“We’ve run out of arrows!” Arwan reported, his voice ringing with the excitement of battle.
True, we hadn’t had that many. Still, they seemed to have done their job. The tables had turned again.
The Harvesters’ job had been to control groups of swordsmen, imbuing them with strength and confidence. Now that they were dead, common Reapers had lost their cool and relaxed their efforts. We could sense the difference in their let-up straight away.
They were on the brink of fleeing the battlefield.
* * *
The frozen river bristled with rampant ice ridges. Pools of burning oil filled the air with thick clouds of acrid black smoke. Our trebuchet batteries had fallen silent, unable to sustain the pressure of rapid fire.
With the death of most of the Harvesters, the battle which stretched along a thousand-foot length of the bank on both sides of the old ford had gradually begun to subside.
I hadn’t enjoyed being the one in control. Still, today the fate of the whole world had been at stake. Desperate as I’d been to join the battle, I couldn’t have afforded to bare my sword and throw myself into the thick of it. I had to restrain my impulses.
Once again the enemy wavered. We were forcing them back!
A snowstorm began to rage behind the river bend. How strange. Here, the setting sun hung in the clear skies while there, everything was consumed by a thickening snowy haze.
What was this, the enemy’s attempt to outflank us?
“Stephen, I want you to find out what’s going on over there. Send the scouts in to investigate.”
I checked the two clan’s stats. About 30% of all warriors and wizards had respawned at least once. KIA, 6%.
At this moment, all the solo players had finally lost their patience and chased after the routed enemy. They got so carried away they followed them across the frozen river, unwittingly triggering a new attack.
From the opposite bank, the enemy archers showered them with arrows. Two big groups of foot soldiers appeared from the snowy haze around the river bend.
“Turn back! Return to your positions!”
As if! Solo players were too independent to obey orders — and too excited to notice the new threat in the heat of the battle.
A few of them stopped and took cover behind their shields, only to gulp a quick elixir and resume their chase.
“Large high-level cavalry group approaching from around the river bend,” Stephen reported.
This last turn of events could have proven fatal for us. Although I fully appreciated the players’ personal courage, they were too uncoordinated — and once they’d crossed the river, they’d be attacked by the testing grounds’ defense mechanisms which would strip them of every stamina point they had.
“Clans, regroup! Prepare to engage with the cavalry! Advance to the middle of the river! White, we expect another strike from the right flank! Wizards, block out the opposite bank!”
A wall of fire rose to the sky. The ice began to melt. The resulting mist had sobered the over-enthusiastic players who’d stopped in front of the magic wall in despair, voicing their indignation of the “clumsy wizards”.
Glory be to the Founder Gods! The players stopped, recovering from their rage, then began to retreat in small groups.
Enea continued casting mass healing buffs on all the wounded.
Once again the tables had turned. Fickle Lady Luck froze, undecided.
The silence was such that we could already hear the clatter of the approaching cavalry.
Our combat sections had already lined up across the river. Their ranks bristled with spears. On my command, the Ravens blocked the left flank to curb any potential attacks from the opposite bank.
The unhappy solo players had already returned to the shore but weren’t in a hurry to climb the steep bank. They waited below, falling into groups.
“Reapers!”
No idea what Dietrich was playing at. We’d smoked his Harvesters before they could deliver more neurograms to the troops — which meant that the enemy couldn’t expect reinforcements any time soon. Their cavalry — about a hundred top-level NPCs — appeared to be more of a last-resort gesture.
Enveloped in his dark aura, Yorm leapt down from the bank.
Arwan’s archers and a dedicated group of swordsmen surrounded Enea. Her father had already returned to the frozen river.
Christa followed in Yorm’s wake, ready to stand against this new threat.
I began to shudder uncontrollably.
A wave of spine-chilling fear rolled down the river bed in front of the Reapers’ cavalry. This was a very nagging feeling which broke through our magic defenses. A freezing, debilitating fear ripped our protection auras apart and sank its claws into our minds.
Our formations wavered and fell apart as some of the warriors broke under this unexpected mental attack, lowering their spears and opening up gaps in our ranks.
Yorm took the brunt of the cavalry’s attack. Brandishing his club, he managed to unhorse a few riders before he was knocked off his feet.
They were about to trample him to death.
White didn’t hesitate. He showered the ranks with furious orders, forcing them to close again.
Then the darkening skies parted, disgorging Christa who’d dropped onto the Reapers like an angel of wrath. She’d stolen up on them from the rear, darted into the sky on her powerful leathery wings, then banked into a steep turn, scattering the cavalry’s rearguard.
Then everything went awry.
A new wave of fear clenched our warriors’ minds. The cavalry struck.
They broke our ranks, slicing through them like a knife through exposed flesh. The second mental attack had rendered most of our warriors too helpless to put up any resistance.
A thick bluish cloud of leaking neurograms rose over the scene.
Realizing the danger, I microported out to the center of the river — but not far enough to escape the treacherous haze.
