by J. A. Hunter
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Debuffs Added
Concussed: You have sustained a severe head injury! Confusion and disorientation; duration, 1 minute.
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I awkwardly scuttled backward, shaking my head to clear the stars and the message as I pushed myself onto my elbows.
“Look out, Jack,” Jo-Dan called out from across the room, his voice rising over the chaos.
I jerked my head up on instinct, then flinched as deadly jaws fastened around my right leg. Pain erupted like a volcano as the creature’s serrated, razor-sharp teeth punched through my leather armor with ease and into the meat of my thigh. I screamed as fiery agony raced through my veins and the Hound dragged me from the ground, my head and arms dangling down, the whole world inverted. For a beat, the Hound just held me there like a freshly caught prize it was displaying for its master, and then it started shaking me like a rag doll.
SEVENTEEN_
Down for the Count
The Hound’s head snapped left then right, up then down, blood spraying the air as the Hound tried to rip my leg clean off. My brain seemed frazzled and broken, unable to function with the incredible pain rampaging through my body like a stampeding herd of bulls. In the back of my head, however, my survival instinct stirred. Shadow Stride, that voice said. Shadow Stride. No, that wasn’t my voice, that was Devil speaking directly into my addled thoughts. I pressed my eyes shut and triggered the spell with a yell. In an instant, the world jerked, faltered, and stopped.
And just in time, too, since my HP bar was flashing a vibrant crimson—warning, warning, warning it screamed at me in the corner of my vision.
I didn’t stay in the Hound’s jaws, though. Immediately, my leg phased through its jaws, and I fell, my back slamming into the snowpack with a thud that reverberated up into my teeth. Next to the horrendous agony in my leg, though, it was little more than stubbing a toe. For a long beat, I just lay there—one arm pinned beneath me, the other stretched out to the side—letting the cold seep up and soothe my army of aches and pains. I pressed my eyes shut tight, breathing deeply in through the nose and out through the mouth, fighting to slow down my heart, which was pounding away like a jackhammer.
Finally, I cracked my eyes and pushed up onto my palms with a groan, surveying the damage to my leg. Just looking at the wound made me want to bend over and throw up onto the ground. My leather britches were in tatters and the flesh beneath was pulverized, bits of gray skin missing, revealing ropy pink muscle and gleaming white bone. Even after months inside the game, the graphic detail of the environment coupled with the abhorrent levels of pain was still a shock.
Recently, I learned the reason behind the realistic violence from a Dev who’d come over to the Alliance ranks. Apparently, Osmark and company had tried to reduce or eliminate the pain and gore early on in development but then discovered that because of the unique neural interface used to map the brain, it was impossible. To eliminate pain, they needed to eliminate all sensation, which was an unsatisfactory option, and because of the impending destruction of the earth, the Dev teams never found a way around the issue.
In the end, it was an unfortunate and unavoidable design flaw.
I pushed the thought from my head as I glanced at the countdown timer whirling away, indifferent to my suffering. I had less than forty seconds to come up with a plan. Reluctantly, I flipped onto my belly—the movement reigniting a fresh wave of agony in my butchered limb—and wormed away from the Hound an inch at a time. Although I was out of Spirit Regen potions, I still had a handful of Health Regen potions, and at that moment, I wished more than anything that I could use them while Shadow Striding … but no.
Not my luck.
Yes, my Health and Spirit Regen rate skyrocketed while in the Shadowverse, but potions were strictly off-limits. Eventually, I got to the far wall—about ten feet from where Devil lay crumpled on the floor—and propped myself up against the slick ice. I had fifteen seconds before the Shadowverse spewed me back into the heat of the battle, but I wasn’t in any rush. Instead, I sat there, stealing a few more deep breaths while I took stock of the situation.
The Hound was down below fifty percent, and I’d identified the weak spot on its belly … but fifty percent was still a hefty amount of HP left considering the price we’d paid so far. I mean, Devil was mangled and more dead than alive, and I wasn’t much better off. On the plus side, the Frostburn debuff had worn off. Jo-Dan was still busy busting open the prisoner cages with his incredible strength, and his ghostly minion was back and ushering the badly beaten and nearly naked prisoners into the connecting alcove while the Hound was thoroughly distracted.
