by James Hunter
In theory, I should’ve been angry at them for disobeying my orders, but honestly, I was glad to have both the moral and physical support. I grinned in spite of the circumstances, and turned back toward Carrera, feeling a touch more confident and a little smug to boot. Carrera was tough, no doubt, but I was pretty tough myself, and four on one weren’t good odds. If I were in Carrera’s boots, I would’ve been more than a little nervous.
But as I coolly regarded Carrera, my smugness and optimism slipped away. He definitely should’ve been nervous, but he wasn’t. Not at all. He stood tall, relaxed and unworried about the four warriors blocking his path and apparently unconcerned by the twenty others storming his Keep, frantically seeking out his control room. He was at ease, as though this was just another day in the office for him. Either he was severely overconfident, or he was really, really good. Much better than I was giving him credit for. I was betting on a little from column A and column B, but that didn’t do much to dispel the sudden flutter of panic in my gut.
“These warriors?” Carrera said, nodding toward my group. “They won’t help you. They won’t save you. Not from me. At best, they will momentarily slow me down. So, let us settle this as men. Just you”—he jabbed a finger at me—“and I.”
I stared at him, dumbfounded. He expected me to duel him? I snorted and shook my head at the absurdity of the notion.
“You are a coward, perhaps?” Carrera goaded, arching an eyebrow at me. “A toothless puta, too afraid to face me man-to-man? One-on-one?”
I laughed in his face—I just couldn’t help myself—which only seemed to sour his mood further.
“Honor is a joke to you?” he asked, the accusation burning with barely contained hate.
“Nope,” I replied. “I don’t think honor is a joke, and I’m not afraid. I’m just not an idiot. I don’t believe in fair fights because I play to win!” I yelled, darting forward and lashing out with my warhammer, hoping my hangers-on would get the message and jump in.
I’d closed the distance between us in an eyeblink—my movement advantage on clear display—but somehow Carrera already had his sword slicing through the air in retaliation. Unbelievably, his blade clanged against my incoming hammer, stopping my attack cold. A quiver ran up my weapon and into my palms, setting my teeth on edge. Then, with a quick flick of his wrists, Carrera knocked my weapon aside, unbalancing me in the process, before darting in and catching me across the jaw with a wicked elbow.
Wow, he was fast. At least as fast as I was, and he was wearing the heaviest of heavy armor. How the heck did that work?
I shook off the blow as Forge and the stocky Dwarf rushed in like an avalanche of flesh and steel, taking clumsy but powerful swings at the Holy Templar. They fought well together—one going low while the other went high, one circling left while the other moved right—but Carrera was too fast by half. He easily ducked and weaved around a series of wild chops, courtesy of Forge, then absently sidestepped a massive overhand strike from the Dwarf. Carrera bolted left, avoiding a crippling cross-body slice, and golden fire—blindingly bright—exploded along the length of his sword blade.
Then, in a blur of motion, Carrera spun, dropping to a knee as his sword flashed out: the blade sliced cleanly through the Dwarf’s armored belly, almost cutting him in two, spilling a wave of scarlet down his front. The Dwarf stopped, mallet falling from his hands as he stared dumbly at his ruined gut, his face suddenly pale, his brow slick with perspiration. His trembling hands roamed over the terrible gash in disbelief. The Dwarf stumbled back, one step then two, before toppling like a felled tree, his HP gone. Carrera wasn’t done, however. He rose and twirled, deflecting a thrust from Forge, then swatting the beefy Risi away with a wave of golden fire.
Speed was Carrera’s real weapon, so I charged forward and threw out my left hand, unleashing Umbra Bog, hoping to slow him down before he could finish Forge for good.
A fail notification flashed on the edge of my vision:
<<<>>>
Umbra Bog Failed! Lord Carrera resists Umbra Bog with the Holy Light Aura ability! Your Shadow-based spell does not affect him!
<<<>>>
Well, that was great. And by that point, I was already too close, too committed, to turn back.
