by Vic Connor
Somera has had enough. Her mother has gone too far. “Shut up, mother,” she hisses. “Just because you have no dreams, no horizons, no ambitions other than—what? Squeezing out a couple of babies and spending your days mopping up after a husband. This is a life for you?”
“Yes!” her mother shouts. “And a bloody good one, too. I have not marred myself with bad luck like you have. And you know what, Somera?” she asks coolly, leaning in close with venom in her voice. “I will not die alone.”
“You think I will?” Somera asks, laughing at her mother’s absurdity.
“At this rate, yes,” her mother says. “And you will thoroughly bloody deserve it.”
“Hah!” Somera tries to make her laugh sound genuine, haughty even, and she thinks she nearly manages it. “Mother, I’m never alone. And I never will be.”
With that, she turns her back and stalks off, back upstairs to her room. Finally, she’ll be able to find out the tournament scores. She’ll be able to put herself out of her misery.
Somera is right, she’s not alone. And, indeed, she never will be, not when she has Aremos and the world of Arkhart. Her warband are a second family to her and her other peers her friends. People think the world of MMORPGs is solitary, she knows. They think the games themselves are simply straightforward missions: slay this beast, save this village, attack this rival… But the reality is so different, so much richer. Yes, such quests do exist, but they are small parts in a wider tapestry of world-building narratives. They exist within an expansive framework of global histories, each player crafting and being crafted by the same reality—all with a stake in it, all with the ability to control in some minor way the direction the world takes. The world of Arkhart isn’t just a backdrop to her gaming, Somera has often thought. Her gaming is an excuse, the first stepping stone into a world in which she’s comfortable being herself.
And her fellow gamers are not isolated individuals seeking only to team up for battle with orcs and trolls. The message boards and chat rooms are alive with their interaction. There are taverns in every town and city where players can meet people to have real, frank conversations. Though Somera has felt secluded and lonely in her real life, she’s visited these virtual taverns only to find dozens of people willing to sit and talk for hours and hours, listening as she unburdens herself, then opening themselves up in return. She has had far better, deeper, more meaningful conversations and relationships online than she has ever had in person.
Of course, she loves her parents dearly. Even her mother, most of the time. They fall out and they make up, and Somera is under no illusions about how they feel about her. The love they give her, their concern over her welfare, is as real as anything in this life. She feels cherished and secure with them.
But she also feels suffocated by it, cut off from becoming herself. To entertain the thought that she might have to live here, in this town, in this life, any longer than she absolutely must is unbearable. Even her parents don’t want her around much longer, judging from their frequent attempts to marry her off and send her away to live with a strange new family, to play the dutiful wife in place of her role as their daughter. What else is she to make from this than that she is being chivvied along toward her fate so that they might have a bit of peace, secure in knowing they have done their duty?
I don’t want it, she thinks as she heads up the stairs, away from her fuming mother and her exasperated father. So she screws up every prospect, either consciously or, like just now, unconsciously, going through suitors faster than her parents can keep up with. At some point, the supply has to run out, right? she asks herself. Eventually, there won’t be any boys left for them to bring here, or the boys who are left will know not to come calling on this crazy young girl with her opinions and her attitude and her bloody crazy ways.
Word will get around, I will be a no-go, she thinks. I’ll send the young fools packing.
In her room, she pulls off her headscarf, letting her hair flow freely once more. It has somehow managed to grow wild and tangled again in the hour since her mother brushed it. But it doesn’t matter, Somera thinks. She looks at her eyes, at her whole face, then turns away, pulls off the dress, and throws it away. She undresses completely, standing bare once more, and looking critically at herself.
It doesn’t matter at all what this face, this body, this person looks like, she thinks. I’ll put my other face on. I’ll don my wizard’s robes and my gambeson. I will draw my sword and feel the strength in my muscles. I’ll hold my staff aloft, whole again, renewed with my post-annihilation rebirth, and I will feel the power of Arkhart’s magical winds flowing through me.
