by D. Rus
Sadly, we also have leaked important information. The forced AlterWorld improvements have been noticed. Our sworn friends have decided to take us out in a snap. Unidentified caravans with gold have been sneaking from castle to castle by night. Info packets with fabricated breaking news are available for free.
The Russian cluster is like Mordor at this point. An eternal battlefield with ruins and molten brick.
Stand strong, boys! The First Temple is our source of power now. Our folks’ve always favored the dark side of RPG and willingly obeyed its mighty rule. We must not disappoint them. We must strike! Preferably first and without giving the enemy the chance to retaliate.
I’m offering you a subversive act coordinator. A one-of-a-kind pro who passed our scrupulous selection process and was fully trained by the Company. Take good care of him."
Sender: ххххх
On the Shui Fong clan’s initiative, a Revanchist coalition has been formed, totaling twenty-seven thousand warriors. One quarter of them will come to the First Temple on low-immunity day. The rest will storm the castles of the Guards of the First Temple alliance.
Upon a successful siege, each castle will be looted and destroyed. Then it’s on to other goals. All of the Russian cluster navigational beacons have been taken into account. A supplementary exploration was conducted. Trophy storages and slave pens have been prepared. Chains and window bars have risen in price. Territory maps have been updated.
Take heed, my Lord! Spies have been recruited from among the Alliance’s top ranks. Unfortunately, I can’t confirm the names or the coordinates of the castles under siege. Attached please find a list of the most prominent allies and enemies of the Revanchist clan.
The Mao’s Legacy clan is paying dearly for working with the Russians. The Maoists will be crushed within the next few days if they don’t get help. Most of the country dwellers are waiting. Quite a few sympathize with the Russians. However, in the event of a conflict of interest, national pride will overpower all external influence...
P.S.: I ask to be compensated seven hundred thousand gold. Artifacts, spell scrolls, and additional financing are required to acquire further information. Attached please find a detailed list."
Sender: Dan
Seizing information, pawning, kidnapping and robberies are a favorite pastime for both novices and high-ranking companies, damn them all to hell!
The new torches are virtually gone from the market. As you know, they can be acquired only when a dungeon is visited by a player for the first time. Outward expansion has noticeably slowed after the turmoil in the AlterWorld’s political arena. Inferno is more promising in that regard.
I hope you will do us a favor and allocate a dungeon for farming? Levels 200 and up, with a bigtime boss?
P.S.: The messenger will also give you twenty Large Accumulators. This is not a gift!!! (2 million gold, nevertheless!) Could you charge them with mana at the ‘Laith Oil’ station? Will pay you back in those torches and with our hospitality!"
P.S. 2: Your cigarette business share for this month is 105,000 product units. They’re taking up storage space and attracting thieves! Open a portal, or I’ll send them to you by caravan!
P.S. 3: It’s General Frag’s b-day tomorrow. Don’t forget to congratulate him, he’ll be pleased!
Sender: Administration. Technical Support Service. < AI Scarlet-9. Stream:112>:
Warning! 417 complaints have been filed against you in the last 24 hours! Due to the number of complaints, the case has been investigated by an AI lawyer.
Due to the following violations: Blind aggression, Racial and Religious intolerance, Intentional large-scale damage of virtual corporate property - your account has been blocked for 30 days.
You have no right of appeal according to EULA section 16.4.
Report of administrative breach sent to the Virtual Police.
Sender: Virtual Police. Penal Department. < AI Crimson-14. Stream:771>:
Your digital passport has been marked for a 7th-degree administrative breach.
Minus 9 Citizen Loyalty points.
Your free VirtNet access has been limited for 365 days. A surveillance unit will be installed on your equipment upon your next login.
Cost of unit is 210 gold rubles. Thank you for your cooperation.
Tavor’s corpse looked pretty beat up. The adamant shoulder wound never closed, and continued to bleed onto the gold embroidery of the gray velvet cloak. A look of hatred and fear was frozen upon his bloated face. The drooling body was swaying monotonously and shifting from foot to foot.
