would accompany me. Since this Yunnam of yours is all the way in the Storme Marshes, it will take me a great deal of time to travel there on foot. Much easier if you can just teleport us there, I think.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” I said with a rueful grin. “We won’t leave without you.” That was the understatement of the century—there was a ton riding on our boy Vlad, even if he didn’t realize it yet.

By the time Vlad and I were done talking, Cutter was back, and Neriah and Baxter were stealing into the shadows, quickly swallowed by the night. “All set,” Cutter assured me with a tired smile. “The Thieves’ Guild will be in place—they’ll help get our guys in position around the city, and the smugglers are on board, though there’s some serious worry about our multi-legged friends. Still, everything should be fine.”

“Good enough,” I said as we headed off for the Boiling Cauldron.

THIRTY: Final Preparations

It was a quarter to seven in the morning—the sun just beginning to peek its face up over the trees—when we finally stepped through a shimmering portal and directly into the heart of Yunnam with our newly minted Alchemic Weaponeer in tow. All I wanted was a hot meal, a hot bath, and a full day to sleep and recover, but I knew I’d be lucky to get a nibble and two hours of rest. We had a war to start, after all, and according to my interface, we had just shy of twelve hours to get everything done. There were portable Shadow Cannons to construct. Mercs to deploy. Our ragtag crew of fighters to equip and stage. Not to mention a platoon of spiderkin to wrangle and tame.

I definitely wasn’t going to get much sleep, but I was likely to be dead soon, so I figured I could rest then.

“This is not what I was expecting,” Vlad noted as we hoofed it toward the port pad in the center of town. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you,” he added. “Aside from my starting location, Rowanheath is the only city I’ve ever known, and this …” His words trailed off, a grimace creasing the lines of his face as he surveyed the town, with its strange stilt houses and crude streets. “It is more rustic than I was envisioning. But, as my people say, bez muki net nauki. Adversity is a good teacher.”

Cutter grunted and laughed. “You’re the wackiest bloke I’ve ever met—second only to Jack, here. But keep your head up and you’ll do okay, friend. Probably make us all bloody, filthy rich in the process.”

The line for the port pad was surprisingly empty, so we made it to the Keep in record time and in a matter of minutes were shuffling into the Command Center, which was still bustling with activity. Men and women were running about, some taking orders, others giving them; some scribbled furiously on parchment, while others offered steaming cups of Western Brew Coffee to anyone who needed it. Here in Eldgard, coffee might’ve been expensive as all get-out, but there was nothing better suited to keeping an exhausted workforce on their feet than a good cup of joe. That was science.

I snagged a porcelain mug of the aromatic brew from a passing server, and took a grateful sip. It was scorching hot, but so good I wanted to cry. It tasted like home. Like the real world. Like my shitty apartment and disgusting couch. I pulled the cup away from my lips and sighed.

Both the chief and Abby were in the same seats they’d been in before I left for Rowanheath; they were talking in low tones as they pored over a paper map, marking out troop locations and attack routes. They both looked positively beat: purple bags loitered beneath their eyes, and the lines of their faces seemed to sag beneath the weight of exhaustion. Abby shook her head at some remark, then reached up and gently messaged her temples, before brushing back an unkempt strand of hair. True, sitting in the comfort of command central couldn’t possibly have been as physically wearing as what I’d endured in the Plague Tunnels, but the mental fatigue was undoubtedly worse.

I weaved my way through a knot of people arguing about mine worker shifts, and headed for the command table, practically dragging Vlad behind me. I plopped down into a chair next to Abby with an audible groan, letting the leather draw me in like the comforting arms of an old friend. Oh God, it felt so good to sit. To just sit. To be still, even if only for a second. I took another relaxing sip of coffee; the liquid hit my belly with sweet warmth.

“Jack!” Abby exclaimed, turning bloodshot eyes on me. “Thank god you’re back—how did things go in Rowanheath? Did you get everything sorted out with the Smugglers Guild?”

“It was a close call,” I said, melting further into the chair, “but we fixed things. There was a big side quest with a bunch cultists,” I explained, “but long story short, the smugglers are in place and ready to go. There are some details we’ll need to go over”—I glanced at the chief, remembering my new Jade Lord quest chain—“but it can all wait until later. Tell me what’s happening here.”

She blew out her cheeks and ran a hand through frazzled hair. “To be honest, I feel like everything’s falling apart, Jack. Otto’s leading the mercs to the rendezvous site now, but we’ve had a big hang up with those asshole spiders. Apparently, the Queen will only talk with you, since you’ve apparently proven yourself a ‘worthy adversary’”—she put the term in air quotes and offered me a furious eyeroll—“and then there’s the Shadow Cannons.

“We’ve got tons of engineers working on the schematics, but no one can do what we want. No one. They can improve the design, reduce the build time, increase damage … but portability? Nope.” She slumped forward and dropped her face into her hands. “I feel like a failure, Jack,” she mumbled. “Everything was going so smoothly for a while, and then it’s like someone just started picking at the loose ends. Now, poof, it’s all coming undone and I don’t know how to fix it.”

The chief planted a hand on Abby’s shoulder and gave her a brief, reassuring squeeze. “You have done admirably—you may be a Wode, but you have the heart and commitment of a Dokkalfar, young one. No one could do more than you have done.” He gave her another squeeze, then turned his steely gaze on me. “Is there any other way we can achieve the distraction you want without the cannons?” he asked. “Perhaps we could find enough spellcasters to mimic the effect?”

I blushed sheepishly and felt a wave of guilt surge through me. I should’ve forwarded Sophia’s message to Abby—why hadn’t I thought to let her know? Because I’d been so focused on what I was doing, I hadn’t bothered to think about what was going on here. Jerk move. “We’re going to get those cannons up and operational,” I said, waving Vlad over and gesturing for him to take a seat.

“I’m sorry, Grim Jack,” the chief replied with a shake of his head. “We have tried everything, but it is a thing that cannot be done. We must find another way.”

“It can be done, and this is the guy who can do it.” I hooked a thumb toward Vlad, who’d slipped into a seat across from me. “I’d like to introduce you to our newest faction member, Vlad Nardoir, from Saint Petersburg.”

“I’ve never heard of this Saint Petersburg,” the chief hedged, eyeing our new friend. “And this one is a Hvitalfar. Are you sure we can trust him?”

“We can absolutely trust him. And the important thing is Vlad can change those cannons. I’m sure of it. Just get him those schematics, stand back, and watch him work.”

Abby sat up, eyes squinted as she stared at me then Vlad in turn, suspicion and relief warring for control of her face.

“You’re certain of this?” the chief asked in the same instant Abby blurted out, “Bullshit.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “No bullshit,” I replied, “and yes, I’m very sure he can do it. He’s an Alchemic Weaponeer, and I’ve got it on very good authority”—I thumbed my nose knowingly and mouthed Sophia—“that he can do the deed. He’s one of only a handful of people in all of Eldgard who can, and he just signed up with our faction.” I saw an ember of hope burst to life in Abby’s eyes, while the chief simply flopped back in his chair, thoughtfully stroking his chin.

The gears were clearly cranking away in his head.

“Let us say this is true,” Chief Kolle said after a spell. “We have so little time to accomplish this task. Even if we have every engineer working on this project, there’s no way we can manage the feat in time. We have less than twelve hours to build twelve cannons and get them positioned outside Rowanheath.” He shook his head. “I don’t see how it’s possible.”

I felt a cold chill wash through my belly as shivers raced along my arms and legs. He was right. I’d been so preoccupied about whether we could do it, that I hadn’t even considered how long it would take. This was it then. Despite everything I’d done, everything I’d suffered, we were sunk. Otto was going to be waiting outside Rowanheath with a platoon of mercs and no cannons. We could always push the attack, but by then Carrera would likely be preparing for an attack of his own—not to mention, we’d have to pay the mercs for all that extra time, and those guys didn’t come cheap.

“You oughta just stick ol’ Vlad in that god-awful mine,” Cutter muttered. “The one with all those bastard shadow-beasties.”

“Wait, what?” I said, pinning him in place with a hard stare.

“Those mines,” he said, folding his arms and quirking an eyebrow at me as though it should’ve been completely self-evident. “The time’s all wonky in there, eh? Time moves faster, so you should just have ’em set up shop down in the mines. Might work.”

I bounced up from my seat and pulled the thief into a sudden bear hug, which caught him completely off guard.

“Hey now, no funny business,” he protested, shoving at me half-heartedly. “I’ll shank you in the kidney if you don’t lay off, Jack,” he threatened after another moment. He was probably joking, but it was hard to tell with Cutter sometimes, so I let him go and held him at arm’s length.

“You’re a genius, Cutter. Absolutely brilliant.”

“Bout time you recognized my invaluable support to this little enterprise of ours,” he replied, smug as a cat with a dead mouse.

I chuckled and dropped back into my seat. “What would we do without you?” I asked, giving him an eyeroll.

“Apologies,” Vlad offered tentatively, “but I am very confused. Cannons? Mines? And who is this Sophia? It seems, perhaps, there is something I am missing, yes?”

“Come on, Vladie-Boy,” Cutter said, jerking his head toward the door. “No rest for you, I’m afraid. But no worries, I’ll see you set up right as rain, and I’ll even do my damnedest to try and explain this whole shitestorm in a bit more detail.”

The Russian shot me a questioning should-I-really-go-with-this-guy look.

I nodded at him. “If you need anything, Vlad—anything at all—just let Cutter know. He’s a decent guy.” I eyed the bloody thief. “Sort of,” I amended.

Cutter snorted and escorted a confused-looking Vlad from the room. Well, that was one problem down. “Okay, now what’s this about the Spider Queen?” I asked, already feeling a throbbing headache build behind my eyes. Administrative work was definitely not for me.

Abby carefully reached into her robes and tossed a cloudy orb, which disturbingly resembled a gigantic spider’s eye, onto the table. “One of those nasty creepy-crawlies delivered this earlier in the day,” she explained. “Some sort of communication device. The only problem is, the Queen flatly refuses to deal with anyone except you. She’s a terrifying, infinitely frustrating monster.” She stared daggers at the cloudy orb as though it had somehow personally offended her. “So, if you could kindly give her a call and set things straight, it sure would be appreciated.”

