Viridian Gate Online- Imperial Legion

by J. A. Hunter

  With a guttural yell, I swung my hammer at a woman in black plate mail. She had a mace in one hand and a stout wooden buckler strapped to her opposite forearm—probably some sort of priestess class. She raised the buckler in defense, so I triggered my Crush Armor ability as the strike landed. Crush Armor was a Blunt Weapon specialty attack, which cost 100 Stamina to perform but added a whopping 250% attack bonus against opponents in heavy plate armor. Opponents exactly like the Vogthar Cleric in front of me.

  The buckler cracked from the fury of the attack and so did the caster’s arm; her forearm folded in two at an unnatural angle. I twirled and swung again, finishing the Priestess with a Savage Blow and a Black Caress, sapping her little remaining life before moving on and one-shotting the final caster with my hammer. Some part of me wanted to take a breather, to pause long enough to loot the bodies, but Cutter and Jo-Dan were still out there, along with some awfully tough tanks. I swung the hammer up and rested it against my shoulder as I wheeled around, sprinted back down the hallway, and burst into the cavern.

  Two of the three tanks were dead along with the summoned yetis, but the last warrior was a real big bruiser with muscles on top of his other muscles, and he was working Cutter over like a professional boxer. The thief was bruised, bloody, and beaten, and only Jo-Dan’s continued healing buffs seemed to be keeping the scrappy thief upright and moving.

  But things were looking grim.

  The oversized brute lunged, blasting Cutter right in the gut with a powerhouse front kick. The thief let out a wheeze as he doubled over clutching his stomach, struggling to breathe. The Vogthar raised a colossal two-handed sword, big enough to slice Cutter in two vertically, high overhead, preparing for the killing strike. For a second, time seemed to grind to a halt, but this wasn’t the effects of Shadow Stride. No, it was the effect of white-knuckled panic invading my system like a plague of Biblical locust. No, no, no. Cutter couldn’t die like this—killed by a dumb, sword-wielding moron in some meaningless dungeon.

  I couldn’t allow that to happen.

  Wouldn’t allow it.

  I reached out to the raw power lingering inside of me, preparing to slip into the Shadowverse, but before I could make my move Jo-Dan appeared in a flash of green light, looming nine feet tall. Somehow, the boss had shot up a solid three feet, and his scythe had grown to match. The enormous sickle-bladed weapon—even larger than the Vogthar’s sword—whipped through the air with unnatural speed, slamming into the creature’s chest, cleanly punching through the front of heavy plate armor, before erupting out the back.

  In an incredible display of sheer strength, Jo-Dan lifted the Vogthar into the air using only his weapon. The creature dangled there, legs kicking wildly as dark, sickly blood frothed from his blue-tinged lips, and his HP bar plunged toward zero. Before the creature’s HP hit bottom, however, Jo-Dan’s free hand smashed into the Vogthar’s chest, and somehow phased through the armor and flesh, emerging on the other side … Clutched in his oversized gauntleted hand was a spectral image of the beefy monster. His soul. The Vogthar’s eyes immediately glazed over, his mouth dropping open in death.

  Jo-Dan shook the body free from the tip of his weapon, letting it plop to the floor beside Cutter in a heap, then gently set the soul down. A new tag flashed over the ghostly Vogthar’s head: [Enslaved Phantasm].

  “Holy crap that was awesome,” I said, hustling over to Cutter, but never taking my eyes off the new minion. I extended the thief my hand, pulling him to his feet. “Why haven’t you been doing that for the last hour?” I asked with a cocked eyebrow, glancing between the looming dungeon boss and the newly minted ghost.

  Jo-Dan shrugged and shuffled uncertainly from foot to foot. “I have some pretty wicked abilities, but some of the big spells take a lot out of me, and I replenish much more slowly away from my dungeon. All my major abilities have cooldown timers, and this far away, those timers increase by about ten-fold, not to mention they cost about three times more Dark Energy to cast. And unlike you guys, I don’t have quick, convenient Regen potions. I’ve got to replenish au naturel.”