Cutter was nowhere to be seen, but that didn’t mean much—chances were, he was cloaked in Stealth and getting ready to sink one of his daggers into the creature’s eye socket.
As a whole, we weren’t in great shape, but we’d been in worse situations once or twice before. I took one more deep breath, then used the wall behind my back to inch up to my feet. Color bled back into the grayscale landscape, and time resumed its usual ebb and flow as I gained my feet. The Hound’s jaw snapped shut with a clack now that my leg was gone, and for a second it stared around confused and wild-eyed, searching for me.
I used that brief moment to down a cherry-flavored Health Regen potion, sighing in sweet relief as my flesh reknit itself and the pain faded to a dull throb before vanishing entirely.
The Hound’s blue crystalline eyes locked on me with a mixture of malice and outright hate. This thing wasn’t just looking to kill me, it was looking to make me hurt first. Or maybe I was just projecting. Human, Devil sent. Try to get it to rear back. I have a plan. The voice faded a second later without elaborating what precisely that plan was, but I trusted Devil to do the right thing. So instead of worrying about it, I squared my shoulders, gave my hammer a twirl, and offered the Hound a lopsided smile bordering on a sneer.
“Yep, I’m still here.” Then with an inarticulate war cry, I charged him.
I dodged a swipe from a sewer-lid paw, then swerved just in time to avoid a lunging bite that would’ve removed most of my left arm. With a burst of speed, I hooked right and flipped the warhammer in my hands—the spike now facing out. Before the colossal Hound could respond, I lashed out, driving the spike directly into one of its blazing blue eyes like a mountaineer sinking a climbing hammer into a mountain face. The beast howled and reared up again in response, jerking the weapon from my grip as its beefy forelimbs flailed wildly in the air.
Devil streaked into view, launching his body through the air like a pro wrestler despite his wounded back leg and badly crippled wings. The Drake dropped his sinuous head and drove the ridged spikes adorning his skull into the Hound’s chest. The blackened spears of bone penetrated through the hard-packed snow and icy plates, and the sheer force of the blow bowled the Hound over backward. The boss landed on his armor-plated back with a deafening thud, its belly exposed and its limbs thrashing as it tried to right itself.
But Devil wasn’t having any of it. He used his broken wings to restrict the Hound’s movements while twisting his serpentine neck and latching down on the Hound’s exposed throat with his bone-crushing jaws. Devil’s ebony teeth dug deep, and cobalt blood immediately welled to the surface in response, dripping down onto the snow below. The Hound’s frantic writhing continued, but its HP bar was dropping by the second, and its ineffectual attempts to buck Devil slowed, becoming more lethargic.
And then—in a final, pained gasp—the Hound’s body seized in a powerful spasm as Cutter appeared from thin air on its belly. “Give our regards to Morsheim, you ugly git,” he snarled, sinking both of his blackened blades into the translucent membrane covering the Hound’s giant thumping heart. Critical Hit. The flesh ruptured with a pop, and a geyser of gore erupted straight up, blasting Cutter right in his grinning face and knocking the scrappy thief into the snow, covered from head to toe in blue-black blood.
So gross, but also a little funny. The disgruntl
ed look on Cutter’s face alone was almost worth the pain of nearly having a leg ripped off.
My grin slipped a little as I turned my attention back to the deadly Gate Hound. But, between Devil and Cutter, the Hound’s bar flashed and plunged, hitting zero in record time as the creature finally stopped fighting. Its body went still, the life fleeing from its inhuman gaze. Dead. And good riddance. Devil, sensing the victory, loosened his jaws before sliding off the dead boss and collapsing in the snow. He was in awful shape, and it looked like a stiff breeze might kill him outright, but somehow—despite that—he’d done it.
Now you can recall me. His lips curled up in what might’ve passed for a dragon smile.