I took another deep sip of coffee, then plucked the orb from the table with a twinge of apprehension. It tingled in my hand—a slight buzz that felt like a building static charge. I focused on the orb for a second, willing it to work, to speak. For a long beat, nothing happened—I just sat there staring at the ball like a complete idiot—but then the tingle intensified and changed until the crystal felt warm in my palm. Almost hot. It began to glow with an opalescent shimmer, and suddenly I could see the Queen sitting on her throne, clad in her humanoid disguise.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say she looked pleased to see me, though it was hard to tell—her proportions and features were all strangely distorted by the viewing orb.

“Troublesome fly,” she buzzed at me with a dip of her head. “I’m pleased to see you back in the world of the living and no worse for the wear. Perhaps even a bit wiser as a result of our last encounter.”

“Queen Lowyth,” I replied, shooting for professional, though her presence—even from a distance—had me on edge. “I understand you’ve been giving my Faction Commander a tough time. She’s fully authorized to conduct all faction business, so anything you have to say to me, you can just as easily say to her.”

“Nonsense, troublesome fly. I am a Queen, I don’t deal with subordinates.” She crossed her legs primly, and carefully folded her talon-tipped hands together.

“Abby is not a subordinate, and this point is nonnegotiable,” I replied flatly. “Look, Lowyth, I’ve had a very long night and I’m too tired to beat around the bush. That sacrificial stunt you pulled, I let it slide, but I’m not going to let you walk all over me again. If you don’t want to deal with Abby, then you can crawl back into your hole and patiently wait for every warrior and traveler in Yunnam to swarm your lair and turn your children into charred barbeque. Do we understand each other?”

I expected the Spider Queen to be angry—to absolutely flip her lid—but instead she offered me a coy, fang-filled smile and dipped her head in acceptance. “I see your strength,” she murmured, the words formulaic and rehearsed. “And any being capable of earning such respect from my worthy adversary, must be a worthy adversary in their own right. Now, I am busy, so speak your need, troublesome fly.”

“Spiderkin troops,” I blurted out, “the ones you promised me. I need thirty of them—the best you’ve got—and they all need to be able to scale walls.”

“Of course,” the Queen replied. “And where should I send my lovely children?” she asked, unperturbed by my request.

“There’s a staging area just outside Yunnam’s Southern Gate. Please have them there by 2 P.M., and make sure they know to stay outside the village proper—I’d hate for them to start a riot with their presence.”

The Queen sneered, but nodded. “Until we speak again,” she hissed. The orb flashed and was plain opaque glass once more.

“Charming lady,” Abby offered, scowling at the lifeless hunk of glass. “We’re definitely going to need to keep an eye on her—I’ve got the feeling she’s a poisoned dagger just waiting for a target.”

“Just so,” the chief replied with dip of his chin. “But for the time being she is a dagger we are wielding. Now”—he paused, lips pursed as he eyed Abby and me in turn—“I think it is time for the two of you to rest. Tonight is going to be very hectic, and you two will need your wits about you if this endeavor is to succeed. So go. Eat. Bathe. Sleep. I can handle things for the time being.”

“But you need sleep, too,” Abby protested, voice boiling with misplaced motherly concern. “You’ve got a big part to play, Chief Kolle. Maybe bigger than us.”

“Nonsense,” he said, smiling sagely and waving away her protest. “I’ll rest yet, but I’m an old man. We need far less sleep than the young, this is a thing everyone knows. Besides, I don’t think I could sleep”—he reached over and picked up a half-full cup of coffee—“not with this miracle tea sprinting through my veins like a wildfire. I will hold down the Keep. Please, go.” He stood, gently pulling Abby to her feet, then dismissed us with a curt shooing gesture.

I, for one, wasn’t going to protest. I waited for Abby to join me, draped my arm around her shoulders, then lurched off toward my master suite and a well-deserved rest.

THIRTY-ONE: Mount Up

We stood in a thick copse of pine trees, the ground coated in deep shade as the sun stretched red and gold fingers across the horizon. A few minutes before sunset gave way to night. Our time was almost officially up, and I had no doubt that Carrera would ping me soon, asking for my response. Would I turn myself over like a good little war criminal or would he be forced to hunt me down and raze Yunnam to the ground? As I looked at the dirt-smudged, hard-worn faces scattered amongst the trees, I was excited to give him my answer: a giant middle finger in the form of a small army perched within spitting distance of his walls.

This group was just one of four scattered around Rowanheath, all waiting for my signal.

Most of the warriors here with me were hired thugs.

A mercenary squad run by none other than Morgan Sellsword—a Warlock I’d beaten and taken prisoner in Carrera’s restricted zone. To me, there was a certain irony that the very mercenary originally hired to power-level Carrera would now be instrumental in his downfall. My eyes skipped past him and landed on the six Arcane Shadow Cannons manned by a double fistful of our loyal faction members—mostly tanks, but a few engineers capable of operating and repairing the weapons. Those cannons were beautiful things.

Hulking black-metal beasts, on enormous spiked wheels.

I’d never been in the military myself, but I’d seen plenty of heavy artillery growing up near Camp Pendleton, and these babies had a striking resemblance to old-school howitzers. Vlad and our engineer crew had done a truly bang-up job—if I ever saw Sophia again in the flesh, I’d have to give her my sincerest thanks. As impressive as the weapons were, though, I knew they’d never come close to breaching the walls; they just didn’t have they muscle for it. For that, we’d need bulky siege engines, which were too big to port. Still, they’d wreak havoc on troops in the open, and they’d also make for one heck of a distraction.

I mean, I knew they couldn’t breach the walls, but I was betting Carrera didn’t. All he’d see were giant guns blasting cannonballs of shadow magic at his city.

“It’s time,” Abby said, giving my hand a tight squeeze. “You can do this, Jack,” she whispered into my ear before planting a peck on my cheek. “We can do this. It’s a good plan. It’ll work.”

I grinned at her and tried to ignore the quiver in my hands. Yeah, we could do this. Maybe. Possibly.

I picked Morgan Sellsword out from the crowd; his plain brown robes, golden complexion, and gnarled staff—burning with intricate swirls of amber light—made him easy to find. I caught his eye with a quick wave, then gave him a nod, letting him know it was time to get this show on the road for better or worse. The Warlock wheeled around and barked out a few quick commands and suddenly the milling mercs were forming up in loose semicircles, every eye fixed on me and Abby. No pressure or anything.

“Well, this is it,” I said without preamble. “In a few minutes the fighting will start, and hopefully in a few hours’ time, we’ll have done what it took months for the empire to do. We’ll be the proud owners of Rowanheath. This will be the first major blow to the empire—and that’s something we can all be proud of.”

My words seemed to linger in the air, to weigh down on everyone.

“We don’t fight for pride,” Morgan said, breaking the tension. “As long as your gold is good, we’ll fight a host of geriatric grandmothers.” That earned a few lighthearted chuckles from the assembled sellswords. “Hells, for the right price,” he added, “I’ll fight my own grandmother, Gods rest her soul. Your gold is good, so you need not worry about our fighting spirit. Now, what would you have of us?”

“Right,” I said, rubbing my hands together, feeling oddly comforted by his words. These men were professionals, I reminded myself. This is what they did for a living. “Well hopefully,” I continued, “you won’t actually be doing much fighting. The real battle is going to take place in the Keep, high above the city, but you lot are going to draw the bulk of the guards to the wall. Your real job is to make Lord Carrera of Rowanheath think we have a much bigger army than we actually do.

“We’ve got a hundred men for this mission, but we need to make Carrera think we have a thousand. Or ten thousand. The cannons”—I gestured toward the big guns—“will do the bulk of the heavy lifting. Your job is to spread out, look fierce, and protect the cannons if Carrera starts deploying troops. But don’t worry, you won’t be the only focus. We’ve got another squad, exactly like this, on the other side. Chief Kolle of the Ak-Hani clan is overseeing them, and once Abby and I leave, he’ll be in charge of both squads. He’s a big, scary Murk Elf Necromancer, so he shouldn’t be hard to miss.”

“Understood,” Morgan said, hands straining against his staff. “We’ll show you we are worth every gold mark spent.”

“And you guys know what you’re doing, right?” I asked, turning on the cannon operators.

“No worries, sir,” a stalky Dwarf replied, his gruff voice sure and steady. “We’ve had time to practice back in the Marshes.” He reached over and patted one of the cannons affectionately. “These babies will shine, believe you me.”

“Alright, then. I think it’s time we’re off,” I said.

With a deep breath, I turned and called up Devil from the Shadowverse. Originally, Abby and I were going to storm the Keep with the spider-riders, but since I was level twenty-nine, we’d made a few alterations to the plan. A blast of sooty smoke filled the air; an eyeblink later, the dark cloud dissipated, revealing the monstrous lizard in all his awesome and horrific glory. Abby flinched, and I could almost feel the mercs and cannon techs recoil on instinct. Not that I could blame them—even I recoiled on seeing the epic beast. Devil was theoretically safe and under my control now, but I hadn’t actually had an opportunity to the test my abilities out.

The black-scaled doom lizard stared at me with its burning purple eyes, but made no visible move to attack. Still, I padded forward slowly and deliberately, not wanting to startle the creature. Carefully, cautiously, I extended one hand, palm out, as I moved. The Void Terror seemed indifferent, so I inched closer and closer. Still, Devil just sat there. His head swayed restlessly from side to side, but he showed no overt sign of hostility. Finally, I reached out and placed trembling fingers on the creature’s scale-covered snout, feeling the warmth of his breath brushing up against my skin.

“Can I ride you?” I asked hesitantly.

The creature regarded me for a tense beat, then snorted, grunted, and dropped his neck in deference, though his eyes burned with a fiery defiance. With a deep gulp, I edged closer and crawled onto his back, straddling him around the base of his neck, just forward of his leathery wings. Suddenly an awareness of Devil blossomed in the back of my head. I could feel him beneath me. I could feel both his anxiety and anger, his hunger and loyalty. Devil was separate from me—our minds only tenuously connected—but we were also one. That awareness in my head was like an extra sense, like a limb I’d just discovered.

A new skill popped up:

<<<>>>

Ability: Mount

Eldgard is a vast and wild land, filled with rugged, formidable terrain—jagged mountains, dense forests, treacherous swamps, and expansive waterways—not to mention a myriad of deadly creatures. Having a faithful mount can significantly reduce travel times, while making the hazards of the wild much more manageable. Not to mention, there is no more loyal and stalwart fighter than a battle mount.