The whinnying of lathering horses, the rattling of steel and screams of agony hung over the melting ice.
A player next to me was trying to scramble to his feet. His shoulder sported a spear wound, his life was at 50%, his face pallid with pain.
Still, not a single drop of blood had left his tormented flesh. The terrible spear wound was heaving with neurograms pouring out of his body, their veil forming vague images in the air.
A Reaper galloped out of the mist. Without slowing down, he leaned in the saddle, about to finish off the disoriented, helpless man.
In moments like these, time flows differently. The rider seemed to approach in slow motion. The horse’s hooves kicked up glittering cascades of slush.
The Reaper raised his short sword. The dull metal of its blade was covered in microchips marked with symbols in the Founders’ language.
I’d seen one of those swords before — back on Agrion market square.
This was a very special weapon. Not only did it strip you of your hp, but it also disintegrated your identity matrix. No idea where the Reapers had gotten this technology from.
“Come here, you piece of shit!” I wheezed, trying to distract him from his victim.
The horse shied away from me, scared of the bluish fog that had consumed everything around. I recognized familiar images formed by its swirls.
We were surrounded by the dead players’ memories. The thick fog consisted of their neurograms, wrestled from their wounds by the strokes of the microchipped blades. Once the players lost their identities, they had no chance of staying sane.
Or at least that’s what I thought in that heart-rendering moment.
The Reaper’s horse reared up.
His name tag was gray which meant he wasn’t a Harvester. Dietrich must have sent the last hundred of his army into battle. This was his elite retinue consisting of hybrid beings who were fully aware of both their actions and their consequences.
His sword came down on me.
My mind exploded in agony.
&nb
sp; I recoiled just in time. Still, the tip of the sword had sliced through my shoulder.
Mind expander failure
Critical error
Your identity matrix is destabilized
The fiery letters of system messages ripped through my mind. Reality had distanced itself. Then a scene — a memory — surfaced from out of the gloom.
A car tumbling down a precipitous foundation pit.
A mangled mess of crumpled metal with me inside.
The ghostly scene lost its shape, swirling, until it turned into a whiff of bluish mist. It reached for the Reaper rider, about to become part of his own identity.
And I couldn’t stop it.
Fuck you, mister. You can have it. Why would I need this recurring nightmare? My life would only be better without it.
Your identity matrix is critically destabilized
You’re about to be disembodied
We never forget anything. Every moment of our lives gets stored in our memories, becoming the breeding ground for our character and identity. They make up our experience, every crumb of which is precious.
Even if I survived this battle, it wouldn’t be me anymore. It would be somebody else. Not the car crash victim I’d once been, the one who’d consented to having the neuroimplant installed.
Painful and traumatic as it may have been, this was my memory.
You’re not having it.
It’s mine.
Mine! the word tolled in my head.
Overcoming weakness, I staggered to my feet. My body went into overload as I invested all of my remaining strength into the blow, sinking my sword into the Reaper’s face distorted by ecstasy.
My mind collapsed.
A cloud of swirling discharge enveloped the Reaper’s body. His microchipped sword burst into flame, then crumbled to rust.
My orphaned memory clung to me, trying to climb back deep into the wound. The world swam before my eyes, shrinking rapidly. I couldn’t see anything.
My name is Alexatis.
I have a girlfriend.
I’m a Neuro.
I’m a clan leader.
I can remember everything.
The dark haze dissipated. The golden spiral of Regeneration rotated over my head.
Congratulations! You’ve successfully stabilized your identity matrix!
You’ve received a new level!
You’ve successfully unblocked the further development of your Neuro branch ahead of schedule!
You’ve received a new ability: the Founders’ Successor!
All around us, dozens of players squirmed on the ground in agony. Reapers circled among them like vultures.
“Enea, cast Mass Regeneration,” I croaked. I knew she would hear me.
Emerald aurorae consumed the sky above us, effacing the murky dark haze.
Surrounded by Elves, Enea stood on the steep bank. Her very body seemed to exude a vivifying light. Dozens — no, hundreds of golden spirals wheeled around the players, healing their wounds and filling them with life.
Still, not everybody had come round after the Reapers’ attack. Many of our fighters still lay sprawled on the ice, their bodies mutilated by microchipped swords. Stripped of too many memories, their identities had collapsed, leaving a thick bluish haze trailing along the frozen riverbed.
“Clerics, heal the wounded! Wizards, wake up already!” I picked up a spear lying on the ice and hurled it into the nearest Reaper.
The spear pierced his leg. The Reaper swung round and began walking toward me, limping heavily. His unusual curved sword was flaking with rust — but the symbols of the Founders’ language glowed defiantly on its blade.
The Shield of Reason opened around me, blocking the sword’s disastrous effects. All I’d received was standard damage. Blood gushed out of a deep cut in my arm.
“Keep hp above 90%!” I shouted as I successfully parried his next blow.