  “Well thanks,” Cutter said, dusting his hands off. “You saved my arse there, so I appreciate the effort. Now …” He paused, folded his arms, and surveyed the room. “Let’s clear this room and get our heads on straight because I’m pretty sure that right there”—he nodded toward the hallway blocked off by the steel door—“is the entrance to the Boss Room. And me? Well, I’m damned ready to get the hell away from this shitehole and back to somewhere with a little warmth.”

  FIFTEEN_

  Black Conclave

  I recast Night Armor, frigid power rushing from my center in a soft whoosh as shimmering ribbons of shadow wrapped around me like a second skin, encasing me in a violet protective aura. Next, I triggered Shadow Forge: a wash of purple light momentarily enveloped my team as the active aura took hold, increasing critical hit chance and temporarily imbuing their weapons with extra Shadow Damage. Then—just to be safe—I popped a Spirit Regen potion and killed the thing in two long gulps. I was as ready as I could get.

  “You guys ready for this?” I asked, approaching the steel double doors, etched with runes, and secured with a hefty lock. I pulled a silver key from my bag—taken off a Vogthar corpse—my hand trembling minutely. If I had to guess, I’d say the only thing that could be beyond that door was a Black Priest of Serth-Rog and a bunch of demonic minions, and I was genuinely concerned about the fight. I’d tangled with Serth-Rog’s priests a couple of times before, and they were tough fights, one and all.

  “I’m ready for mead and a warm bed,” Cutter replied with a nod and a flourish of his twin daggers. “Let’s do this.”

  “I’ve got your back,” Jo-Dan said, his fingers flexing around the haft of the scythe.

  I nodded and gulped, feeling a flutter of panic in my gut as I slipped the silver key into the thick lock and gave it a turn. The lock groaned and creaked, then popped open with a soft hiss. I pressed my fingers against the cold steel and gave the doors a firm shove—they swung open on silent, well-oiled hinges, offering us an unobstructed glimpse into the room beyond. The walls were blue ice, the floor covered in a blanket of hard-packed snow; sooty orange firelight filled the air, courtesy of torches lining the room at regularly spaced intervals.

  A sense of déjà vu washed through me.

  Despite all the snow and ice, this room looked remarkably similar to the dungeon Cutter and I had confronted Gentleman Georgie in, right before taking Rowanheath from Carrera. Hulking iron cages, gleaming with a sheen of white hoarfrost, occupied one wall, housing a handful of Wode prisoners, nearly naked and shivering from the intense cold. A series of rough wooden tables lined another wall. Some of those tables held tools, built solely for torture—hammers, blood-crusted knives, pliers, needles, and sutures—while other tables held bodies.

  Well, corpses, more accurately, since none of them were alive.

  Those bodies seemed to stare at us with glassy gazes filled with warning: Run. Flee. Go, before it’s too late and you end up like us.

  But we couldn’t run, not now. We’d come too far, and had far too many questions that desperately needed answers.

  What were these freaks up to? Why were they abducting people? Why take over these dungeons? What was the end game here?

  I put the prisoners from mind, turning my attention on the other occupants of the room—the ones that wanted to kill us horribly.

  A Wode with broad shoulders, braided yellow hair, and a scruffy beard stood fifteen feet away from us, his hands resting on a knobby black staff. He sported dark robes cinched at the waist with a length of frayed rope. A strange blood-red symbol, which I’d seen several times before, stood out on his chest: a crudely drawn eye, surrounded by flames. That had to be the Black Priest. There was also a squad of basic Vogthar troops—ten deep—milling around in an open alcove to the left.

  In the very center of the room were a handful of mean-looking Vogthar acolytes in heavy plate mail
. They slowly paced around a circular symbol—all sharp script and jagged lines—twenty feet in diameter, which had been painted onto the floor with blood. Floating above the summoning circle was an enormous shimmering portal, shifting from emerald to cerulean, then back again. I’d never seen a portal that big, not even at the Mystica Ordo in Rowanheath.

  I mean, the thing was big enough to drive a dump truck through.

  The Priest and the cannon-fodder Vogthar in the alcove noticed our intrusion, but the acolytes ignored us entirely. They kept pacing, eyes fixed on the portal while chanting in some ancient, unknown tongue, their hands making precise, well-rehearsed gestures: wrists flicking, fingers dancing, limbs swaying rhythmically to some unheard melody. Powerful magic—obsidian and angry—swirled around them in a thick cloud, while tendrils of greasy energy wafted out, feeding the portal with noxious life.

