The Virtual Realm (War Of The Elements Book 1)
Page 11
Menos paused for a moment before issuing his deathly command.
“Kill her.”
The thugs bellowed in a cacophony of repulsive revelry on hearing the grim order. The group epitomized what a violent gang would be in this world.
“With pleasure,” one of the thugs cackled as he raised his sword high, ready to show this rebellious Monk the pleasures of cold steel.
The scarlet clad woman was a mere split second away from countering with fists of fury when a wall of silver stepped between the two combatants. The blade twanged as it bounced off a shield which might as well have possessed the durability of a brick wall when compared to the sword.
The thug quickly recovered from having his blade reflected, staring straight at the warrior with his mouth agape, his mind muddled in confusion.
“Who the fuck are you?” the thug asked.
“I’m glad you asked,” he grinned roughly. “I am the protector of the innocent. I am the savior of the weak and evil's worst nightmare. I am the hero of Septunia.”
“Oh brother,” Dusk interjected, “you are so corny sometimes.”
Frost turned a faint rose in embarrassment when his companion called him out. Why couldn’t his friend just go with the flow for once?
“Hey, dude, stop trying to cramp my style. That was a grand entrance and you know it!”
“Whatever.” Dusk countered as he buried his face into his palm, a futile hope that it would hide him from the eyes of the onlookers. At this moment he wondered why he’d been travelling with this foolish Knight with a hero complex. He didn’t want anyone to realize that he was friends with this hero wannabe.
“So...” Menos calmly chimed in, reminding Dusk and Frost that there were more important things to worry about than their petty little argument.
“There are three of you, huh? Why are you here? This is none of your business. If you leave now, I’ll spare your lives.”
Frost drew his sword; his eyebrows scrunching downward as he finally realized the gravity of the situation.
“Six of you against one woman? You guys should be ashamed.”
“You want to fight us?” Menos chuckled calmly at the absurdity of it. “You know... even with the three of you showing up, you’re still outnumbered, right? We were originally just going to kill the girl.
But now,” he grinned like a predator out for blood. “I think we should kill you guys too.”
Dusk’s heart was beating like tribal drums in his chest, the beat increasing to an allegro, his sword gripped by a sweat soaked hand. “Wait, a fight to the death? Are you guys insane?! We should be helping each other get out of this game, not killing each other! Can’t we talk this out somehow?”
A wicked bronze scythe appeared in the hands of the cruel Menos. A scythe was the main weapon of the Dark Knight class.
Dark Knights had the second highest defenses of any pure damage class. Phantoms and Monks wore light outfits so that their movement would be uninhibited. Dark Knights were vastly different in this regard in that they clad themselves in armor of darkness; offering a stalwart defense against the destructive rain of blades and spell craft. Their large scythes were designed to deliver crushing blows and defeat enemies in as few strikes as possible. Because of their heavy armor and large weapon, they moved sluggishly in comparison to most of their damage peers, which happened to be their Achilles heel.
“The time for talk has passed,”
Menos shouted, silencing the trio of hapless gamers who had the misfortune of stumbling upon this gruesome event.
“You will all be used as an example to anyone who tries to cross the Hand of Blood!”
Dusk mumbled quietly to himself, perplexed. “The Hand of Blood?”
The dark skinned damsel spoke to her potential allies for the first time.
“It’s their guild name. They’re not gonna listen to a word you say. They can’t be reasoned with. There’s only one language they understand.”
The woman got up, unwilling to play the part of damsel any longer. It just wasn’t her style. She continued her grim explanation.
“That’s the language of violence. Invite me to your party. Let’s fight these assholes.”
Dusk complied. He could use her help right about now. Even with her aid, it was going to be four versus six. He had already found himself in another deadly situation. This was something he never could’ve imagined. It was bad enough that he had to deal with towering enemy monstrosities, but other people? Other gamers who were supposed to join forces with him, uniting together like a powerful collective consciousness? Perhaps other players were the true monsters. Why was this happening? He couldn’t wrap his head around this right now. He quickly invited Xyla to his party, that she might aid them in this unwelcome struggle.
Her name is Xyla, huh, what a weird name.
The thugs were quickly upon them, splitting themselves up to occupy each of the three adventurers. Two were on Frost, two on Dusk, and two on Xyla. Xyla for her part seemed to be a capable fighter. He heard Monks had high evasion skill and speed. They had to, seeing as they had no weapons except their fists, and no protection, barring their paper thin cloth garments. Xyla seemed to exemplify this point, narrowly evading each attack with grace. Since it was two versus one though, she never found a chance to take the offensive. It was all she could do to dodge the stacked assault. The swooshing of swords caught the air with their deadly music, playing a falsetto for their foes.
On the other end of the spectrum was Frost. He had about as much grace as a cow, but the durability of an ox. He raised his shield proudly, blocking the deadly thrusts, unyielding in the face of danger. Even so, Frost’s defense was not flawless—a strike here, a slash there, clanked against his thick chainmail. Any gaps in his defenses were sealed by Stacy as she tossed her heals on him periodically. One of the thugs had noticed the Cleric blowing breaths of life into Frost’s sturdy body, so he decided to take the initiative to take her out of the equation.