So, I lobbed an Umbra Bolt on instinct, but the shadowy ball energy slapped against him and rolled off without any appreciable effect, just like a duck shedding water from its back. The attack didn’t knock off so much as a single hit point. Then, before I knew it, Carrera was on me. Only a second before I’d been on the offensive, and now I was back on my heels as he rained blow after savage blow down on me. Carrera’s sword flicked back and forth—uncannily fast for such a large weapon—attack, slash, parry, reset.
I managed to counter the lightning-quick blows as they came, narrowly deflecting each while carefully backpedaling, working to gain some breathing room. Even with the extra points I’d invested into Constitution, my character wasn’t built to fight like this, and the extended back and forth was quickly burning through my limited supply of Stamina. Carrera feinted left, and I fell for it, awkwardly maneuvering my hammer into a defensive position, only to find Carrera’s sword slashing at my exposed left side. I shot my vambrace up in panic, catching the incoming strike on the spiked gauntlet, which saved my life.
Unfortunately, the move was still costly. And the price? Unbelievable pain. The vambrace saved me from losing the limb completely, but the sheer force of the strike shattered my forearm, and the Holy Fire coating the sword burned my skin even through the protection of my armor. It felt like dipping my arm into a vat of acid. The limb dropped uselessly to my side in murderous agony, completely useless. As though to confirm my assessment, a combat notification popped up:
<<<>>>
Debuff Added
Fractured Arm: You cannot use your left arm and cannot cast mage spells requiring hand gestures; duration, 2 minutes.
<<<>>>
And there went my Plague Burst ability. I took a few deep breaths, pushing away the throbbing pain as I awkwardly maneuvered my warhammer back into position. I managed to get the weapon up, but I was terribly exposed on my left side, and Carrera seemed to know it. He shifted his stance, dropping his blade low, a frightening gleam in his eye. He was preparing for a kill shot—I could feel it in my bones. I needed to get gone, fast. I offered him a shifty grin and triggered Shadow Stride; an inky cloud swirled around me as time came screeching to an abrupt halt.
I took a few steps back—my breathing labored, my heart thudding, sweat rolling down my face in sheets—when something very unexpected happened. Despite being frozen in time, Carrera began to glow and burn like the rising sun. Light leaked from his skin, his sword, his armor, tendrils of golden power probing at the air. I stared on in bewilderment—in all the times I’d used Shadow Stride, I’d never seen anything like this. Not once. What in the world was happening? I hesitantly backed away a few more steps—confused and supremely nervous—as the light flooding from the Templar expanded, burning with ever-greater intensity. After only seconds, I had to shield my eyes from the glow; looking at him was like staring into the sun at noonday.
Then the world around me shook and trembled; the shadows around me danced and writhed in discomfort at the encroaching light. I took one more tentative step back and as I did, the Shadowverse shattered into a thousand pieces as the glow, bleeding from Carrera, reached out and enveloped me like a gigantic hand. The awful light banished the Night Armor Aura, wrapped around me like a second skin, then rudely dragged me back into reality as time crashed down like a hammer blow. Somehow, impossibly, Carrera had hauled me out of the Shadowverse against my will.
Another notification flashed:
<<<>>>
Debuff Added
Revealing Light: The Holy Power of the High Gods illuminates the area, dispelling all Umbra Magic effects; range, 100 meters; duration, 2 minutes.
<<<>>>
Carrera began to laugh at me, a deep, guttural howl rising
up from his belly. That laugh mocked me, and rejoiced in both my pain and confusion.
“You can’t beat me, pendejo. I’m not a generic Templar, I’m a Light-Bringer. My class is specifically equipped and designed to resist and dispel the power of Shadow-based Dark Templars.” He paused and offered me a cruel sneer. “I’m a Shadowmancer killer.” Then before I could respond—before I could move, run, or conjure some sort of protection—he unleashed a ball of radiant golden energy, which hit me in the chest like an enraged rodeo bull.