  No doubt, they were calling up some Lovecraftian horror show from the darkest regions of Serth-Rog’s realm, Morsheim. Maybe even a new dungeon boss to stand guard over the Frozen Warrens.

  “Welcome, interlopers,” the Wode priest said, dipping his head in a sign of respect. “We’ve been closely monitoring your progress. You’ve battled bravely, boldly—dispatching even our most elite troops—but you’re too late to change anything. As you can see, we are in the final stages of calling forth one of the Dread Lords of Morsheim, and permanently converting this dungeon to our cause. Once the ritual is complete, nothing you can do will restore this place. But”—he paused, folding his hands behind his back as he eyed us—“we need not fight at all.”

  “Your display of strength marks you as kindred souls,” he continued. “Kindred souls who might do well in the ranks of the Uzrearal—the unstoppable army of Serth-Rog and the dread god Thanatos, whom we serve. For the past year, our kind has been working in the shadows and on the fringes of Eldgard, quietly subverting and infiltrating, but soon—so very, very, very soon—that phase will come to an end. We will move from the shadows and into the light of day.” He paused, brow furrowed, a small smile breaking across his lips.

  “We shall take over the cities of men,” he said softly, his gaze hazy and distant, seeing some grand vision no one else could. “We shall wage war on behalf of our ruler and our god. We shall reclaim that which is ours by right, and those who seek to stop us will fall. Will die.” The sly smile grew larger, though it never quite reached his eyes. “They will die a death from which there is no return.” He paced a few steps, his dark robes swishing around his legs. “Serth-Rog is willing to accept acolytes unto himself, however. Convert or die. These are the options on the table.”

  “Gee, how generous of you,” I replied, edging forward, positioning myself between the Priest and my teammates.

  “Generous indeed,” the Priest replied, obviously unfamiliar with sarcasm. “Should you but kneel, pledge your allegiance to my masters, and prove your loyalty by an act of obedience, you needn’t die. Instead, you can be reforged, rebranded, and reborn into the ranks of the Vogthar—just as I was. You see, unlike so many of those taken by force, and against their will, I am a willing convert, and honored among the Vogthar. And such power can be yours, too. Just submit.”

  “And what exactly would you require us to do, eh?” Cutter asked with a sneer. “What’s this act of obedience?”

  “A simple thing,” the priest replied with a shrug. “You have a sojourner among you who does not belong.” He thrust an accusatory finger toward Jo-Dan. “Turn this one over to us for forced conversion, and we will embrace you both with open arms. And do not think the conversion is only a matter of title change. No, there are many perks given to willing followers of Serth-Rog. An alignment change. Your class will be modified—tweaked—and a new skill tree opened to you. You’ll also be given the finest gear available and great renown among the Vogthar.”

  Surprisingly, a quest popup appeared in front of me:

  <<<>>>

  Quest Alert: Dark Convert

  A black priest of Serth-Rog and the dread god Thanatos has offered you an opportunity to flee the world of men and willingly join the ranks of the Vogthar. You must renounce your current alignment and all faction ties, but will, in turn, be granted a new alignment, inducted into the ranks of the Uzrearal—the unstoppable army of Morsheim—and given a class alteration, opening up a new skill tree.

  Quest Class: Rare, General

  Quest Difficulty: Moderate

  Success: Renounce all old allegiances and swear allegiance to Serth-Rog, lord of Morsheim.

  Failure: Refuse to renounce all old allegiances and swear fealty to Serth-Rog, lord of Morsheim.

  Reward: Class Alteration; Alignment change: evil; New Skill Tree Unlock: Vogthar Acolyte; Unique, Vogthar Armor Set; 15,000 EXP

  Accept: Yes/No?

  <<<>>>

  I stared at the quest alert, confused, even thunderstruck, then glanced over at Cutter—his eyes were slightly unfocused, which made me think he was reading the same message. All of a sudden, this situation went from mildly baffling to utterly mystifying. Not only were these Black Priests replacing people and invading dungeons, but they were also offering both players and NPCs a chance to change teams. None of this made sense. Not a lick.