Ability Type/Level: Passive / Level 1

Cost: None

Effect 1: Mount riding ability unlocked.

Effect 2: +5% to Mount’s Movement Rate, while you are riding.

Effect 3: Ferry (1) additional passenger on your mount (Movement Speed Reduced by 15%).

<<<>>>

I grinned, feeling absurdly, illogically happy.

A lot of terrible things had happened to me over the past several weeks—and over the past several months before that, honestly—but being on the back of this Drake, getting ready to soar through the sky like an eagle, was exhilarating. True, I wasn’t so hot with heights, but after facing down, and overcoming, all the horrors V.G.O. had thrown at me so far, this seemed like nothing at all. An absolute cakewalk. I noticed a pair of spikes jutting up from the base of Devil’s neck; they looked oddly like the yoke of an airplane.

I wrapped my sweaty palms around each and focused, willing Devil to stretch out his wings—to my shock, the Drake complied, his leathery appendages unfurling, stretching, the muscles rippling beneath the skin. Wow.

“Come on, Abby,” I said, waving her over with a humongous smile. She came reluctantly, but when Devil seemed to ignore her, treating her as though she were nothing more than a part of the scenery, she grew a bit more confident and scampered up behind me, wrapping her arms around my waist. It felt good to have her there, holding me. “Move on two flare blasts,” I called out to Morgan, simultaneously willing Devil to stand. To run. To fly.

We broke into a lumbering gait and, with a tremendous effort, the Drake leapt from the earth, his wings thrusting down, generating huge gusts of air, which flattened out the grass below. In seconds, we were climbing, gaining altitude as the trees and ground dropped away. It was a bit hard to hear with the wind whipping against me, but Abby’s deep-belly laughter still floated to my ears. She was laughing in pure joy, in unadulterated excitement. We were on the verge of war, on the verge of losing everything, but after a moment I found myself cackling like mad, too.

This was awesome.

I pulled up on Devil’s spike horns, and he responded in an instant, his huge wings pumping as we gained altitude.

I nudged us left and suddenly we banked, wheeling around in a loose circle, passing over the eastern forest we’d been in just moments before. It was almost impossible to see our forces through the dense tree cover—especially in the failing light—but they were down there, waiting for the signal to storm the walls and unleash hell in their wake. We banked right, turning back toward Rowanheath, soaring far above the domineering outer wall, until we reached the western side of the city. Unruly pine forests hugged the slopes there as well, and though I couldn’t see anyone below, I knew Chief Kolle was hiding out with thirty extra mercs and six more Arcane Shadow Cannons.

Our Keep raiding party, mounted on spiderkin, were nowhere to be seen—but that was all according to plan. We could never get the spiders past the outer gates, obviously, but the smugglers were apparently very good at what they did. Right now, our forces should already be through a series of secret mountain mines, and scampering through the sewers within Rowanheath proper. Otto and Amara were leading that bunch, and soon, they’d be in position, waiting for the chaos to break loose, before emerging and starting their ascent up the daunting inner wall protecting the Keep.

The sun had almost set now, the pastel pinks, oranges, and golds giving way to the bruised-purple of twilight and the blacks of true night. I pulled back on Devil’s horns and we rose higher still, until I was sure we were only a speck far overhead, before gliding over the city. We rode the currents as I patiently waited for the message I was sure would come—I didn’t know Carrera all that well, but I had a good feeling he wasn’t the kind of guy to skip taunting or threatening an enemy. The PM came one minute after 6 PM, just as the last light faded from the sky, and the sun gave way to the moon’s watery, silver light.

<<<>>>

Personal Message:

Your time is up, you cowardly thief. Turn yourself in now, or watch as the full weight of the Empire crushes you and all you love beneath our heel.

—High Commander Carrera

<<<>>>

I read the message out loud to Abby, shouting to make myself heard. I should’ve been scared—Carrera was a bad man, one who wouldn’t hesitate to hurt me or kill me if he could—but instead I just felt exhilarated. Almost giddy. I dictated a hasty reply message:

<<<>>>

Personal Message:

Oh, I’m here. Right outside your gates, in fact. You’ll be seeing me soon enough, though you might regret being such a colossal dickhead.

—Jack

<<<>>>

“Okay,” I shouted to Abby as I sent the message. “Let’s light this powder keg.”

THIRTY-TWO: Light it Up

Abby nodded, her eyes squinted against the biting wind, then thrust out one hand and unleashed a golden fireball, which streaked across the sky like a comet. In the growing darkness of the night, the spell probably looked like a fireworks display or maybe a shooting star, but one thing was for sure: it would be visible from the ground. Abundantly so. The fireball burned for only a few brief seconds, but by the time it died away, Rowanheath was teeming with anxious activity. Fires began to pop up below and screams cut through the night as armored guards rushed around in blind panic.

I smiled. Phase One was underway.

Cutter was down there somewhere, slinking through the warren of streets with his newly minted team of Rogues, Cutthroats, and lowbie Firebrands. Their job wasn’t to fight. No, it was to sow chaos, confusion, and panic, and most importantly to draw attention away from the movement of our troops and cannons. Cutter’s crew had carefully selected targets—guard commanders, high-level Viridian bureaucrats, Imperial-aligned priests and healers—and had spent the last few hours stalking them, waiting to murder them in very public places and in very spectacular ways.

There was a good chance most of those assassins wouldn’t come back alive—they were kamikaze soldiers, willing to die for the cause—but aside from Cutter, they were all players, so they’d respawn in a few hours.

Meanwhile, our Firebrands were setting vendor carts or trash heaps on fire, just to add an extra level of craziness for the city guards and Imperial-aligned players to sort out.

And it was working.

We swooped in low enough to watch the citizens of Rowanheath scramble:

Some tried to douse the growing flames. Others chased black-clad cutthroats through streets thick with people. A few even attempted to revive the victims. Squads of burly city guards swarmed from both the Keep proper and the barracks—located near the main gate—barking out orders as they rudely shoved people aside, trying to puzzle out what exactly was happening and how to stop it. Groups of players were also forming up, finally realizing that something big was going down. But, much to my amusement, those players more often than not blundered into the guard patrols, hurting their cause far more than they were helping.

Beautiful. Just beautiful.

A giant fireball exploded in an alleyway not far below—heat and light billowed up accompanied by a plume of curling smoke. I dropped us down and circled back around. One of our female Firebrands had just torched a silk-lined palanquin. Some nonnamed Viridian official, trapped inside, screamed as the wooden contraption blazed; his cry was both pitiful and reproachful. My stomach curled a little at the sound of someone burning alive. This was a game, I reminded myself, trying to dismiss the unease creeping through me. Besides, there wasn’t any other way.

I pushed my budding guilt away as a squad of lorica-clad sentries rounded the corner, trapping the Firebrand in a dead-end alleyway.

There was nowhere for her to flee. Nowhere to hide. Even from my high vantage, I could see how pale and scared the woman looked, her body shaking as she backpedaled, only to find a stone wall behind her. Instead of backing down, though, or pleading for mercy, she calmed herself and began to march toward the guards forming up at the alley mouth, her chin held high and proud. At ten feet out, she simply stopped, threw both hands forward, and roared out her defiance as she unleashed dual gouts of flame. Thick columns of orange washed over the sentries, scorching armor, setting cloaks ablaze, and charring exposed skin.

It was amazing and simultaneously disturbing to watch.

As powerful as her spells were, however, the guards broke into a charge, fighting against the onslaught of flame like salmon swimming against the river current. In seconds, the fireworks ceased as swords and cruel maces flashed out. I knew from experience that Firebrands could deal out a lot of concentrated damage, but most were classic glass cannons. Blood flew and bones snapped as Imperial weaponry sliced through thin fabric and into unprotected flesh. Our mage didn’t last long, not outnumbered against a bunch of melee tanks.

I willed Devil skyward, eager to put the scene behind me. The Drake arched his neck and pumped his wings, carrying us well away from the action on the streets, before wheeling back
toward the main gate and the wall.

I glanced down. Perfect. So far, everything was going according to plan.

Rowanheath’s citizens were so focused on the unfolding drama inside the walls that next to no one was manning the gate or focusing on the possibility of a frontal assault. “Do it,” I yelled at Abby over one shoulder, my voice barely carrying over the clamor below. A heartbeat later, a pair of fireballs streaked across the star-strewn sky, leaving twin tails of embers burning brightly in their wake. It didn’t take long for our mercs to break away from the tree line, sprinting into the open, while teams of beefy warriors hauled the Shadow Cannons into position.

Although there were only about seventy people, between the mercs and faction members, the wave pouring from both the east and west looked far more impressive: hundreds of fighters, easily. But that was because the vast majority of mercs were Warlocks and Summoners of one variety or another, and all the extra warriors on the field were actually conjured minions: Skeletons. Undead Archers. Minor Elementals. Lesser Demon Lords. In the light of the day, anyone with a working pair of eyes would’ve easily figured out what we’d done, but in the dark of night, with chaos ripping its way through the city, no one would realize we were pulling a fast one.

Not in time to stop it, anyway.

In mere minutes, the twelve cannons had formed up into a staggered line running the length of the wall. At nearly two hundred feet out, there was no way they would have the oomph needed to break through the thick slabs of reinforced stone, but they would certainly get Carrera’s attention.

“Fire,” someone roared below, the voice barely a murmur on the slapping wind. The order carried down the line, repeated over and over again. The Arcane Shadow Cannons, little more than blots of black steel against the darkening landscape, exploded in a cacophony of sound and magic. Orbs—the size of actual wrecking balls and burning with ghostly purple flame—ripped through the dark, screaming their way toward Rowanheath’s outer wall. The barrage of shadowy cannon fire smashed against the stone, splashing unnatural fire over everything in a ten-foot radius of impact.

The wall quivered under the assault. Chunks of rock cracked and tumbled away. The plains grass below began to burn.

This was the first time I’d seen the weapons in action, and I was more than a little impressed. Vlad had delivered big time—I was going to kiss that crazy Russian the next time I saw him.

I leaned into Devil, and brought us sweeping over the city again.