For a second, I considered thanking him, then dismissed the idea. Devil liked me, true, but he fought for himself and his honor. He wouldn’t appreciate the gesture, not even a little, so instead, I held my tongue, offered him a curt, thin-lipped smile, and dismissed him back to the Shadowverse with a thought. I couldn’t help but grin and shake my head as he vanished in a pillar of inky smoke. Once again, the Drake had proven that when it came to raw determination and willpower, no one was his match. No one.
“Well,” I said to Jo-Dan while trudging over to the lifeless Hound, “now that this is dead can we shut the portal down?”
“No can do,” he said with an apologetic shrug. “As far as I can tell, this thing is here for keeps. I don’t think another boss will come through, but we should probably get moving just to be safe.”
“Alright,” I said, staring through the portal at the mass of Vogthar arrayed in the distance. “Let’s move quick then. We need to get these prisoners out of here and loot these bodies—maybe they’ll give us some kinda clue about what in the heck is going on around here.” I bent over with a groan and picked my warhammer up with a sigh, tucking it back into the leather frog at my belt.
I’d never been so tired and so ready to be gone from a dungeon.
First, I headed over to the alcove where the prisoners were congregating. The whole lot of them were sharing nervous glances and hushed, conspiratorial whispers. I spent a few minutes talking with them while Cutter picked over the first of the Vogthar bodies.
From what I gathered, most of them were refugees from the war with the Empire and had nowhere left to go. A bad situation, sure, but at least they were alive. And though I couldn’t fix whatever awful things had happened in the past, I could help provide them with a new future. Assuming they wanted the help. I gave the Murk Elf woman who’d pleaded with us a one-off port-scroll that would deliver the survivors—eleven total—directly to the port pad in Rowanheath. Then, I jotted a quick message to Abby, letting her know about the newcomers:
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Personal Message:
Abby,
Hey, just wanted to tell you there’s going to be a group of NPC prisoners arriving in Rowanheath shortly. It’s a long, complicated story that I’ll fill you in on later, but for now, please get Xiu or Otto down to the arrival port pad to greet them. Make sure they’re all vetted—wouldn’t want an undercover acolyte of Serth-Rog slipping through the cracks—but then get them some gear and a place to stay. Let them all know they’re welcome in the Crimson Alliance.
You’re the best,
—Jack
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With that done, I closed my interface and turned my attention to the dead mobs scattered around the chamber. Cutter was already busy rifling through the belongings of the lesser Vogthar troops, so I headed over to the traitorous blond-haired Wode and head honcho. I knelt down next to him, averting my gaze so I wouldn’t need to look at his blackened face, and popped open his inventory. A lot of his gear was pretty mundane: A handful of various Regen potions, a sack full of the square golden coins all the Vogthar seemed to use. A couple of lesser rings with minor stat bumps—one with a +2 to Spirit, another with a +1 to Intelligence.
His robes were a specialty item, however, and like the rest of the custom Vogthar gear we’d come across, it was all restricted. Every single piece. Anyone without an evil alignment who tried to use it would immediately suffer a crippling Disease Damage debuff, which, untreated, would kill in a handful of minutes. Unfortunate, considering how hard we’d worked to clear this place. It did give me one idea, though. I knew there were Dark doppelgangers scattered throughout Eldgard—some in the alliance itself, no doubt—but identifying them was next to impossible since they appeared identical to the originals.
From what I’d witnessed firsthand, some even seemed to possess the same memories as those they replaced.
But with access to this restricted gear, we now had a way to check anyone we were suspicious of. If any citizen or traveler equipped the specialty items without immediately suffering the Plague debuff, that would mark them out as Vogthar double-agents like a road flare on a dark night. I grinned. So maybe this wasn’t a useless raid after all—especially since I had a whole journal full of potential suspects, thanks to Gentleman Georgie. I pawed through the gear until I got to a strange midnight-black dagger, which gave me a moment of pause.
The weapon had a double-edged obsidian blade with an ornate ebony handle, meticulously carved with scenes of torture and brutality: A Murk Elf facing the headsman’s axe. A Risi man being split on a Judas cradle. A surly Dwarf burning at the stake. The pommel, heavy and round, bore a demonic face with deep-set eyes—studded with emeralds—cruel lips pulled back from wicked fangs, and curling ram’s horns sprouting from the sides of the demon’s misshapen head. The thing radiated a foul miasma of death and decay, so I held it gingerly between two fingers. I’d seen a dagger similar to this once before.