With a deep sigh, I looked into the enemy’s vacant eyes. The spark of insanity was long gone. But the threatening serpentine stare remained, making you want to clench your first and scowl as if by instinct.
The last thing I wanted was to slip into his loathsome hide. It might soil my delicate astral essence, the Fallen One forbid. Things like these weren’t just used underwear: they were soul containers. A washing machine would not help.
Procrastinating unwillingly, I squinted at the scarlet sun. "Asmodeus, the Fallen One knows about this. He’s watching me. So please, no surprises. Let’s prove each other’s trust, reap the benefits, and part ways peacefully."
Asmodeus shook his head as if offended. "But we are allies!"
I replied with a crooked smile, "You’ll never have weak fools as allies. You’ll eat them alive. So let me remind you, I’m neither weak nor foolish."
I hoped he didn’t sense a change of heart, for the longer I delayed, the more doubtful I grew.
I was forced into this risky venture by the lack of time along with the habit of doing everything myself. If I succeeded, I’d be a hero. If not... I risked losing my immortality.
Alright, it’s time, I thought.
Straining, I carefully pulled a 500-pound aerial bomb out of my inventory. The sand in the Arena creaked under its weight. Whatever happened, I would not allow my body to remain with Asmodeus. I did not wish to be his puppet.
I’d put on a suicide bomber's belt if I could, programmed to self-detonate. Just to be sure. But this was a feature the game didn’t yet offer, and I couldn’t think of a similar alternative.
But I was willing to work with what I had.
I handed Nelson the detonator and sent him a duel request. "You know what to do. In case of an attack or if I exceed the time limit, or if you receive a command from someone named Tavor, it’s detonation time. Plan B: if the bomb doesn’t work, just kill me. I’ve no buffs or gear, and just over six thousand HP. Once I’m down, it’s all crits, so you should be done in no time. But first..."
I sent Nelson a private message:
Chop off my right hand. Never mention this order to anyone, it’s secret. Understood?
The ear-chopper nodded. I handed him a parcel that he was to give to me; a small bagful of valuables. Mostly charms, survival kits and communication devices. Also personal abilities and spell scrolls on parchments; Gates, Portals, Banishment from Darkness, Religious Outcast, Astral Mana Absorption, etc. All those things that set me apart from the average players.
"Give it to me after the soul transplant. Do not forget: I am Tavor. Yet he must confirm his every order with the password I gave you."
That’s it, I’ve burned my bridges. I turned to Asmodeus. "Let’s begin!"
I wasn’t afraid of being watched: all potential blabbers had been chased away. Only NPCs were left out in the tiny inner yard: my loyal servants and Asmodeus’ demons.
Asmodeus smiled promisingly, shook his hands and, reveling in his power, taunted:
"Fear not, it won’t hurt. A direct flight. No layovers in the Fiery Gehenna! Boom, ready!"
My heart skipped a beat on the word "boom".
But "ready"
had a different effect. Pain shot through my shoulder. A wave of hatred and fear swept over my consciousness. Tavor’s body was overfilled with raging hormones.
Unable to balance myself, I fell to my knees. Tavor's body had an odd center of gravity. A foreign mind entered my brain, shutting off my instincts and rapidly taking control.
My heart raced in fear. I inhaled hoarsely, taking in air into my reluctant lungs, nearly all of my muscles cramping.
"Goddamn..." escaped my dry lips.
The sounds of healing magic came from nearby. My loyal clanmates were doing everything within their power to alleviate my suffering.
Slowly I went from minced meat to a steak well-done, so to speak. Asmodeus moved his hands like a psychic, smoothing out the invisible folds. He said soothingly, "You’ll get used to wearing it. It won’t feel so tight. Now, had you missed, that would have been a real discomfort..."
"What?!" I stared at him indignantly, distracted from the panoply of new inner sensations.
Asmodeus shrugged indifferently. "What’d you expect? This isn’t a petty heart transplant. Your soul could have failed to acclimatize. You risk your life even squeezing a zit, with infections and all. Alright, don’t fidget. Your shoulder wound has opened up again, it’s festering. Seraphic adamant, blast it thrice!"