My actual armor absorbed some of the shock, but the hit still swatted me into the air like a line drive and dropped me down to twenty percent Health. I smacked against the Keep’s stone wall and slid to a heap on the ground, struggling to breathe. My vision dimmed around the edges, my back screamed out in protest, and my left arm—still broken—seemed to insist I should give up and call it quits for good. I sat there for a moment, hunched in on myself, completely vulnerable while I tried to mentally regroup. How could I possibly defeat a guy designed to nullify my abilities?
Carrera stalked nearer, a smug look of victory painted across his face.
That looked vanished as a devastating barrage of arrows exploded from a pool of nearby shadows, revealing the Ranger I’d forgotten about. The brilliant archer had bided her time, waiting for the perfect moment to launch a surprise attack. Though many of the shots went wide or ricocheted harmlessly off Carrera’s heavy armor, more than a few punched through, lodging themselves in his chest, shoulders, and legs. The Templar cried out in pain and anger, turning away from me, focusing his rage on the Ranger. With a snarl, he spat out an archaic phrase, fulgur sanctorum, and raised one hand high overhead.
The clouds above boiled and churned, before erupting in a violent flash, vomiting a bolt of lightning down on top of the Archer. She scrambled and threw herself into a hasty dive, but it was too little too late. The lightning landed with a crack and a boom, which temporarily blinded me. When the light finally cleared—staining my vision with a purple afterimage—all that remained of the woman was a charred corpse, blackened and twisted beyond recognition.
Her sacrifice hadn’t been for nothing though.
An alert flashed:
<<<>>>
Faction Alert:
Congratulations! Your faction, the Crimson Alliance, has captured the Rowanheath Command Center—the Faction Seat of the Knights of Holy Light. If your faction holds the Command Center for (30) minutes, you will control Rowanheath and displace the current ruling faction.
Countdown: 29:59
<<<>>>
We’d done it. We’d stalled Carrera long enough for Abby and the others to take the Command Center—now we just needed to keep Carrera from steamrolling over our forces and taking it back. Moreover, the Ranger’s sacrifice had also bought Forge the time he needed to recover.
The hard-charging Risi—blood dripping from his lips, lacerations decorating his face and arms like war medals—lumbered into the fight, slamming himself into Carrera’s gut and pushing him toward the wall like a linebacker driving a training sled. I wasn’t a tactical genius, but I immediately realized what Forge was doing: he was going to take Carrera over the wall. It was clear we didn’t have the raw power or strength to stop the Templar, but no one could survive a two-hundred-foot drop. No one. The pair were only feet away from going over, when Carrera managed to gain his footing, slowing the onslaught just long enough to bring his sword up high and drive it straight down.
Right through Forge’s back.
The blow impaled the warrior clean through and continued all the way into the stone.
Forge sputtered and coughed, grasping at the blade running through him, as if he might somehow be able to pull it free. After a few fruitless seconds, his hands fell away, covered in blood. He stared up at Carrera, eyes already growing glassy and unfocused. “Eat a dick,” he sputtered, flipping the man the bird, before collapsing in a heap as his HP hit zero. Forge hadn’t finished him off, but he’d done two very important things: one, he’d almost pushed him right over the edge of the wall, and two, he’d run down the Revealing Light debuff clock.
I could use Shadow Stride again. With a grin, I triggered the ability, rejoicing as time lurched to a standstill and monochromatic blacks and whites invaded the landscape.
I limped my way over to Carrera, in no real rush. I knew what I had to do, but I wasn’t relishing it, not one bit. I lined up my shot, dropped into a crouch—letting shadow swirl around me as Stealth activated—and slipped free from the Shadowverse, time lurching to catch up. I slammed my warhammer into Carrera’s head, spike first, triggering my new Crush Armor ability, which gave me a 250% attack bonus against opponents in heavy plate armor. Opponents exactly like Carrera. I earned some significant Backstab damage plus a critical hit, which dropped his HP to just above 15%.
The Templar stumbled from the blow, blood cascading freely down the side of his face.