The Black Hexblade of Serth-Rog, which I’d used against Carrera in the battle for Rowanheath. But this thing was even worse. More evil, if that was even possible. I stowed the dagger into my bag, eager to have the weapon away from my hand, then pulled up the item description.
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Malware Blade of Serth-Rog
Weapon Type: Bladed; Dagger
Class: Unique, One-handed
Base Damage: 25
Primary Effects:
+15 to Strength
+15 to Dexterity
+100 pts Cold Damage
+10% to Critical Hit when Backstabbing
Unique Usable Effect:
Thanatos Virus: Activate the Thanatos Virus when an enemy is at Critical Health to upload a crippling virus, which does 1000 pts of Plague Damage/sec. (Charge: 10)
Note: Using all Thanatos Virus charges will permanently destroy this weapon!
Note: Players without an “evil” alignment suffer 5 pts Disease Damage/sec while this weapon is equipped.
Note: If a player without an “evil” alignment activates the Thanatos Virus, that player will also be afflicted by the Thanatos Virus!
Note: Any player—PC or NPC—killed while afflicted by the Thanatos Virus will be permanently deleted and will not respawn!
Immortality is a fickle thing. Death is coming …
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Suddenly, I was lightheaded and the world was spinning out of control all around me. This was impossible. A dagger that could permanently delete players? No, that couldn’t be right. I paused and pulled up the description again, carefully reading and rereading each line. For some reason I subconsciously expected the words to blur and change. To transform right before my eyes like some sort of magician’s trick. They never did, though.
I plopped down in the snow, my body tired, my legs weak both from fatigue and nerves. This changed everything. And if one Black Priest had a dagger like this, it was a fair bet that more Black Priests would have them. Maybe even other Vogthar warriors. I was sure they were too rare for the foot soldiers, but even one blade like this was too many. For the first time since making the permanent transition into V.G.O., I felt genuinely unsafe and unsure. That dagger was the IRL equivalent of a loaded gun pointed at my face.
No, it was even more than that.
It felt like learning about the existence of 21
3 Astraea all over again.
As I sat there in the snow, I briefly considered telling Cutter—because I needed to tell someone—then decided against it for the time being. Information like this could cause panic and mass hysteria. I needed to share this with Abby first, and then we could decide what to do, what to say, and who needed to know. I grimaced, licked my lips, then pushed the deadly dagger to the back of my mind. I needed everyone to think things were okay. At least for now.
EIGHTEEN_
Goodbyes
We wound through a snaking passage, which Cutter had found behind a carefully concealed door in the back alcove, where the lesser Vogthar troops had been hidden. The passage was narrow, cramped, and treacherous with the icy floor underfoot. But, as expected, it seemed to lead straight back toward the dungeon entrance. Cutter was gone, up ahead scouting the way, ensuring there were no nasty traps waiting for us to blunder into. He hadn’t found any yet, and I thought it unlikely he would, but this dungeon had already offered a lot of unpleasant surprises I hadn’t expected.
Considering the circumstances, it was better to be safe than sorry.
“Hold up a minute,” Jo-Dan said. I glanced back and found him doubled over and grabbing his knees while breathing heavily. He stole an apologetic look up, then slumped and sat on an uneven rock shelf jutting from the right wall.
“You okay?” I asked, giving him a quick once-over assessment. On the surface, he seemed to be fine. No obvious injuries.
He waved a hand through the air, dismissing my question while still huffing and puffing like a locomotive. “Fine,” he said after a moment, sounding anything but. “It’s just hard to be away for this long. I just recently acquired the ability to manifest, and venturing outside the dungeon absolutely wreaks havoc on my abilities. My regen rate drops to next to nothing. My abilities all cost more to use. And after a certain period of time, debuffs start stacking up, slowly killing me. When I level up more, I’ll be able to stay out longer with fewer negative effects, but for now I’m pretty useless.”