The few guards and warriors unoccupied with Cutter and his crew were now pouring toward the wall. There were also a few travelers, clad in heavy plate mail, tentatively creeping out through the main gate in groups of two or three. These were the glory seekers, hoping to gain favor with Osmark, Carrera, or both, by charging out and bringing the enemy cannons down. They were ballsy, but stupid. The second they cleared the gatehouse, mercenary arrows and devastating spells began to fall like rain.

Though the heavy armor deflected a great number of the shots, there were a lot of arrows to contend with, and before long even those in the bulkiest steel looked like armored porcupines. As for the spells … Well, they didn’t seem troubled by the plate armor at all. Giant javelins of ice ripped through metal and left more than a few warriors limping along, or crawling through the dirt, their legs broken and useless. Most of the severely injured retreated, pulling themselves back toward the gatehouse—only to find someone had lowered the metal portcullis, trapping them outside the city walls.

They’d been given over as arrow fodder.

Another round of cannon fire collided into the wall, showering those cowering below with ghostly shadow flame.

The few warriors who managed to survive the initial onslaught of arrows and magic didn’t last long: they were quickly met by the slicing blades of the undead or the smashing hammers of summoned demon lords. Many of the enemy players dealt powerful blows, often one-shotting the summoned minions, but the sheer weight of numbers simply ground them down. A second later a new PM hit my inbox:

<<<>>>

Personal Message:

I don’t know what you hope to accomplish here. This is a waste of your resources and can only end badly for you—I swear to God I will make you suffer for this. I’ll make it my personal mission to see you writhe in pain for the rest of eternity. I don’t know what kind of siege weapons you managed to acquire, but they’ll never penetrate our defenses. Rowanheath was built to stand against legions. It will certainly hold out against your shabby band of rejects, all of whom will be backlisted by the Empire. Now would be a good time to run away, little man, while you still can.

—Carrera

<<<>>>

A thunderous BOOM ripped through the night, emphasizing Carrera’s threats.

I dismissed the message and watched in muted horror as enemy guards on top of the wall hauled out gigantic ballistae and unleashed enormous bolts at my troops. The bolts, which looked more like cruise missiles than arrows, punched into the earth with bone-shaking force, before exploding with the raw power of a bomb blast, releasing terrible heat and a geyser of earth and flame high into the air. Anyone too close was thrown clear, scattered like bowling pins. The first wave of ballista bolts took out a half dozen mercs—mostly summoned creatures, but still—and one of our twelve cannons.

That was bad, bad news.

I wasn’t sure how long we could hold out against that kind of firepower—I’d underestimated their defenses. On the plus side, though, Carrera’s forces were definitely focused on holding the wall and mopping up the chaos within the city itself, so they shouldn’t be looking toward the inner wall. Why would they? Our visible forces inside the city were minuscule in number, and no one could scale the wall.

Or so they thought.

“Last round,” I called out to Abby, tapping her on the leg to make sure she heard.

This time three fireballs blazed a trail overhead, cutting through the dark like razor blades made of light. The final signal. If everything had gone well with the smugglers, Otto and Amara would lead our spider-mounted forces out of the sewers, right up the face of the inner wall, and directly into the heart of the Keep itself. From what we’d been able to gather, all we needed to do was capture the Keep’s control room and hold it for half an hour—if we could do that, Rowanheath would be ours. And with it would come all of the city-aligned NPCs, including the roving sentries, those badass ballistae, and the Keep guardians.

Once that happened, we’d throw open the gates, and the mercs outside would pour into the streets and drive every Imperial-aligned player right out the front door. At least, that’s how it was supposed to work in theory. But it would all fall apart if we failed to buy our spider-riders as much time as possible—if they didn’t make it into the Keep, we couldn’t win this battle.

No way.

“Get ready to hit those ballistae!” I shouted.

Abby tapped me on the shoulder, then stuck one hand forward, giving me a thumbs-up.

I banked hard left, spinning us in a tight circle, before dropping Devil into a sharp dive, angling straight for the guards manning the giant weapons on the wall. The sentries below were so laser-focused on the mercs and the cannons, they didn’t see us swoop down like an avenging angel. The second we were in range, Abby lashed out with spurts of flame and balls of fire, which splashed against sentries with brutal force; guards flipped over the wall, falling ass over teakettle to the ground below. I left Abby to her work and homed in on a pair of ballistae.

Those were the real threat. Although I couldn’t take them out on my own, I was riding on the back of a mini-Dragon with a wide array of destructive capabilities.

In my mind’s eye, I recalled the super-heated column of shadow fire Devil had unleashed on me back in the Darkshard Mines. That’s what we needed right now. Dragon’s Fire. I willed the idea toward the new ball of nerves lingering in the back of my head. Fire, I thought, burn them all. We were ten feet out from the first oversized crossbow when Devil threw his jaws wide and let loose a floor-shaking roar as flame, so purple it was almost black, slapped against the ballista and the pair of sentries manning it.

The siege engine—built entirely of wood, string, leather, and bits of steel—didn’t stand a chance, not against the kind of heat and power my pet Drake was throwing around. The wood blackened, twisted, and snapped. String and leather frayed, cracked, and disintegrated. Even the steel smoldered and drooped in the intense heat. The pair of guards didn’t fare any better. One bolted away, arms raised overhead as he screamed and burned, only to trip and tumble from the wall. The other fought against the pain, standing proud and facing us down with an outthrust spear.

Another blast of flame finished him on the spot.

Finally, Devil’s attack ceased and a cooldown bar appeared in the corner of my eye.

Interesting.

So my pet had some limitations of his own. That was too bad, but also understandable from a gaming perspective. A mount like this was already ridiculously powerful, but if he could spew unending gouts of shadow flame, he’d be nearly unstoppable.

The next ballista was almost in range, and these legionaries had certainly noticed our presence. I wasn’t quite sure what to do here, but I knew we needed to put as many of these weapons out of commission as possible. Attack, I sent to Devil, my desperation bleeding through the command.

The Drake responded in a blink.

We dropped from the air, landing on top of the wall, slinking forward with a sinuous grace and unbelievable speed. The creature had somehow co-opted the controls for the time being, so all I could do was sit back, hang on for dear life, and hope things turned out well. We careened into the first sentry head-on; the Drake used its monstrous, spiked skull and its considerable momentum to send the sword-wielding guard cartwheeling through the air like a ragdoll. Devil had paralyzed me with an almost identical attack during our first fight in the mines, so I felt genuine sympathy for the poor guy on the receiving end.

Another guard, this one brandishing a halberd, darted toward us, but Devil lashed out like a cobra, crushing the man’s head with his terrible jaws. The Drake didn’t stop to gloat though; no, he just barreled forward, throwing himself at a third and final guard. I lurched in my seat as Devil’s wings thrust down and we were suddenly airborne again—except now we had another passenger dangling from Devil’s front claws. The guard, a wide-eyed woman, jabbed at Devil’s belly, but she didn’t have the leverage or reach to do much damage. We climbed for a few seconds, before sharply wheeling back toward the wall.

With a bellow of utter rage and contempt, Devil released the hapless guard from his deathly grip. She dropped, shock painted across her face, and slammed into the unmanned ballista with devastating force. Wood snapped, and so did the guard’s back. She stared up at us with vacant eyes, her neck at an impossible angle.

“Look!” Abby yelled in my ear, frantically jabbing a finger toward the Keep.

I reined Devil in, and turned us back toward the domineering fortress looming high above the city. I couldn’t help but grin at what I saw: Spiderkin, of all different sizes and varieties, crept up the inner wall, their hairy legs scuttling along with ease, while their riders clung tightly for dear life, held in place by flimsy strands of silver webbing. Otto and Amara rode at the top of the arachnoid formation, leading the silent charge with their weapons drawn and ready to fight. It was a spectacular sight, and though I was having a fantastic time swooping through the air, a part of me wished I were there with them.

“We’ve got incoming,” Abby yelled again, directing my gaze further up, to the top of the fortress. My grin faltered, faded, and died on my face.

Bulky stone creatures, loping along on all fours, leapt from the Keep’s turrets, plunging toward the ground, then unfurled massive wings and drifted out on strong currents of air. Gargoyles of some sort. Those had to be the Keep’s guardians. Carrera had a whole platoon of them—thirty or forty strong—and though Rowanheath’s regular sentries hadn’t taken note of the spiderkin, those stone-winged freaks were beelining straight for them. The spider-riders were nearly two-thirds of the way up, but the Gargoyles would be on them long before they reached the top.

“Get ready to fight!” I hollered at Abby as I ran one hand over Devil’s scaly neck. “We need to distract those things.”

“Ready whenever you are!” she yelled back, her voice fierce and proud.

THIRTY-THREE: Dogfight

Devil’s powerful wings pumped frantically as we drove toward the first wave of Gargoyles. At a distance, I hadn’t really appreciated their size, but up close I realized how massive they were. Each was easily the size of a male lion and built along the same lines: slick, streamlined bodies, broad chests, and hulking limbs rippling with stone muscle. Instead of feline faces, however, each had the head of a gigantic eagle—complete with sharp amber eyes and a cruel tearing beak—which perfectly matched the powerful, feathered wings protruding from their backs.

These things were closer to stone Griffins than Gargoyles—not that it really changed anything. At the end of the day, one giant, flying stone monster wasn’t all that different from another giant, flying stone monster.

A group of the Griffins shot directly toward the spider-riders scuttling tirelessly up the face of the wall, but another group, four strong, veered toward us, obviously trying to intercept us before we could interfere. Abby leaned out to the right, her left arm slung around my waist for support, and started lobbing fireball after fireball at the incoming creatures. The guardians scrambled, a few breaking left and right, another diving low, while one lurched up, narrowly avoiding a direct blast to the face.
I pulled us left, then dropped us into a dive, swooping low while angling toward the wall and our exposed spider-riders. Those guys needed cover fire, and we were the only ones that could provide it.

The Griffins were quick and agile in the air, however, and before we could get far, a pair were dropping down on us from above, razor-sharp talons outstretched, eager to tear us to pieces. I jerked Devil right and almost lost my lunch as we flipped into a tight barrel roll—the world temporarily inverting—before leveling out as the diving Griffins swept through the air we’d occupied a moment before. One threat avoided. Unfortunately, another guardian was waiting for us, dead ahead, its beaked maw stretched wide as an angry white light built in its mouth.