He stopped attacking his adversary, running full stride at Stacy, like a lion chasing down its prey. This didn’t escape the attention of her protector. “
Taking out the healer is the basics of player vs. player combat in groups; I need to kill this bitch first!
Stacy tried to flee, but failed to outrun the wild bull, taking a deep slash against her right shoulder.
Ugh, that hurt like a bitch, but I didn’t lose that much health. I can’t keep taking slashes like that though. What do I do? What do I do?!
Stacy’s mind was muddled into a polluted stream, sullied by the prickling sensation of battle induced fear. She rarely had to deal with anything actually attacking her, so this situation caught her completely off guard. Frost always took the brunt of the damage while she sat back a safe distance away, but now she was exposed, a baby cub without a protector, staring a hunter straight in its savage eyes. She attempted to think back to the first day when she single-handedly attacked a mob, hoping to recall vital memories of when she had to take the offensive into her own hands.
Think, Stacy, think! What did you do as an offensive move? Ahh, that’s right!
A brief flash of light flew out from her
wand and hit the thug square in the chest, causing him to stumble backwards with a jolt.
While the attack did harm him, the wound to his pride was far greater. The latches of his self-control unfastened as he let the anger explode into a steaming geyser. “You fucking bitch. You’re dead!” His sword tore through her shoulder, sending Stacy’s shrieks echoing through the primal jungle.
Dusk’s eyes darted to the side on hearing his best friend’s miserable scream. “Stacy, I'm coming!” he cried out with the worry claiming his concentration. He wanted to run to her aid, but before he could do so, he caught a gleaming bronze arc out of the corner of his eye coming towards him. He brought his sword up instantly to meet it, rising to the occasion to return his enemy’s metal greeting. The impact vibrated through his bones. Menos was laughing at him, taunting him.
“Don’t get distracted now. Your fight is with me. What do you say; maybe we can leave that girlfriend of yours half dead, and then ravage her with the other bitch? That’d be a hell of a good time, right?”
These words were a trigger to force his opponent’s anger to erupt. Menos had hoped that this Phantom’s blind rage would cloud his combat clear eyes—he succeeded, but not in the way he intended. Dusk’s blood started rushing through his body like a tsunami, his teeth gnashing against one another in a tempestuous rage.
“You son of a bitch...get out of my way!” Dusk flared, letting hatred fuel his senses. His heightened adrenaline allowed him to perceive things faster and more clearly, almost as if he had slowed down a video. Because of this augmented perception, he could move his body more efficiently to counter these moves.
Dusk was fighting against two savage opponents—two monsters who wanted nothing more than to slice him in two—but he didn’t care about that. The only thing that mattered right now was saving Stacy. Menos had wanted to send him into a blind rage, but this fury coursing through his veins granted him clarity—a calm and controlled anger which would tear his foes to shreds. His eyes, which were now catching every movement, spotted a bronze instrument of death coming towards him from overhead.
He stepped to the side in order to avoid this deadly swipe. A moment later, a short silver sword homed in on his right shoulder. He parried it and made the other thug lose his footing. In the next moment, Dusk took the offensive and swung his green serpent blade—the weapon he nearly died for, at Menos, the focus of his barbaric fury. Menos blocked the gesture of loathing with his scythe, preparing a retaliatory strike of his own—a sweeping horizontal strike marking its deathly curve. Dusk swiftly leaned to the left, putting all of his body weight into his sword to block this attack. He successfully countered and forced the Dark Knight to stumble sideways. Taking advantage of this opportunity, Dusk, now augmented by his wrath, cut a small chunk of flesh off the left arm of the wicked scythe wielder. Menos’s legs froze in fear as he saw his foe’s sword closing in on him. He felt like a rat in a trap. Just as he thought his life was coming to an end, he was granted salvation as his partner stepped in to save him. If he had been even a millisecond later, Menos might have a bloody streak shaped tattoo etched into his chest. Dusk quickly met his enemy’s sword with a clank, sending his foot into the swordsman’s stomach, putting him out of commission for a much needed few seconds. Menos had recovered from the shock and pain of having his left arm dripping blood onto nature’s floor. There was no thought behind his strike, only pure hatred as his bronze tooth made an attempt to bite off Dusk’s head. Dusk ducked just in time. The next swing of his evil blade would haunt the Phantom forever. He instinctively sunk his serpent sword into the stomach of the rival combatant, shoving his blade through the thug leader mercilessly.
All of the Dark Knight’s energy had left him immediately. His bronze scythe hit the floor as his fingers spread apart lifelessly. Dusk pulled the sword out of him with haste, hoping it would prevent what he most feared right now, but it was too late...
A bloody spray stained Dusk’s leather coat, sourced from the man who had taunted him but moments ago. Menos’s life gauge had hit zero; he could stand on his feet no longer. He was, for all intents and purposes, dead. He fell to the ground, landing on his back. Crimson liquid poured out of his mouth. He coughed a few times, desperately gasping for air. The rest of his crew, seeing their fallen leader, had their anger replaced with a new emotion—fear. They no longer had the desire to draw blood, only to find out what happened to their guiding light.