The Reaper backed off in bemusement. Why hadn’t his microchipped sword worked?
The other riders must have sensed it. Three of them left their victims alone and rode toward me.
“Alex, hold on!” White shouted, battling through to my rescue.
The sunset was glowing red in the darkening sky.
Like a scarlet drop of mercury, the sun rolled toward the horizon. Enea stood tall against its backdrop, exuding waves of Mass Regeneration. Her majestic figure drew all eyes to her.
Most of the Reapers saw her, too. They went after her.
The Elves stepped in their way. They spent their last arrows trying to stop them — but the defective hybrids scaled the steep bank and squashed their defenses.
Enea touched the Bracelet of a Metamorph. A flash ripped through the air, disgorging Christa. The two girls stood back to back and put up a desperate fight.
My perception was crumbling. The world had disintegrated, falling into separate fragments before my eyes. Time moved in fits and starts.
A flurry of system messages flickered before my eyes. My mind expander had gone into overload, just like it had done back in the Temple of Oblivion.
The symbols of the ancient language were burning a hole in my mind. I ran as hard as I could, drawing the surviving clanmates along. Our miniporting ability had been blocked. Our mental energy was at zero and taking way too long to restore.
Fire... Sacrifice by fire... No. That’s not what the symbols meant.
I kept shifting the icons in my mental view but none of the resulting sequences seemed to work.
Light... Protection... Life...
Retribution...
Enea staggered.
A Reaper hurled the dead body of an Elf out of his way and took a swing with his sword, aiming for my beloved. Her shield was broken. Christa was fighting three Reapers at once, covering Enea’s back.
A blinding flash of piercing white light exploded in the sky.
The Reaper’s sword bounced off an invisible wall. A new debuff icon appeared in his tag. I’d never seen that one before. He’d been stripped of 65% life.
You’ve cast Retribution!
You’ve received a new ability: Spell Building
The siege ladders still stood against the precipitous bank.
I couldn’t think straight. My head was a mess. My body acted mechanically as we fought our way toward Enea and Christa.
The Reapers crumbled under our pressure. There weren’t many of them left, anyway. White and I fought in serried ranks with about a dozen other top-level clanmates who were every bit as good as he was.
Our clerics and wizards had regained their composure. They kept a safe distance healing us non-stop, making sure our health didn’t drop below 80%.
When later we analyzed the logs, we saw that this had been the best formula against microchipped swords. That way, our wounds healed instantly without losing any neurograms. All the wounded warrior could feel in this case was a faint confusion which allowed him to continue fighting.
My sword pierced the Reaper’s chest. I pulled it out, shouldered his slackened body off the cliff and swung round to take on more enemies.
“Alex!” White grabbed my arm. “Enough! That was the last one! We’re finished! Can you hear me?”
His voice barely reached me.
A crimson haze floated before my eyes.
We’ve kept this side of the river... but at what price?
* * *
The fading sunset glowed crimson in the sky.
Dead bodies heaped up on the bloodied shore, trampled into the sand, silt and riverside mud.
The breeze brought the stench of fire; it dispersed the remaining whiffs of the bluish haze and tugged at the smoldering tatters of our clan’s banner.
I slumped on the ground next to Enea and took her in my arms.
“Alex, please tell me their death wasn’t in vain!” her voice rang with bitterness. “How could it happen? We only chose the strongest ones!”
“The Reapers must have hacked the codes and tweaked them. They must have intro
duced the microchipped weapons. I know it’s not what you’d like to hear...”
She sniffled. “No, it’s not.”
“More Reapers are building up on the opposite bank,” Stephen’s voice disrupted my thoughts. “They’ve just got more reinforcements.”
Enea wiped her tears. “Do you remember how we met here in the village?”
“Sure. In the inn.”
“I want that time back,” she mouthed. “In those days, feelings were real. But death was just for fun.”
White and Christa walked over to us.
“We haven’t seized a single microchipped sword,” White said. “The moment we touch them, they crumble to dust. Alex, we’ve kept the village and destroyed all the Harvesters and hybrids but... I’m afraid we have to retreat to Rion. We won’t survive another attack.”
Chapter Eight
The Crystal Sphere
Rion Castle
Two weeks later
THE WORLD AROUND us was changing irreversibly.
It had taken Dietrich a week to cross the moors and besiege Rion Castle.
The video of the Battle of Warblerford had gone viral — but unexpectedly for us, the numbers of new clan applications had dropped dramatically. It was as if there were no human players left in the Crystal Sphere.
I refused to believe it. It’s not so easy to kill billions of people.
Those who’d suffered from the touch of the Reapers’ microchipped swords were now kept safe in the Shrine of Nature, supported by its power and the magic of the Khmor Alley. There, the wounded warriors and wizards slowly overcame the consequences of their mental injuries. Quite a few of them had come round; some had to begin life anew, depending on the amount of memory they’d lost.
The Reapers (The Neuro 3) Page 23