Before we could swerve, the creature spewed out a column of fire as bright and blinding as the sun.

Devil, driven by some underlying sense of self-preservation, reacted before I could even think: a column of shadow flame burst from his jaws. The two streams of power—one eye-searing white, the other raven-wing black—collided like a head-on car crash. A massive explosion of swirling light and a thunderclap rocked the air, followed in short order by a tremendous shock wave, which mushroomed out from the impact site. The backlash from the detonation ripped one of the Griffin’s wings off—pieces of debris and hunks of stone spun free as the creature plummeted.

Unfortunately, we were falling too, twirling toward the ground at breakneck speeds while wind furiously slapped against us. Unlike the Griffin, Devil appeared to be uninjured, but that shock wave had been nasty. The Drake fought against our chaotic descent, stretching out his neck and wings, desperately fighting to stop our out-of-control death spiral. Abby had both arms clenched tightly around my chest and I could feel her mouth moving against my back as she whispered silent prayers. We could sure use a little divine help, because Rowanheath was rushing toward us at an ungodly rate.

In my head, I watched a grisly scene of us splattering against the side of a building over and over again. I couldn’t help but envision all of my bones breaking and my guts bursting upon impact. This was going to suck so bad. I pressed my eyes shut, not wanting to watch my death for a second time, while my stomach did backflips and summersaults. But then, against all hope, we began to level out as Devil frantically beat his wings, bringing us out of the deadly fall. I reluctantly cracked my eyes and watched as we skimmed over Rowanheath’s rooftops, only a few feet away from utter disaster.

My heart was pounding in my chest like a jackhammer—I felt like I might still die from fear. But a few quick flaps brought us up to a more comfortable height, and my panic finally started to recede as we raced toward the spider-riders once more.

“Holy shit,” Abby called out to me. “Let’s try not to do that again, okay?”

I flashed her a thumbs-up, my hand still jittering from the rush of adrenaline. “I’ll do my best,” I hollered back.

There were no longer any Griffins pursuing us—presumably, they’d left us for dead—which was good news, but they were now focusing all their attention on our spider-riders. Amara and Otto had almost crested the wall, but the Griffins were giving them nine kinds of hell in the process. They harried our riders with tearing claws or blasted them from the steep stone face with burning-white sunfire. I watched, appalled and horrified, as one of the Griffins ripped a burly, heavily bearded Dwarf from the back of a gray Sword-Slayer and callously hurled him into the air.

The poor traveler tumbled eighty feet at least, and disappeared into the cityscape below. I didn’t see him land, but he was dead without a question.

Still, our riders weren’t going quietly—those with bows or ranged magic attacks unleashed defensive cover fire as the spiders continued their upward crawl.

Conventional arrows often bounced off stony hides, but I saw more than a few explosions of the acid-tipped arrows Amara and Baymor had used when fighting the Darkshard Keep Golems. The acid was highly effective, not only because it dealt a lot of damage, but because a single, well-placed shot could take out a wing and cripple the creature’s ability to fly. Magic also flashed toward the Griffins—balls of golden flame, spears of glacier ice, even a few blasts that looked suspiciously like Umbra Bolts. Michael, the fourteen-year-old Danish kid, who also happened to be a Shadowmancer, was riding with them, so it was certainly possible.

I tore my eyes away from the scene as a pair of Griffins darted toward us, shrieking out their rage before both unleashed brilliant sunfire beams.

We banked hard right, avoiding one column of fiery death, but the other slashed toward us like a chainsaw. With a grimace, I threw out one hand, palm up, and conjured Dark Shield, summoning my defensive barrier. The dome of flickering purple energy burst to life in front of Devil’s outstretched snout; the incoming sunfire beam smashed into the shield like a hammer, and bled through in an instant. Devil’s life bar began to dwindle, dropping by a fifth, then a full quarter before the Griffin’s flame-lance finally guttered and died.

I lowered the shield and pulled us to the right as Abby unleashed a devastating barrage of fireballs from behind me. Each orb of flame was only the size of a ping-pong ball, but there were easily a hundred of them. And they moved fast. A hundred comets streaked toward the guardian like a flock of attacking sparrows, each one taking a tiny bite out of the stone monstrosity. It was death by a thousand paper cuts. The guardian faltered under the onslaught, its wings wobbling and shaking, and then it was crashing toward the earth like a meteor, its wings pockmarked with holes.

The second Griffin dove at us, talons outstretched—we rolled left, and as we did, I fished my warhammer from my belt. We leveled out a second later and I swung my hammer as the creature flew past us, unleashing Savage Blow. I caught the eagle-faced monster square in the beak; stone shattered and exploded outward in a hail of shrapnel. I didn’t know if my attack was good enough to put it down for keeps, but it would certainly take a while to recover from a shot like that. Quickly, I stowed the hammer and urged Devil on toward the wall.

I was relieved to see the first wave of spider-riders, maybe ten or so, had made it to the top and dismounted from their unorthodox mounts. They’d formed up into a tight box, and were firing into the crowd of swooping monstrosities, covering the riders still working their way up. I was a little surprised to see the spiderkin were also actively taking part in the battle—and, more importantly, they were crazy effective. Strings of gauzy webbing whipped through the air like party streamers, snaring winged enemies in mid-flight; once they caught something, the arachnoids would drag down their struggling prey with incredible strength.

One-on-one, the spiders wouldn’t have been a match for the guardians, but they worked together in teams of twos and threes: one deploying silken thread, the others lashing out with deadly fangs and frightening speed to devastating effect.

Meanwhile, Otto and another Risi man—a big beefy fellow with an equally beefy battle-axe—were holding the line against any encroaching Griffins that somehow managed to break free from the spider-webbing. The pair of them fought like a living whirlwind of flesh and steel, hacking at stone limbs, bashing in hooked beaks, obliterating outstretched wings. As we got closer, I couldn’t help but grin: the other Risi was Forge, the former Marine from Texas, and he was wielding the axe I’d scored from the Thieves’ Guild quest. The spider-riders had been recruited from an all-volunteer force—another likely suicide mission—and I was suddenly very glad he’d decided to stick around.

The guy was a beast.

I lost track of the battle as the world around me spun yet again—Devil taking evasive action. We barrel-rolled past a diving Griffin looking to knock us from the air, before finally touching down on a massive stone courtyard in front of the Keep’s main entrance. Somehow, almost impossibly, we’d made it. Against all the odds, we’d made it. And not just me and Abby. True, we’d lost a few riders, but more of the spiderkin were pouring over the top of the wall every second, shedding their riders before leaping into the fray. I couldn’t hold back a surge of hope and fierce pride: we might actually win this thing.

Abby and I slipped from Devil’s back.

After all those twists, turns, dives, and barrel rolls, I was glad to have my feet firmly planted on the earth again. Even though I was no longer riding Devil, that sense of him remained in my head, lingering in the back of my skull. We were connected. Attack, I sent, envisioning the Drake flying overhead, taking pop-shots at the Griffins still thick in the air like flies on a muggy summer day. Devil turned and stared at me, his purple eyes narrowing into fierce slits. They will bleed—the words flashed through my mind, barely more than a mental whisper, but very real. Then, the Drake dipped his serpentine head, a barely-there grin gracing his lips, and launched himself into the air.

I stared after the Drake, momentarily dumbstruck as he waded into the battle, lashing out with his talons and tail, before roasting an inattentive Griffin with a flood of purple flame. There was definitely more to Devil than strictly met the eye.

I put my minion from mind—Devil would just have to take care of himself.

I turned my attention to our fighters, now battling their way, inch by inch and foot by foot, toward the Keep’s main entryway. A Griffin, badly wounded and missing one wing, touched down not five feet away from me—dragged down by the webbing from one of the sleek Poison Darters. The Griffin threw its head back, squealing as it thrashed against the spider silk, but I moved before it could break free. I pulled my hammer out and darted in, laying into the guardian’s temple, triggering Black Caress as I did so.

Inky power flashed out as warmth and life trickled up through the shaft of my weapon and into my body. The hit knocked off a quarter of the creature’s HP, but before I could deliver the killing blow, Forge was by my side, decapitating the creature with his hulking axe. He paused and glanced up at me, a half-mad grin stitched across his face. “Told you I’d have your back,” he said, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of one hand. “And thanks for the gift”—he held up the axe—“I’m putting it to good use.”

Then, before I could respond, he lumbered away, charging another downed Griffin with an inarticulate battle cry.

For the next five minutes or so, we lost ourselves to the battle, chopping enemies down in what felt like an endless grind as the rest of our spider-riders scuttled over the top of the wall. Devil soared overhead, providing us with aerial support. Amara danced and twirled through the enemy ranks, lashing out with arrows, lobbing deadly grenades, and hurling conjured spears with deadly efficiency. Abby fought behind a wall of Wode tanks, spewing fire like a living volcano. We’d cleared most of the courtyard when a huge shadow flashed overhead, followed by an eagle’s screeching cry, loud enough to shake the ground and send me reeling.

I looked up, jaw hanging open, as a Griffin three times larger than the rest soared into view and slammed into Devil like a freight train. This creature wasn’t crude, animated stone. No, it was the real deal. A mythical beast of flesh and blood with golden lion’s fur—gleaming in the silver moonlight—and brown eagle wings. Stranger, this Griffin was completely decked out with silver armor. It had a crested helm, protecting its streamlined head and face, and a gleaming chest plate inlaid with blue gems. Swatches of ring-mail were draped along its sides and flanks.

The newcomer’s huge talons ripped through Devil’s scaly hide with scornful ease, spilling out spools of ropy intestine and purple blood. Its hooked beak darted in while Devil struggled, ripping out the Drake’s throat in one vicious stroke. My minion sputtered and faltered, gore raining down as he fought to maintain altitude—a fruitless battle. I watched, shocked, as Devil’s HP plummeted to zero and the creature exploded in a shower of black debris and inky soot.

<<<>>>

Devil has perished in battle! Your Void Terror has lost all current EXP and cannot be summoned for (8) hours.

<<<>>>

White-hot anger surged through me—that asshole had just killed my pet. My minion. My amazing killing machine. That thing was going to pay, dammit.

The Griffin banked hard right and dropped toward us, which is when I noticed there was a man riding on its back.