Asmodeus furiously scratched the star-shaped scar on his neck. I looked at my shoulder. After the healing magic, the wound had dried and closed up a bit. But it was far from being in fighting condition. Shards of bone had pierced the bluish skin and sparkled sugar-like under the infernal sun.
Damn... I had hit Tavor good...
"A bad wound," noted Asmodeus. "To ruin such a quality body! It’ll take six months to heal, if it heals at all. You should re-consider how you jab your spear into anything that moves. It’s a heart of a dead god, not some rusty pigpen post!"
Ignoring his grumbling, I turned to the ear-choppers. "Bandage me up good. Butterfly, make a shoulder belt with that foppish scarf of yours. My arm’s dangling like a flaccid cock."
The warriors tensed up, but didn’t move. I frowned at them, perplexed. Well, don’t be so pigheaded! Wait... Oh, right!
Cursing, I turned my dry eyes to the virtual interfaces that I struggled to open. What a cascade of windows! Like I’m in a different game! Epileptics, turn away now or a seizure’s guaranteed.
The familiar default GUI styling was gone, replaced by a bunch of stupid frames, relief shadow fonts, and useless communication and channel stability indicators.
The myriad of highlights and the marks of the custom fan mods made my head spin. The forms around me were designated with critical points. HP notifications flickered all around. A paid duel stat log and a PK-counter estimator loaded up from some external database. They were followed by an aggression indicator, favorite attack combo, and much much more. Damn cheater! Be you banned eternally in the Bundle of Nerves’s body!
When I finally located the private messenger window, I sent the ear-choppers the password, "Thirty-two, orange, Wolf."
Instantly they rushed over to me, sticking out their shoulders and supporting my reeling frame on all sides. It wasn’t easy. Tavor had changed significantly since I last saw him. The 300-level warrior was like some epic ballad hero: broad as an ox, with a four-hundred-pound iron forged body. Boy, did the bastard fatten up...
The injured joint would crunch every time black blood spurted from the wound. The ear-choppers suddenly had to learn field medicine. I hissed in pain, cursing the adamant along with Asmodeus. This divine metal needed to be controlled! I wish they’d ban private ownership!
Having a blade of such caliber was like owning a nuke. Good thing there weren’t many adamant smiths. At least I myself knew of only one.
I decided to get a simpler weapon. Rarely was there a need to maim players. Adamant was the last resort when everything else had proven useless. Only then should the bloodthirsty staff come into play.
The ear-choppers finished bandaging me. I sent them away. As I walked in a circle, I avoided looking at my old body, which the warriors now pressed carefully into the sand, face down. My new body had a slight limp. There was some double vision. The tightness of the shoulder belt and the painful sensations made my posture a bit awkward.
Walking the body around like a stubborn horse, I ground my teeth and, gently pressing the wounded arm to my chest, hummed a song,
"Look below, there's our field over there,
With our one motor gone,
We can still carry on,
Comin' in on a wing and a prayer..."
I stopped short, noticing Butterfly singing along soundlessly and slapping her chiseled thigh in rhythm. Elven music lover...
Everything seemed to be working, albeit with difficulty. My consciousness was somewhat blurred and slow. A lack of neurons, perhaps? You were one crafty serpent, Tavor, but not too bright.
I sat down in the lotus position right on the sand and pulled up the virtual interfaces. I greedily browsed through my new goodies.
And some goodies they were! Level 300! How did he manage to get so far, Sungoddammit?! Time trick? Or by the efforts of a whole conveyor belt of slaves?
His stats were stunning: a fortress of a man! 40,000 health, armored like a secret vault and with the muscle-power of a stamping press. I knew this strategy too well: like me, he had chosen the path of the immortal loner...
But his numbers were nuts. Were they even normal for 300-level-players? Would we all get there in some two-three years? I wondered as I examined his gear.