“Whoa,” Frost whispered, unable to believe what just happened.
“Boss!” one of the thugs cried out in tears, running to his side. Menos simply lay there with his eyes wide open, unable to believe the events that were unfolding. He could only stare at the man who had put him in this situation with puzzled and horrific eyes. The man staring back at him was filled to the brim with sickening feelings of dread and extreme regret.
“I’m sorry!” Dusk trembled rapidly, clutching his sword with all his might, attempting to fruitlessly exude all of his anguish into the blade. His sword was drenched with Menos’s blood.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!”
Menos replied back with a bitter chuckle, insulted by what he was hearing.
“You’re sorry you say? Sorry is what you say when you’ve said something you didn’t mean to say. Sorry is for stealing a candy bar. This? What you’ve done? You’re sorry? You think that even begins to cover it?”
Dusk could only remain silent as blood drowned his world, creating a blur of crimson death as Menos spoke his last words with a venomous punch.
“No, you’re not nearly sorry yet... but you will be. Oh, I guarantee you’ll be sorry. When the boss finds out about this... you’re a dead man, just like me. Hell, you’re already a dead man walking. The Hand of Blood will hunt you down to the ends of this god forsaken world—you’ll never be safe.”
Menos grinned as if the devil had possessed him and continued, “Not only the Hand of Blood. You’re a wanted man now. Check the Bounty Board.”
“The Bounty Board?” Dusk managed to choke out the words through his ocean of sorrow.
“That’s right; you may have noticed our orange stars. We got that for stealing. But you,” Menos laughed, “what you did is much worse. You’re worse than we are, murderer.”
That word would send a chill down Dusk’s spine and echo through his mind.
Murderer. I’m a murderer...
“Not only will the Hand of Blood be after you, but bounty hunters as well. You’re a dead man.” Menos paused one last time, his eyes bloodshot as his body quivered in thunderous fury. “You hear me? You're fucking dead you murderous piece of shit!”
His last words rang like a gunshot throughout the area—the dying howl of a fierce wolf in its last moments. Moments later, he vanished forever, entering the realm of death that they all so feared.
The thugs all stood there, dumbfounded, mourning the loss of their alpha wolf leader. They stared at Dusk with their ears erect, their fangs bared, ready to tear him limb from limb. The pack was about to pounce on him when one of them barked.
“Stop!” The wolfish thug commanded.
The other four thugs looked at him, at a loss. Reading their confusion, the thug who called for the ceasefire elaborated on his reasoning.
“We need to report this to the boss. If we fight them anymore we might suffer more casualties.”
“But...” one of the other thugs cried out, “he has to pay for what he did to Menos!”
“And he will... That’s exactly why we have to report this to the boss. So we can get more manpower and kill this murderous scumbag for sure.”
The other thugs reluctantly agreed, still overflowing with fire. He turned to look at Dusk one last time, his murderous pressure squeezing like an Anaconda’s coiling grip. “All right, we’ll be back for you, motherfucker. The next time you see our faces will be the last time,” he hissed as he made a motion with his hand that was similar to slitting someone’s throat, indicating his abhorrent hung
er.
“Let’s go,” he called out to his companions.
Just as they all started walking away to lick their wounds, Xyla decided she hadn’t had enough. She wanted to make these bastards pay for what they did to her. She narrowed her eyes into slits—uncontrollably eager to return the homicidal favor that they intended to enact upon her.
If these three didn’t show up when they did... those thugs would’ve killed me. Hell if I let them go after that. You think you can just do something like that and get away? You think you can walk all over anyone you damn well please? No, you’ll never hurt anyone again; I’ll make sure of it.
She was about to give chase, a tiger up against five wolves, but that didn’t matter. She was more vicious and far more powerful. Just as she was about to charge, Frost ran in front of her. What did he think he was doing? If you interfere in a tiger’s hunt, you become the prey. That damned Knight’s eyes were pleading with her. “Don’t do it,” he whispered.
She was on the verge of stabbing her claws into him, to turn him into Knight flavored Swiss cheese, but ultimately decided against it. “You want to let these assholes go after what they did to us? To me? Why? What possible logical explanation is there for that?”
Frost put a hand on her shoulder in an attempt to console her, but she promptly slapped it away. He let his neck go and his shoulders slumped as he stared at the ground, wearing the face of melancholy.
“I just... don’t want any more deaths.”
“So I won’t kill them, I’ll just beat the living crap out of them.”
Frost shook his head, indicating that he still wouldn’t let her pass. “I’m sorry.”
“Fine.” She raised her fists, determined to make someone pay.
“If you won’t let me go after them, I’ll just have to go right through you.”
Frost dropped his sword and spread his arms outward as if to say hit me.
“You could go through me. But I am a Knight after all. By the time you’ve gotten through me they’ll be gone. Even if you did defeat me in time, you’d be against those five enemies by yourself, you wouldn’t have our help.”