  “So, what say you?” the priest barked as I closed out from the screen with a flick of one wrist. “Why fight when resistance is pointless? Especially when you can align yourself with the victors before the true conflict even begins?”

  “And all we need to do is pledge our hearts to an insane godling of destruction, and give up our friend for you to torture.” Cutter leaned over and spit onto the ground. “I say go bugger yourself, mate.”

  “I couldn’t say it better myself,” I yelled, charging forward before the priest could respond, barreling into him with my shoulder. He stumbled back from the blow, one hand whipping through the air, summoning a warhammer made of ice and glass.

  “Jo-Dan, you take out the goons,” I yelled. “Cutter, kill the acolytes, I’ll handle the Black Pr—” The warhammer flashed toward my head, cutting my words short as I scrambled back and parried the blow with a swipe of my weapon. A clang resounded in the air, accompanied by a flash of brilliant blue sparks.

  I bolted left, then lunged in, lashing out with a knee that caught the priest in the ribs. He grunted, teeth pulled back in a snarl, then uttered a word of power. Crackling black lightning exploded from his fingertips, arcing toward me. I exhaled, releasing a burst of pent-up Umbra power, and slipped into the Shadowverse an instant before the lightning could fry me in my boots. Everything stopped, calm and silence invading the world as I stepped away from the path of the spell.

  I utilized the moment of stillness to calculate and come up with a game plan.

  Jo-Dan and his Enslaved Phantasm minion were already shredding the lowly Vogthar underlings like a lawnmower cruising through high grass. The damage was impressive: Bodies lay scattered across the floor. Blood hung in the air like a red mist. One Vogthar was trying to flee—the Phantasm in hot pursuit—while another dangled in the air, suspended by Jo-Dan’s scythe, planted right in his belly.

  And Cutter was doing an admirable job of throwing a monkey wrench into the summoning ritual. True, three of the Vogthar acolytes were still methodically chanting, finishing their work, but the fourth was severely wounded—clutching at a deep gash running across his belly. The Black Priest was deadly, but I really needed to stop those three priests from completing their ritual, which meant I needed backup ASAP.

  Nikko wouldn’t respawn for another seven hours or so, which meant I could only summon one Void Terror from the Shadowverse. But this room was large enough to accommodate Devil, and now wasn’t the time to hold back.

  I slipped behind one of the tables and dropped into a crouch, activating Stealth as I stepped back into the Material Realm. The clash of blades fell on my ears as time resumed with a lurch. The Black Priest’s black lightning zipped through the space I’d been a moment before, failing to find a mark, while I cast Umbr
a Bog beneath his feet. The snowy ground gave way to pools of black shadow and reaching tendrils of Umbra, which wrapped the Priest up tighter than a straitjacket.

  I called Devil forth with a surge of energy and a whisper of will. The black-scaled Drake materialized like an angry specter, smoke oozing from his nostrils, violet flame flickering between his teeth as his purple eyes narrowed in anger. Take out the Black Priest, I sent, nodding at the Wode mired by my spell. Kill him with extreme prejudice.

  I’ll feast on his bones, Devil sent, the voice in my head somber and grave.

  In a flash, the Drake threw his mouth wide and let loose a ground-shaking roar, before charging forward like a freight train of scale, muscle, and fangs. The priest screamed in defiance, unleashing another round of black lightning, which slapped against Devil’s hide, chewing into his hefty HP but doing nothing to halt the deadly charge. Devil swept his head left, then swung it right, using his spike-studded head like a giant sledgehammer.

  Devil’s skull slammed into the priest’s chest, and the man crumpled to the floor, his legs refusing to support him, though he still had over half his HP left. But even down and broken, the priest continued to fight, flailing uselessly with his conjured warhammer while blasting Devil in the snout with more lightning bolts. The Drake ignored the pain and the damage, opening his mouth and vomiting a column of flame onto the Wode from three feet away. The Priest screamed and shrieked as his skin sloughed away and the snow around him melted, revealing the rocky cavern floor beneath.

  The scent of burned meat drifted to my nose, and I couldn’t stand to look for a second longer. Devil would finish the job, I told myself. That was the important thing to remember.

  I pushed the screams away and turned toward the priests chanting near the portal. Time to put an end to that, and I had just the trick.