No, his stats were not the result of some miracle. Most of them came from his heavy armor items enhanced with Divine Blood stones. I wasn’t familiar with them, but they filled up all the expansion slots. Tons of bonus stats!
The armor had been crafted. It had a futuristic look like something from a high-budget post-apocalyptic flick. Mithril plates, obscure-looking materials, welding marks, and molten plastic. All of various colors and bearing ancient military stamps; clearly a product of modern alchemy.
I barely made out the faded sign: "Т-51b."
It looked as though Tavor had gathered a bunch of junk from the long-gone titans to throw this set together, loosely consulting the assembly instructions of an ancient teapot. Again, outstanding numbers, but the look...
I mean it wasn’t too bad. After the Wind-Patched Cloak – Grym’s ironic gift – my dress code wasn’t so strict anymore. But alas, all his gear was labeled "no-drop." Could not be sold or lost.
His hefty shell of armor came with a comfortable soft leather lining. Carefully looking under it, I found a homely gray get-up for everyday wear. It was clean, but odd-looking. Homely, I should say.
I was rightly outraged. I mean, WTF?! I was risking so much, trying to beat the office plankton outta myself while carrying out massacres. Then, at the end, I loot a super-cool dude to get nothing! The game algorithms had unfairly sealed everything off with nails of code.
The jewelry helped cool me off. The handful of crimson treasures was worth a few million gold. Mostly amateur work. Awkwardly-cut crystals of Divine Blood on twisted loops and wires.
The interface spurted forth the stats of the divine stones,
Titan’s Ring. Artifact. Indestructible. Crafted by an unknown Barbarian.
Effect 1: +700 Life.
Upgrade: Heavily damaged Blood Crystal.
Enchanting Bonus: Regeneration. +25 HP per second.
I wondered if Tavor also had a mad genius crafter who shat on gaming world laws. Or could he craft himself? That conceited moneybag had always had enough blind faith in his own greatness and in his right to do whatever.
There were four of these rings. They cancelled out the incessant shoulder bleeding, saving him several deaths.
The earring in his right ear doubled crit chances and bespoke the currently popular sexual orientation. Or that Tavor was the last male heir of a Cossack clan, which I doubt...
Putting the rings back, I stopped my health decline along
with the ear-choppers’ worried chatter. Asmodeus was right, the staff must be used with caution. One careless stroke, and you’d not only make a player’s life hell with a series of rebirths, but also make your PK-counter go through the roof. And get insulting achievements; "Bloody Maniac," or "Spawn Killer."
The weapon Tavor’d lost in battle came back into his inventory. So it was bound to the body when it lived.
Mithril butcher's hooks – surely the product of someone’s sick fantasy – dripped poison and were speckled with rust.
Tavor had fought with both arms. Just what the doctor ordered for the types of enemies he had. Very few wizards could concentrate on a Gate for six seconds while taking over a dozen damaging combo hits.
I was no expert on warrior gear, but the weapon stats were impressive. I took a few screens of the armor and the giant "hole puncher" and forwarded them to the Analyst. Let him figure it out.
Finally, I got to the inventory.
Wasn’t much to look at. Tavor did have a safe lair, after all. Perhaps he just left most of his possessions there? Probably. Not very smart, as fate can play tricks. There was always an above zero chance of a mishap. Like falling into a different dimension or the Stone Age. Personally, I always had useful things on me, even when back on Earth. From a mini first-aid kit to a gas tank to a multitool. A greedy pig nature, sure... but it had saved me more than once!
No, Tavor was no bum. Far from it. I found a fine minibar with hundreds of precious elixirs in vials. Elite grub from the Famous Masters. A huge folio with scrolls which beat my collection hands down. And I thought I had a lot. Web-winged noob! Warriors didn’t own their magic: they had to have scrolls for all of life’s emergencies, as many as their gold allowed.
And Tavor’s allowed a lot. A hefty bag weighing almost fifty pounds. It sounded more impressive than it actually was inside: twenty thousand gold. Not so much for someone so high up on the social pyramid.