He was tall and broad-shouldered with deeply tanned skin, a swath of ebony hair, and rugged good looks. He wore immaculate silver plate armor, tooled in gold and covered with glowing opalescent runes. A massive tower shield clung to his back, poking up over his head. He carried an ornate, jewel-studded sword in one gauntleted hand, and bore the reins for his mythical-beast mount in the other. The guy looked every inch of what a Paladin—or in this case Templar—should look like.

He was noble, regal, heroic. He was the kind of man other men idolized and followed.

In my gut, I knew I’d finally come face-to-face with Aleixo Carrera, former Colombian Drug Lord, current High Commander of the Imperial Inquisitors, and the Faction Leader of the Knights of Holy Light. This was the guy who’d sworn to torture me for eternity. This was the guy who’d pledged to murder everyone I cared about and raze Yunnam to the ground. This was the guy that just murdered Devil. This guy was going to pay.

THIRTY-FOUR: Boss Battle

Carrera’s Griffin touched down in the courtyard, a huge downdraft kicking up little dust devils and piles of debris. The Griffin calmly folded its sleek wings back, laying them flat against its body as Carrera swung one leg over and dismounted with a practiced, efficient ease. His easy manner told me this certainly wasn’t the first time Carrera had mounted up. He absently patted the Griffin’s feathered flank, crooning at it softly, before dismissing the thing with a faint flick of his wrist. The creature obeyed, wheeling around, then launched itself from the wall, taking wing as it glided toward the outer defenses.

No doubt going down to try and put our cannons out of commission.

Despite being significantly outnumbered, Carrera swaggered forward like a prideful peacock, coming to a halt about ten feet out, his feet planted wide—cocky, arrogant—his over-sized sword leaning against one of his silver pauldrons. He regarded me through squinted eyes, his brow furrowed in displeasure, a half-sneer curling up the lips on one side of his mouth. “So, we finally meet face-to-face, you miserable puta. Me cago en la madre que te parió!” I wasn’t exactly fluent in Spanish, but growing up in San Diego and working as an EMT had taught me enough to know he’d literally just told me, I shit on the mother who gave birth to you.

Obviously, this guy was classy to the bone.

“I’ve been looking forward to this encounter since I first discovered your theft,” Carrera continued, his voice coldly professional. “People, they don’t steal from me—not if they want to live, pendejo, because I always get even. Always. And now, here you are. You’ve saved me the trouble of hunting you down in those miserable swamps. You’ve delivered yourself to me on a silver platter.”

“Abby, Otto, Amara,” I commanded calmly, positioning myself squarely in Carrera’s path. “Get to the Command Center and hold it. Don’t worry about me, I can handle this. Everyone else”—I cast a quick look around—“you make sure they get there, bar the door, then fight off anyone who comes close. That includes you, Spiderkin.”

A round of hairy, dry-rustling legs acknowledged me in reply.

Abby shot me a worried look, her lips pressed into a thin line, but then she nodded. “Love you, Jack,” she called out before bolting for the Keep’s entry, trailing a line of warriors and spiderkin behind her. Otto offered me an approving nod as he hustled past.

“Yes,” Carrera called out as they fled, “run along, la furcia. I’ll deal with this piece of trash, then I will come for you. For all of you.”

A handful of warriors—a leather-clad Archer, a Dwarven Smith leaning on a beefy hammer near as tall as he was, and Forge with his gleaming battle-axe—loitered behind. They spread out behind me in a horseshoe, creating a loose barricade, barring the entryway. “I said go”—I glowered at each of the faction members—“I can handle this.”

“With all due respect,” Forge said, his grip straining around the haft of his weapon, “I think we’ll stay. The three of us”—he swept a hand toward the others—“are all former military, and we don’t leave a man behind. Period. Especially not our leaders. Like I told you before—I’ve got your back. And so do these knuckleheads. Not to mention, if anyone ever needed an ass-beatin’, it’s that shitbird right there.” He offered Carrera a hard, feral smile, which seemed to promise pain and violence.

In theory, I should’ve been angry at them for disobeying my orders, but honestly, I was glad to have both the moral and physical support. I grinned in spite of the circumstances, and turned back toward Carrera, feeling a touch more confident and a little smug to boot. Carrera was tough, no doubt, but I was pretty tough myself, and four on one weren’t good odds. If I were in Carrera’s boots, I would’ve been more than a little nervous.

But as I coolly regarded Carrera, my smugness and optimism slipped away. He definitely should’ve been nervous, but he wasn’t. Not at all. He stood tall, relaxed and unworried about the four warriors blocking his path and apparently unconcerned by the twenty others storming his Keep, frantically seeking out his control room. He was at ease, as though this was just another day in the office for him. Either he was severely overconfident, or he was really, really good. Much better than I was giving him credit for. I was betting on a little from column A and column B, but that didn’t do much to dispel the sudden flutter of panic in my gut.

“These warriors?” Carrera said, nodding toward my group. “They won’t help you. They won’t save you. Not from me. At best, they will momentarily slow me down. So, let us settle this as men. Just you”—he jabbed a finger at me—“and I.”

I stared at him, dumbfounded. He expected me to duel him? I snorted and shook my head at the absurdity of the notion.

“You are a coward, perhaps?” Carrera goaded, arching an eyebrow at me. “A toothless puta, too afraid to face me man-to-man? One-on-one?”

I laughed in his face—I just couldn’t help myself—which only seemed to sour his mood further.

“Honor is a joke to you?” he asked, the accusation burning with barely contained hate.

“Nope,” I replied. “I don’t think honor is a joke, and I’m not afraid. I’m just not an idiot. I don’t believe in fair fights because I play to win!” I yelled, darting forward and lashing out with my warhammer, hoping my hangers-on would get the message and jump in.

I’d closed the distance between us in an eyeblink—my movement advantage on clear display—but somehow Carrera already had his sword slicing through the air in retaliation. Unbelievably, his blade clanged against my incoming hammer, stopping my attack cold. A quiver ran up my weapon and into my palms, setting my teeth on edge. Then, with a quick flick of his wrists, Carrera knocked my weapon aside, unbalancing me in the process, before darting in and catching me across the jaw with a wicked elbow.

Wow, he was fast. At least as fast as I was, and he was wearing the heaviest of heavy armor. How the heck did that work?

I shook off the blow as Forge and the stocky Dwarf rushed in like an avalanche of flesh and steel, taking clumsy but powerful swings at the Holy Templar. They fought well together—one going low while the other went high, one circling left while the other moved right—but Carrera was too fast by half. He easily ducked and weaved around a series of wild chops, courtesy of Forge, then absently sidestepped a massive overhand strike from the Dwarf. Carrera bolted left, avoiding a crippling cross-body slice, and golden fire—blindingly bright—exploded along the length of his sword blade.

Then, in a blur of motion, Carrera spun, dropping to a knee as his sword flashed out: the blade sliced cleanly through the Dwarf’s armored belly, almost cutting him in two, spilling a wave of scarlet down his front. The Dwarf stopped, mallet falling from his hands as he stared dumbly at his ruined gut, his face suddenly pale, his brow slick with perspiration. His trembling hands roamed over the terrible gash in disbelief. The Dwarf stumbled back, one step then two, before toppling like a felled tree, his HP gone. Carrera wasn’t done, however. He rose and twirled, deflecting a thrust from Forge, then swatting the beefy Risi away with a wave of golden fire.

Speed was Carrera’s real weapon, so I charged forward and threw out my left hand, unleashing Umbra Bog, hoping to slow him down before he could finish Forge for good.

A fail notification flashed on the edge of my vision:

<<<>>>

Umbra Bog Failed! Lord Carrera resists Umbra Bog with the Holy Light Aura ability! Your Shadow-based spell does not affect him!

<<<>>>

Well, that was great. And by that point, I was already too close, too committed, to turn back.

So, I lobbed an Umbra Bolt on instinct, but the shadowy ball energy slapped against him and rolled off without any appreciable effect, just like a duck shedding water from its back. The attack didn’t knock off so much as a single hit point. Then, before I knew it, Carrera was on me. Only a second before I’d been on the offensive, and now I was back on my heels as he rained blow after savage blow down on me. Carrera’s sword flicked back and forth—uncannily fast for such a large weapon—attack, slash, parry, reset.

I managed to counter the lightning-quick blows as they came, narrowly deflecting each while carefully backpedaling, working to gain some breathing room. Even with the extra points I’d invested into Constitution, my character wasn’t built to fight like this, and the extended back and forth was quickly burning through my limited supply of Stamina. Carrera feinted left, and I fell for it, awkwardly maneuvering my hammer into a defensive position, only to find Carrera’s sword slashing at my exposed left side. I shot my vambrace up in panic, catching the incoming strike on the spiked gauntlet, which saved my life.

Unfortunately, the move was still costly. And the price? Unbelievable pain. The vambrace saved me from losing the limb completely, but the sheer force of the strike shattered my forearm, and the Holy Fire coating the sword burned my skin even through the protection of my armor. It felt like dipping my arm into a vat of acid. The limb dropped uselessly to my side in murderous agony, completely useless. As though to confirm my assessment, a combat notification popped up:

<<<>>>

Debuff Added

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

<<<>>>

And there went my Plague Burst ability. I took a few deep breaths, pushing away the throbbing pain as I awkwardly maneuvered my warhammer back into position. I managed to get the weapon up, but I was terribly exposed on my left side, and Carrera seemed to know it. He shifted his stance, dropping his blade low, a frightening gleam in his eye. He was preparing for a kill shot—I could feel it in my bones. I needed to get gone, fast. I offered him a shifty grin and triggered Shadow Stride; an inky cloud swirled around me as time came screeching to an abrupt halt.

I took a few steps back—my breathing labored, my heart thudding, sweat rolling down my face in sheets—when something very unexpected happened. Despite being frozen in time, Carrera began to glow and burn like the rising sun. Light leaked from his skin, his sword, his armor, tendrils of golden power probing at the air. I stared on in bewilderment—in all the times I’d used Shadow Stride, I’d never seen anything like this. Not once. What in the world was happening? I hesitantly backed away a few more steps—confused and supremely nervous—as the light flooding from the Templar expanded, burning with ever-greater intensity. After only seconds, I had to shield my eyes from the glow; looking at him was like staring into the sun at noonday.