She throws on her loose, comfortable clothing, stoops down to retrieve her rig from its box, and plugs it into her laptop. The screen opens up, loading her into the game as she puts on her headset and then, as she types in her login details, she’s once again transformed.
Aremos is remade, stronger than before, with access to greater spells with the mighty XP he would soon be awarded for defeating the wyvern.
Now, Aremos thinks, to collect my prize.
He begins the incantation to summon a portal which will take him to the judges’ quarters, where he will finally learn the outcome of the match.
Chapter Three
The judges are still deciding their verdict. On the one hand, Aremos died in battle. On the other, Aremos did beat the final boss, which the Pixel Academy had claimed was almost impossible to do. The Academy had stated in the competition rules that whichever team was able to defeat the wyvern would be the winning team. There was no mention of what would happen if both the boss and the team died.
Aremos enters the Maker’s Palace, stepping out of his portal outside its high walls and waving his hand with a nonchalant gesture, dispelling his portal and opening the palace’s gates at the same time. They fly open before him and he strides in, his shoulders back and his chin held high.
He has used up one of his lives, bringing him down from thirteen to twelve, but it was worth it entirely. Every joint in his body moves smoothly, unaching, where before the toils of battle everlasting were beginning to show. He had taken too many blows to the head of late, and his vision and hearing were beginning to suffer. Now, they are crisp and clear, every sight and sound coming to him with renewed clarity. His staff is whole once more and his sword is back to full strength—unbent, unbroken, and clean of his own blood and entrails.
This isn’t all, however. There is something else, nearly beyond perception, nearly beyond feeling. Some of the more advanced sorcerers might be able to articulate it more clearly, better attuned to Arkhart’s magic as they are. A non-magic user wouldn’t be able to feel it at all, it would just catch them by surprise when it happened…
But Aremos can feel the flow of the XP about to come to him. He can almost taste it on the wind. Whatever the judges decide, whether he’s victorious or not, they’re clearly planning to shower him with more XP than he has ever had at one time before. As he strides through the palace’s courtyard, ignoring the stares and the whispers of the crowds who have come to hear the final result, Aremos ponders what he will do with his new XP.
He’d like to learn a couple of advanced spells, spells usually available only to the highest-level sorcerers. He’ll have the XP for them and the power to manifest them; they’d make a valuable addition to his arsenal. He knows of a spell that would allow him to turn himself invisible almost indefinitely, undetectable by friend and foe alike. There’s a spell that would make him impervious to demonic magic; another would allow him to level mountains; there’s even a spell to open a rift in time, allowing Aremos to pause his enemies as he makes his assault.
Or, he could spread the XP over his existing spells and abilities, giving him deadlier attacks with his sword and staff, strengthening his enchantments, and making his curses and magic missiles more damaging by far. He could buff his basic casting abilities themselves, so his spells would cost less magic power, speeding up his casting process and
allowing him to use each one more frequently in every fight.
The possibilities are endless and, all the while, the new XP hovers in the atmosphere, ready to flow into Aremos when the judges reveal themselves and their decision.
Inside the palace itself, all is chaos. It seems everyone in Arkhart has come to watch and trolls and elves and dwarves and nymphs cram every corridor, chattering away about the fight. A hush descends as Aremos walks by as they all watch him, apparently awestruck and a little scared. He strides along, stomping into the great hall in which a couple hundred top tier gamers stand, all of them looking straight ahead. A high, filigreed dais looms at the far end, on top of which a row of jewel-encrusted chairs sits on either side of a larger, more ornate throne. This is where the council will appear when they have made their decision. This is where the news will be announced for the first time, before being messaged to all the other players’ inboxes.