Instead of letting up, though, I launched myself at the drunkenly staggering Carrera, driving my shoulder into his gut as I fished the Black Hexblade of Serth-Rog from a sheath at my belt. Since my hammer strike had dropped him down into the critical health zone, I could now trigger the Soul Sacrifice ability, banishing this jerk to the realm of Serth-Rog. True, it would kill me too, and permanently cost me 5 points of Spirit, which was a heck of a steep price to pay, but Carrera would definitely die. And, more importantly, he’d be stuck wandering around the capital of the underworld as a Spectral Reverent. At least for a while.
As painful and costly as this move would be, there really was no better message I could send to the empire: if you mess with the Crimson Alliance, we will invade your city, take all your stuff, and damn you to the underworld. That would make people think twice before tangling with us. Plus, there was really no one—with perhaps the exception of Osmark himself—who deserved to suffer this kind of fate more than Carrera.
“You shouldn’t have threatened me, and you shouldn’t have killed my pet,” I spat, irrationally mad, as I sunk the Hexblade into Carrera’s stomach, triggering Black Caress and pushing us both over the edge of the wall.
A combat notification popped up in the corner of my eye as his life flowed into me:
<<<>>>
Debuffs Added:
Entwined-Fate: You have used the Hexblade and activated the Soul Sacrifice ability—your life has been tied to Traveler Aleixo Carrera. When he dies, you will automatically die and respawn in your normal location!
Spiritual Karma: You have used the Hexblade and activated the Soul Sacrifice ability—you have permanently lost (5) points of Spirit!
<<<>>>
“What have you done!” Carrera screamed as we flipped over and over, hurtling toward the earth.
“I won. I hope you enjoy hell,” I whispered just before the ground rushed up to meet me and the lights went out.
THIRTY-FIVE: Peace Offering
I fell through darkness, arms and legs pinwheeling madly as I flipped and spun, on a crash course with the ground. Except the ground never came—I just kept cutting through the endless black with no bottom in sight. After a few more seconds an image appeared in the emptiness yawning all around me: a lightning bolt cut wildly through the air, charring a female Ranger to a crisp, leaving only a blackened corpse behind … then the image dissolved, replaced by Forge’s death-glazed eyes as Carrera impaled him … The Dwarf came next—his gut split open—followed by an image of Devil exploding in a cloud of sooty smoke.
The images came faster after that. Terrible scenes of men and women dying: Rowanheath Guards, Crimson Alliance Faction members, players, and NPCs. Just one long, grisly slide show of all the brutal carnage I’d seen over the last few hours. Finally, my own end played out on a loop. The Spider Queen ripping open my chest … my head clipping the edge of a building—breaking my neck—before my body splattered on a cobblestone street … Spider Queen, Neck Break, Spider Queen, Neck Break. Finally, I pressed my eyes shut, unwilling to watch anymore.
“The mind has a tough time dealing with death,” a man said from behind me, his voice smooth, suave, and somehow familiar. “There were problems in the early test version—dying in Viridian Gate was too traumatic for many players. Several became …” There was a thoughtful pause. “Unhinged,” the voice finally continued, “by experiencing death so frequently.”
I turned slowly, and found a man lounging in a padded leather chair as creamy white as the landscape around us. He was a human, Imperial if I had to guess, but instead of a toga, he wore a pair of IRL slacks, a black turtleneck, and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.
“We tried to fix it,” he continued idly, “the ill-effects of dying, that is, but like so many other things, there just wasn’t time to get it right. To get it perfect.” He leaned back and sighed, crossing his legs and tenting his fingers as he carefully cataloged every detail about me.
“You’re Robert Osmark,” I blurted out, finally placing the voice. His had been the last real human voice I’d heard before uploading into V.G.O.
“Exactly right,” he said with a disarming grin. “And you are Jack Mitchel. A thirty-two-year-old from San Diego, California. Worked as an EMT, if I have my facts right. Please, won’t you take a seat?” he asked, sweeping a hand out. Suddenly a second chair, identical to the one Osmark occupied, appeared next to me, materializing from the air.
“I think I’ll stand,” I replied, edging away from the chair.