Then the world around me shook and trembled; the shadows around me danced and writhed in discomfort at the encroaching light. I took one more tentative step back and as I did, the Shadowverse shattered into a thousand pieces as the glow, bleeding from Carrera, reached out and enveloped me like a gigantic hand. The awful light banished the Night Armor Aura, wrapped around me like a second skin, then rudely dragged me back into reality as time crashed down like a hammer blow. Somehow, impossibly, Carrera had hauled me out of the Shadowverse against my will.

Another notification flashed:

<<<>>>

Debuff Added

Revealing Light: The Holy Power of the High Gods illuminates the area, dispelling all Umbra Magic effects; range, 100 meters; duration, 2 minutes.

<<<>>>

Carrera began to laugh at me, a deep, guttural howl rising up from his belly. That laugh mocked me, and rejoiced in both my pain and confusion.

“You can’t beat me, pendejo. I’m not a generic Templar, I’m a Light-Bringer. My class is specifically equipped and designed to resist and dispel the power of Shadow-based Dark Templars.” He paused and offered me a cruel sneer. “I’m a Shadowmancer killer.” Then before I could respond—before I could move, run, or conjure some sort of protection—he unleashed a ball of radiant golden energy, which hit me in the chest like an enraged rodeo bull.

My actual armor absorbed some of the shock, but the hit still swatted me into the air like a line drive and dropped me down to twenty percent Health. I smacked against the Keep’s stone wall and slid to a heap on the ground, struggling to breathe. My vision dimmed around the edges, my back screamed out in protest, and my left arm—still broken—seemed to insist I should give up and call it quits for good. I sat there for a moment, hunched in on myself, completely vulnerable while I tried to mentally regroup. How could I possibly defeat a guy designed to nullify my abilities?

Carrera stalked nearer, a smug look of victory painted across his face.

That looked vanished as a devastating barrage of arrows exploded from a pool of nearby shadows, revealing the Ranger I’d forgotten about. The brilliant archer had bided her time, waiting for the perfect moment to launch a surprise attack. Though many of the shots went wide or ricocheted harmlessly off Carrera’s heavy armor, more than a few punched through, lodging themselves in his chest, shoulders, and legs. The Templar cried out in pain and anger, turning away from me, focusing his rage on the Ranger. With a snarl, he spat out an archaic phrase, fulgur sanctorum, and raised one hand high overhead.

The clouds above boiled and churned, before erupting in a violent flash, vomiting a bolt of lightning down on top of the Archer. She scrambled and threw herself into a hasty dive, but it was too little too late. The lightning landed with a crack and a boom, which temporarily blinded me. When the light finally cleared—staining my vision with a purple afterimage—all that remained of the woman was a charred corpse, blackened and twisted beyond recognition.

Her sacrifice hadn’t been for nothing though.

An alert flashed:

<<<>>>

Faction Alert:

Congratulations! Your faction, the Crimson Alliance, has captured the Rowanheath Command Center—the Faction Seat of the Knights of Holy Light. If your faction holds the Command Center for (30) minutes, you will control Rowanheath and displace the current ruling faction.

Countdown: 29:59

<<<>>>

We’d done it. We’d stalled Carrera long enough for Abby and the others to take the Command Center—now we just needed to keep Carrera from steamrolling over our forces and taking it back. Moreover, the Ranger’s sacrifice had also bought Forge the time he needed to recover.

The hard-charging Risi—blood dripping from his lips, lacerations decorating his face and arms like war medals—lumbered into the fight, slamming himself into Carrera’s gut and pushing him toward the wall like a linebacker driving a training sled. I wasn’t a tactical genius, but I immediately realized what Forge was doing: he was going to take Carrera over the wall. It was clear we didn’t have the raw power or strength to stop the Templar, but no one could survive a two-hundred-foot drop. No one. The pair were only feet away from going over, when Carrera managed to gain his footing, slowing the onslaught just long enough to bring his sword up high and drive it straight down.

Right through Forge’s back.

The blow impaled the warrior clean through and continued all the way into the stone.

Forge sputtered and coughed, grasping at the blade running through him, as if he might somehow be able to pull it free. After a few fruitless seconds, his hands fell away, covered in blood. He stared up at Carrera, eyes already growing glassy and unfocused. “Eat a dick,” he sputtered, flipping the man the bird, before collapsing in a heap as his HP hit zero. Forge hadn’t finished him off, but he’d done two very important things: one, he’d almost pushed him right over the edge of the wall, and two, he’d run down the Revealing Light debuff clock.

I could use Shadow Stride again. With a grin, I triggered the ability, rejoicing as time lurched to a standstill and monochromatic blacks and whites invaded the landscape.

I limped my way over to Carrera, in no real rush. I knew what I had to do, but I wasn’t relishing it, not one bit. I lined up my shot, dropped into a crouch—letting shadow swirl around me as Stealth activated—and slipped free from the Shadowverse, time lurching to catch up. I slammed my warhammer into Carrera’s head, spike first, triggering my new Crush Armor ability, which gave me a 250% attack bonus against opponents in heavy plate armor. Opponents exactly like Carrera. I earned some significant Backstab damage plus a critical hit, which dropped his HP to just above 15%.

The Templar stumbled from the blow, blood cascading freely down the side of his face.

Instead of letting up, though, I launched myself at the drunkenly staggering Carrera, driving my shoulder into his gut as I fished the Black Hexblade of Serth-Rog from a sheath at my belt. Since my hammer strike had dropped him down into the critical health zone, I could now trigger the Soul Sacrifice ability, banishing this jerk to the realm of Serth-Rog. True, it would kill me too, and permanently cost me 5 points of Spirit, which was a heck of a steep price to pay, but Carrera would definitely die. And, more importantly, he’d be stuck wandering around the capital of the underworld as a Spectral Reverent. At least for a while.

As painful and costly as this move would be, there really was no better message I could send to the empire: if you mess with the Crimson Alliance, we will invade your city, take all your stuff, and damn you to the underworld. That would make people think twice before tangling with us. Plus, there was really no one—with perhaps the exception of Osmark himself—who deserved to suffer this kind of fate more than Carrera.

“You shouldn’t have threatened me, and you shouldn’t have killed my pet,” I spat, irrationally mad, as I sunk the Hexblade into Carrera’s stomach, triggering Black Caress and pushing us both over the edge of the wall.

A combat notification popped up in the corner of my eye as his life flowed into me:

<<<>>>

Debuffs Added:

Entwined-Fate: You have used the Hexblade and activated the Soul Sacrifice ability—your life has been tied to Traveler Aleixo Carrera. When he dies, you will automatically die and respawn in your normal location!

Spiritual Karma: You have used the Hexblade and activated the Soul Sacrifice ability—you have permanently lost (5) points of Spirit!

<<<>>>

“What have you done!” Carrera screamed as we flipped over and over, hurtling toward the earth.

“I won. I hope you enjoy hell,” I whispered just before the ground rushed up to meet me and the lights went out.

THIRTY-FIVE: Peace Offering

I fell through darkness, arms and legs pinwheeling madly as I flipped and spun, on a crash course with the ground. Except the ground never came—I just kept cutting through the endless black with no bottom in sight. After a few more seconds an image appeared in the emptiness yawning all around me: a lightning bolt cut wildly through the air, charring a female Ranger to a crisp, leaving only a blackened corpse behind … then the image dissolved, replaced by Forge’s death-glazed eyes as Carrera impaled him … The Dwarf came next—his gut split open—followed by an image of Devil exploding in a cloud of sooty smoke.

The images came faster after that. Terrible scenes of men and women dying: Rowanheath Guards, Crimson Alliance Faction members, players, and NPCs. Just one long, grisly slide show of all the brutal carnage I’d seen over the last few hours. Finally, my own end played out on a loop. The Spider Queen ripping open my chest … my head clipping the edge of a building—breaking my neck—before my body splattered on a cobblestone street … Spider Queen, Neck Break, Spider Queen, Neck Break. Finally, I pressed my eyes shut, unwilling to watch anymore.

When I finally opened my eyes again, the expansive black was gone, replaced instead by an endless void of white. And suddenly, I was no longer falling. Featureless, white linoleum stretched out in every direction like an endless ocean.

“The mind has a tough time dealing with death,” a man said from behind me, his voice smooth, suave, and somehow familiar. “There were problems in the early test version—dying in Viridian Gate was too traumatic for many players. Several became …” There was a thoughtful pause. “Unhinged,” the voice finally continued, “by experiencing death so frequently.”

I turned slowly, and found a man lounging in a padded leather chair as creamy white as the landscape around us. He was a human, Imperial if I had to guess, but instead of a toga, he wore a pair of IRL slacks, a black turtleneck, and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.

“We tried to fix it,” he continued idly, “the ill-effects of dying, that is, but like so many other things, there just wasn’t time to get it right. To get it perfect.” He leaned back and sighed, crossing his legs and tenting his fingers as he carefully cataloged every detail about me.

“You’re Robert Osmark,” I blurted out, finally placing the voice. His had been the last real human voice I’d heard before uploading into V.G.O.

“Exactly right,” he said with a disarming grin. “And you are Jack Mitchel. A thirty-two-year-old from San Diego, California. Worked as an EMT, if I have my facts right. Please, won’t you take a seat?” he asked, sweeping a hand out. Suddenly a second chair, identical to the one Osmark occupied, appeared next to me, materializing from the air.

“I think I’ll stand,” I replied, edging away from the chair.

“Suit yourself,” he said with an unconcerned shrug.

“What is this place?” I asked, spinning in a slow circle, boots clacking against a dull white floor, the sound dying a few feet out. “It looks like the loading screen.”

“Exactly right again,” he replied. “This is the loading platform. I called in a personal favor to Enyo, one of the in-game Overminds, to arrange this little meeting. I feel we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, and that maybe you think some things about me which aren’t necessarily true. I’d like to set the record straight, is all.”

I rounded on him, eyes narrowed, anger boiling up. “You want to set the record straight? You abused and manipulated this system to turn yourself into a king on the day the world ended. I think I know everything I need to. Now, tell me what happened back in Rowanheath.”

He uncrossed his legs. “Everything is fine. Your friend—and my former employee—Abby is alive and well. And without Carrera around to rally the troops, the Keep fell, the main gates opened wide, and your mercenary army flooded the streets, just as you planned. It’s been about”—he paused, canting one wrist and glancing at a stylish watch—“oh, about four hours since you threw yourself from the top of a medieval skyscraper. There are still a few isolated pockets of Imperial resistance, but by the time you respawn, the town guards will have that all sorted out.