“Aremos,” a tall questing knight greets him. Sir Rednaxela, victor of a thousand battles, slayer of dragons, looks carefully down at Aremos. His eyes seem to pierce through Aremos’ own, reading him, gleaning his very soul from his profile and his stats. Sir Rednaxela is one of the greatest knights Arkhart has ever seen—a level fifty-three warrior with a victory score greater than ninety-nine percent. He’s a force to be reckoned with. The knight has more XP than just about anybody Aremos has ever met, and he has used it to build himself into the ultimate fighter. His combined attack sequences are guaranteed to kill anything less than a full-grown cave troll in mere seconds. His sword, nicknamed Excalibur after the mythical blade of the world beyond worlds, is as long as Aremos is tall, and it’s now slung casually over Rednaxela’s back as he stands in the hall. It can’t be broken, and it ignores all armor, wounding with ease upon contact. It contains more runes and enchantments along its blade than most other people in Arkhart will see in a lifetime of battle and it glows with its own inner magic, carving a bloody path as Rednaxela strides across the battlefield. His armor is similarly powerful, impenetrable by almost every weapon and spell available in any mod, and he has more charms and wards hanging around his neck, dangling from his wrists, and embedded into his broad shield, than most smiths could ever dream of.
He is a truly impressive figure, worthy of anybody’s attention and desired by every warband in Arkhart. But he still went down to the wyvern, Aremos thinks with a smile. His armor wasn’t quite strong enough to withstand that fiery breath, his sword was too slow to meet its mark, his combinations were useless and predictable against the beast. So it is with respect and a hint of jealousy and frustration that Sir Rednaxela makes small talk with Aremos, and a circle of other top tiers who cluster around them.
“You’re not even level thirty, if I’m correct?” a pale-skinned shaman dressed in furs asks him.
“No,” Aremos admits. “Twenty-six, though I hope that’s about to change.”
“How is someone like you only a twenty-six?” a burly night goblin asks, his small, green face leering.
“I have not been playing long.” Aremos shrugs. “Two and a half years.”
“I don’t believe you!” The goblin laughs. “Nobody could defeat the wyvern after just two and a half years.”
“Nobody else could, I agree.” Aremos smiles, drawing a mixture of laughter and envious, bitter glares from the crowd.
A message comes to Aremos as the conversation continues.
“Bro, it’s Carrie,” the message says. “Sorry… Eirrac. We all just came back online—where are you?”
“The Great Hall,” Aremos replies.
“How did you get IN THERE?”
“I just walked in. People were eager to see me, I guess. No one gave me any hassle.” Aremos waits a few seconds and then adds, “You want in?”
“DAMNED RIGHT!” the reply snaps back immediately. At the same time, Sah and Asba pop up, both of them enraptured. “The GREAT HALL! The bloody crème de la crème!”
“Come on in,” Aremos invites.
Looking to the group around him, he gestures for them to make way. “Please, my warband want to come and meet you all, could you make a little room?” he asks them.
Excited to meet the rest of the team, the crowd shuffles over until a large enough circle forms in the center. Aremos whispers, trying to draw a little magic to himself, and holds up his hand. Nothing happens. It seems an impenetrable wall is blocking him off from his powers.
“Only tier thirty and above can cast portals into the palace, and only level forties can cast in the Great Hall,” the night goblin explains. “Did you not know that?”
Aremos shrugs. “I don’t not come here often.”
“Do you need assistance?” a tall, sylvan high elf asks, swooping into their circle. She is Lady Nerual the Majestic, one of the most famous sorcerers in Arkhart. For the first time, Aremos is a little star-struck. He gapes at her.
“I asked, do you need some help?” Lady Nerual repeats.
“Yes … er, yes,” Aremos says. “I’m trying to cast a portal for my friends, but—”
“You are only a twenty-six?” she asks.
“For the moment,” Aremos says.
“Here,” the lady offers. “Let me aid you.” She holds her hand before her chest and breathes into her open palm. As she does so, a blue orb of light appears, glowing steadily brighter and brighter. “Use this.” She holds it out to Aremos.
“What is it?” Aremos asks.
“Access codes. You can use my clearance for the next few minutes.” She opens her fingers and the orb floats over to Aremos, touching him on the chest, entering him. A flush of unbelievable power courses through his body, almost overwhelming him.
“Wow.” He gasps. “How do you stay so … composed, so sanguine, with all this power?” he asks the elf.