“It was a big win for you, and a bold play all around,” he continued. “Very impressive. Naturally, the wikis are exploding and no one wants to talk about anything other than Grim Jack and the Crimson Alliance. How you managed to invade and capture the most well-fortified Imperial city in the South in a matter of hours. Everyone is in an absolute tizzy, as you might expect. The real talking point, though, is what you did to Carrera. Not only did you steal his city, you seemed to kill him. Now, we both know that’s not true—the Hexblade is powerful but not that powerful—but the existence of the Hexblades are still only half-whispered rumors on the forums. Very few people know the truth. Now, with all of that out of the way, maybe we can get down to business?”

“What do you want?” I hedged.

“I already told you, Jack. I want to set the record straight. I get the sense that you think I’m some sort of evil monster. A would-be tin-pot dictator, hellbent on global domination.”

“Aren’t you?” I replied, jaw clenched in anger.

He frowned at me and cocked a don’t-be-childish eyebrow. “Not at all, Jack. I’m an innovator, an entrepreneur, and a businessman at heart. Besides, you make me out to be a tyrant in your head, but don’t forget you owe me your life. Everyone in V.G.O. does. All of this”—he swept a hand around—“only exists because I made it. Because I had the fortitude and the determination to accomplish the impossible and create something the world had never seen the likes of before. You survived an extinction-level cataclysm because of my hard work, Jack. This is my world, funded and built with my money. Why shouldn’t I rule it?”

“The inventor of penicillin saved a lot of lives, too,” I shot back, “but he didn’t demand to be crowned king of the world. Besides, you’ve sold everyone out to thugs like Carrera.”

He grimaced. “You think I like working with people like him?” He shook his head. “No. But here’s the truth, people like him also played a very significant role in saving your life. The bigwigs—the political movers and shakers, the other titans of industry—they’re not here in V.G.O., Jack. They wouldn’t risk the possibility of dying during the transition process. Those people are nice and safe inside luxury fallout shelters, riding out the end of the world in style and pizzazz. They didn’t care about saving regular people, they were concerned only with themselves and their own political power.

“But I cared, Jack. I cared enough to do something about it. But in order to get this operation off the ground and functional, I needed help: money, resources, manpower. So, I turned to the people that could give me what I needed. People like Carrera. I did what I had to do, nothing more and nothing less. And what I said in my Universal Alert is true. Right now, we need strong leadership more than ever. We’re weathering a crisis unlike anything anyone has ever seen, and I intend to see all of us into prosperity.”

“Maybe that’s true,” I replied, “but you can’t just declare yourself emperor over the world. It isn’t right—”

“Oh,” he interjected, “and what exactly would you replace it with. Democracy? A constitutional republic?”

“Maybe,” I said, unsure and feeling supremely out of my depth.

He snorted, laughed, shook his head.

“We have people from all over the world. You may not realize this, but Osmark Technologies set up free digitization stations in seventy-six different countries. Three point two million people made the transition, Jack. Most of our players are from America and Europe, but we also have players from Saudi Arabia, from the UAE, a significant number from China. Those places have never had democracy; players from countries like that wouldn’t know what to do with it. Many wouldn’t want Western democracy even if you offered it to them on a silver platter. And there are other factors to consider: do you honestly think a nearly invincible, level two hundred warrior is going to listen to the opinion of a level ten miner? Not likely.

“Besides, in the end, it’s all the same. One big con game. That’s what you, and the rest of the plebs out there, don’t understand. Politics is a shell game, played on an epic scale. This—what you’re witnessing in V.G.O.?—is exactly what it’s like out there. Or, at least, what it was like before the asteroid. You’ve just had a chance to peek into the factory and seen how the sausage is made, but trust me, multimillionaires and billionaires, they run your country. They run the whole world. They offer the illusion of choice and freedom, but when you distill it all down, an illusion is all it is. We’re just stripping away the façade.”

I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t a political scientist or an intellectual scholar. “So what is this, some sort of sales pitch?” I finally asked. “Some sort of peace offering?”

“Yes and no,” he said, unfolding his hands and picking at an imaginary piece of lint on his slacks. “It is a sales pitch, but not a peace offering. You see, I don’t want you to join the empire, but I have no desire to see you killed or your faction destroyed. In fact, just the opposite. I’ve even arranged for a few of the remaining Faction Seals to find their way into other Rebel-aligned hands. Not too many, of course—I want to keep the upper hand—but a few.”

I squinted at him and rubbed at my jaw. What he was saying didn’t make any sense. None at all. “But in your Universal Message, you expressly said anyone who joined the Rebellion would be punished. So why would you want me to succeed?”

A ghost of a smile flickered across his lips. “Because war is good for humanity and it’s good for internal stability. I’ll freely admit that I don’t have a very elevated view of humanity as a whole. We are petty, contentious, and always looking to grab more power. Humans do not thrive in Utopian paradise—our nature won’t allow for it. We need enemies to fight, and when there isn’t an external enemy, we turn into cannibals and attack ourselves.

“I’ve had to surround myself with more than a few unsavory people, and without a threat to focus on, those people will begin to scheme, and they’ll turn their sights on me. Moreover, if there’s a visible, oppositional movement, then all the dissidents and malcontents in Eldgard will leave my ranks in peace and join you. You’ll draw them off like dross, and I won’t constantly need to police my people. It’s a win, win. Besides, the game won’t allow for anything else. I assume you’ve met Sophia?”

I nodded.

“I figured. She and Enyo are ying and yang, order and chaos, Imperial and Rebel. They will fight to maintain the balance—which is why they recruited us in the first place—so I’m simply giving them what they want.” He shrugged, wiggled his nose, then absently reached up and readjusted his glasses. “It’s easier for everyone that way.”

“Wait, so let me see if I have this all straight,” I said slowly, tasting the words as though I couldn’t quite believe what I was saying. “Since Sophia and Enyo require a Rebellion to exist, you want to use it as a rallying point, to keep all of the bloodthirsty people you recruited in check.”

“Got it in one,” he replied, pointing at me with a finger gun. “Taking over Rowanheath was genius work, and all of my backstabbing allies will be so worried about what you might do next that it will force them to work together, which is good for everyone. Unity is always best, when possible. So, I’ll rattle my saber, make some threats, maybe even send a few token forces to harass you and yours, but mostly, I’ll leave you alone. You can be the looming threat, while I work to bring order to the chaos.”

There was a certain cold, clinical logic to what he was proposing, but it was also sort of appalling. “Maybe your intentions are good,” I said after a time, “but I’m still going to stop you. I am grateful for what you’ve done, but that doesn’t give you the right to take away people’s freedoms. If I have to live here forever, I’m not going to let you turn it into a nightmare.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” he said with a solemn nod. “But a word of caution before you pursue any irrational course of action. I am only interested in a perceived threat, not an actual one. The second you cross that line, I will use all of my power to end you, and then I’ll find a new puppet to install. One who will be more pliable. I don’t say that with malice—you’re competent and creative, both traits I admire—but I will do what I must. Just think on it,” he said, before raising his hand and waving me a brief goodbye.

The floor promptly dropped out from beneath me, and I found myself tumbling back through the dark, down into my body for respawn.

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.

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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

If you enjoyed reading about Jack, Cutter, Abby and the rest of the gang in Viridian Gate Online and want to stay in the loop about the latest book releases, awesomesauce promotional deals, and upcoming book giveaways be sure to subscribe to my Mailing List Your email address will never be shared and you can unsubscribe at any time.You can also connect with me on my Facebook Fan Page: James Hunter Fan Page

Word-of-mouth and book reviews are crazy helpful for the success of any writer. If you really enjoyed reading about Jack and the gang, please consider leaving a short review—just a couple of lines about your overall reading experience. You can click here to leave a review at Amazon, and thank you in advance: Viridian Gate Online Books 1 - 3 Boxset

If you love my books and need more Viridian Gate Online right this minute, then you might want to pick up the next book in the series: Viridian Gate Online: Imperial Legion (Book 4)

VGO Reading Order

Viridian Gate Online: Cataclysm (Book 1)

Viridian Gate Online: Crimson Alliance (Book 2)

Viridian Gate Online: The Jade Lord (Book 3)

Viridian Gate Online: Imperial Legion (Book 4)

Viridian Gate Online: The Lich Priest (Book 5)

The Artificer DLC 1.1: A Viridian Gate Online Novel

Other Works by James A. Hunter

litRPG

War God’s Mantle: Ascension (Book 1)

Urban Fantasy

Strange Magic (Yancy Lazarus Episode One)

Cold Hearted (Yancy Lazarus Episode Two)

Flashback: Siren Song (Yancy Lazarus Episode 2.5)

Wendigo Rising (Yancy Lazarus Episode Three)

Flashback: The Morrigan (Yancy Lazarus Episode 3.5)

Savage Prophet (Yancy Lazarus Episode Four)
Brimstone Blues: A Yancy Lazarus Novel

***

MudMan (A Lazarus World Novel)

***

Two-Faced: Legend of the Treesinger

Books from Shadow Alley Press

Aaron Crash

Damnation Robot: Galactic Demon Hunters (Book 1)

Neutron Dragon Attack: Galactic Demon Hunters (Book 2)

eden Hudson

Revenge of the Bloodslinger: A Jubal Van Zandt Novel (Book 1)

Beautiful Corpse: A Jubal Van Zandt Novel (Book 2)

Soul Jar: A Jubal Van Zandt Novel (Book 3)

Garden of Time: A Jubal Van Zandt Novel (Book 4)

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.

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Special Thanks

I’d like to thank my wife, Jeanette, and my wonderful kids, Lucy and Sam. They are my constant motivation and inspiration. 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 book either, 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. And of course a big thanks to my editor, Tamara Blain who rocked this book (if you need editing, go to her, she’s seriously awesome: www.acloserlookediting.com/ ).

—James A. Hunter, April 2018

Copyright

Viridian Gate Online: Cataclysm; Viridian Gate Online: Crimson Alliance; Viridian Gate Online: The Jade Lord are all works 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 © 2018 by James A. Hunter and Shadow Alley Press, Inc.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email the publisher, subject line “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.

JStrode@ShadowAlleyPress.com