She just smiles and winks. “Use it well,” she advises. “And call me if you ever need anything else, Aremos the Great.” A gentle breeze ripples through the hall, brushing up against Lady Nerual. She disappears into it, turning to smoke and blowing delicately away.
Aremos extends one hand, summoning the lady’s power, and speaks the incantation. Before, the unfamiliar barrier had stopped him short. He had felt the boundaries of the palace, hard and unyielding, preventing him from accessing his power within it. Now, however, the boundaries wash away, trickling out of his way peacefully, calmly leaving him open and able to do his work. With an uncharacteristic serenity, one of his portals opens. He reaches through to find the profiles of his teammates and summons them, pulling them through into the Great Hall.
In the world beyond worlds, the child Somera has connected with her friends, Aremos knows. They have discussed how their victory in Arkhart will influence their lives in the beyond. Ash, Saba, and Carrie, spirits of his greatest allies, have decided what to do. Ash and Carrie have no interest in pursuing the knowledge held by the Makers—they don’t want to go to their school to study, they don’t want to learn how to code such a world as this. They are well into their own studies in America and want to take the Makers’ gold to pay off their debts. Saba, in Goa, India, needs the money to pay for medicine for her father. It would only be Somera who would take the Makers’ offer of a place at their school, only she who would learn to build worlds as great and gracious as Arkhart, though Aremos knows she hasn’t told her warband yet.
Perhaps one day I, too, will be a Maker, Aremos thinks. I, too, will be like a god, with the spirit of the child Somera beating deep within me, and I’ll have to tell my warband of my elevation.
He finds the last of his warband and pulls them through just as Lady Nerual’s power fails him, disappearing as his time with it runs out. But his task is finished: his warband is complete, arriving into the Great Hall through his portal.
“Wow, hello everyone,” Eirrac the dwarf says, landing with a dull thump. Sah the Changeling and the wood elf, Asba, step through, looking overwhelmed by all the attention.
“Just in time, as well,” Sir Rednaxela says, nodding to the f
ront of the room. A door has opened behind the dais and several figures hidden behind clothes of purest gold have emerged: The Council of Makers, those hallowed figures whom so few in Arkhart have ever seen. They are gods, creators, all powerful. It was they who combined their powers to create the wyvern, and it is by their will that the victors’ futures will be changed.
Finally, the God Mod enters, and the hall grows silent. The God Mod is an androgynous presence, larger than most men and robed in pale blue, a creature of Arkhart made from the pooled power of the Council of Makers itself and given flesh to rule the world. As the Council take their seats, the God Mod walks calmly to the throne, bows to the assembled crowd as they all bow to it in turn, and sits down. Its face is beautiful, almost unbearably so, and only those with the greatest willpower can look upon it for more than a few seconds. The crowd around Aremos all look down at their feet.
But not Aremos. He stares straight ahead, meeting the God Mod eye to eye. The God Mod nods. This is your power, a voice whispers in Aremos’ head. You carry on where others dare not, you face adversity with a smile on your face. So it is that you beat my greatest child, the creature Wyvern_hardmod9 itself.
Aremos nods, unshaken. It is the truth, and both know it.
So, he thinks, directing his full willpower at the God Mod. What’s the verdict?
The God Mod sits in stillness for a moment, staring into the middle distance. From its throne, it can see across every single one of Arkhart’s realms, using its power to delve into every recess of the land over which it rules. It peers into every corner now, seeing that nearly all of its subjects are holding their breath, waiting to know the result—wanting to know the fate of this renegade battle mage, so lowly before yet so elevated now.
Aremos knows, whilst he’ll always remain a stalwart ally of these three members of his warband, Sah, Asba, and Eirrac, and they will remain true to him, their spirits would be separating ever so slightly if the God Mod chooses to declare them victorious. His friends would bail on him… His companions would walk different paths. They will ditch me, and I’ll have to ditch them… Their separate paths would likely mean an emotional division, a separation of spirit.