by D. Rus
Three hours until departure.
After lunch, the group's soldiers received a direct—and for those outside of the service, unexpected—order. "Lights out!" And rightly so. Standing guard and setting out on a mission always requires extra time to sleep. The windows of the barracks were covered with blankets and even the guard wasn't shouting at the top of his lungs.
I exercised my right as the boss and ignored the lights-out command to finally distribute the points I had saved.
I struggled to tear Tommy’s claws away from the leg of my pants: he must have been dreaming about chasing some prey. Then I switched back to my internal interface window.
In front of me loomed my character's skill tree. The upcoming campaign demanded the immediate distribution of all those talent and characteristic points I had accumulated. Who knew when the free leveling system of the game would bite the dust?
Level three hundred and thirty-two. Just one more and I'd have triple threes. Interestingly enough, the TOP charts only had me at ninth place in the Russian cluster. Where the other eight were hiding or how they’d managed to outdo me in this leveling game, one could only guess.
There were still people who had played longer than me and were more cunning. Or just more wealthy, as simple as that. However, I made a note for Dan: I wanted full dossiers on these jokers. You couldn’t afford to ignore players of their ability.
I didn't have many free characteristic points. Thanks to my paranoia, I had invested most of the remaining points into Constitution, turning my skeleton into a fortress of titanium alloy—and the amount of hits my bare bones could take, to an exorbitant eleven thousand. My resistance to physical and magic damage had risen accordingly. Now, even bound hand and foot, I wasn't turning into a harmless makiwara, but could completely ignore at least a third of my incoming damage. Even if they’d thrown me into a cauldron of boiling oil, it would have taken me no less than half an hour to finally expire.
I shouldn't forget my collection of acquired immunities, either. From melee damage to poison and onto ranged weapons. From mind control to soul stealing. It was true that the latter feature had already shown its vulnerability. Asmodeus had given me this immunity, then ignored it, knocking my soul from my body with little difficulty. But who was I to say that the Supreme Demon wouldn't have left a few loopholes and hushed backdoors? I still remembered how he’d transferred my soul with the snap of a finger, swapping my body for Tavor's. This creature was ancient, dangerous, and his steps were calculated for centuries to come.
OK, no need to spit venom. Even the Elven garden was ringing in alarm, receiving my emanations of hatred. What did we have next?
With my Strength at six hundred, I could raise a Mini Cooper above my head and, at maximum capacity, carry a second in my spacious pocket. In general, a ton was my peak load capacity moving at a snail's pace. But at a thousand pounds, I was still quite agile and quick: a perfect smuggler or thief.
I could walk into a museum, inconspicuously brushing my hands along its precious displays and stashing everything away in my inventory. I'd be as rich as Rockefeller! Freebies were indeed sweet.
OK, next. With Agility at more than three hundred, I could freely run along an assault bridge, no wider than one's palm, thrown over a castle moat. And while on the run, I'd be able to dodge three out of five arrows and squeeze between the streams of boiling tar poured by the castle defenders.
On the whole, my ability to duck and dodge would be rather like the latest generation of Hollywood monsters. Not those ridiculous ones that shuffle along zombie-like, but those that couldn’t even stand still in your sights.
Add to it my ability to invest my internal strength reserves into bending time—and I ended up as a formidable dude, capable of dancing in the rain and coming out dry.
Next. Five hundred and fifty Intellect wasn't half bad for a hybrid melee fighter, but it also wasn't really the caster's build I had planned while sitting behind bars in the City of Light. Strength and Constitution had overtaken my Intellect, directly pointing to my skewed development.
To add insult to injury, my available characteristic points were but pitiful crumbs.
With a steady hand, I sent the remaining points to Intellect and moved on to the most important thing: Talent points. During my hyperactive leveling phase, I’d spent half of them repeatedly trying to max out my platoon of pets. The icons for my combat spells were covered in cobwebs and I had already sort of forgotten when I had buffed last or when I slowed an enemy with a DoT.
Now it was time to remember that I wasn't just a raid leader, but a solo fighter.
I opened the multilevel magic tabs and heaved a sigh. Hmm, in this supermarket of available miracles, I actually could afford very little. Just imagine^ you find yourself in a magic shop. You walk along the shelves and they have everything! Immortality, invulnerability, omnipotence... And all you have is a measly handful of pennies clutched in your sweaty fist.
Never mind. Let's do it.
Survival above all else. I'd have to keep improving my Life Absorption skill branch.
I carefully and parsimoniously invested my points, getting the skill up to level sixteen. My eyebrows crept up in surprise. The spell wasn't only increasing its power, but also significantly evolving.
Massive Life Absorption IV.
Cast time: 3.6 sec. Mana: 270. Cooldown: 6 seconds.
Effect: unfriendly targets within a radius of twenty feet from the point of activation will receive two hundred magic damage, and you will be healed by an equal amount of HP.
Enhanced Effect: you have come to know life and death, and you have absorbed the blood of many people and possessed the souls of a thousand creatures. Falling under your blows, creatures will experience true terror and for three seconds will try to get as far away from you as possible.
Beware! After the effect wears off, the monsters' fury will double, the aggro counter will receive an additional multiplier, and the enemy will assign you as its priority target!
Hm, monsters backing away in horror. That was a good thing. And I had a platoon of pets that could intercept aggressive creatures. Besides, in a one-on-one fight, the effect was in fact an offset because there I’d be the only target. Excellent!
Next, control. Divide and conquer. I invested a dozen points into Dead Man's Hand and grinned happily. Bingo! Another mass effect!
Forest of Dead Hands III
Cast time: 2.7 sec. Mana: 90.
Effect: over a dozen skeleton hands will be ready to seize your enemies. They will hold onto the targets for up to nine seconds.
Enhanced Effect: the dead flesh is subject to the will of a Death Knight of your level. Each of the enemy's seized limbs will be dealt 60 HP in shattering damage.
Whoa! Sinking its caws into a single target, the spell could squeeze up to a thousand hits from its victim!
After that, I started adding to the usual necromancer's tricks: DoTs.
Spiked Grass, Oxidation of Blood, and Poison Cloud. Three styles that were honed for different types of resistances and didn't conflict with each other. They stacked beautifully and caused a total of four thousand damage. It wasn’t all that much for my level, but I wasn’t a pure caster, either. But for your average earthling at level 10 and a hundred hits, it was more than enough.
Not that I was going to orchestrate a genocide. But all this power might come in very handy in case of an open confrontation with demons. This was practically unavoidable. Fighting a level 400 veteran from Asmodeus' Silver Legion wasn't going to be easy.
OK. Next.
If magic was alive and well on Earth, then I needed the ability to hold a cast. So passive shields were a must. And I had some!
I sacrificed half a dozen talent points to Bone Shield. Having exceeded the standard ten points, the spell began to level up not only quantitatively, but also qualitatively.
Autonomous Bone Shield III.
Cast time: 11.2 sec. Mana: 340.
Effect: personal buff. Absorbs
1,100 damage. Duration: 90 minutes.
Enhanced Effect: bones and magic are the natural tools of a Death Knight. The spells you cast will have the ability to regenerate, gradually regaining strength.
Required ingredient: bones of any creature in any form.
Hm, bones... they were abound. Any store or auction was absolutely chock full of them. Skeleton-equipped locations were legion. Spare bones were frequent loot highly sought after by a few different types of crafters.
Next. I flipped through the remaining branches of necromancer skills without much interest: debuffs on the living as well as enhancements for the dead, summoned, and raised beings. Mundane, utilitarian magic.
Everything I needed above all else, I already had. Gate, invisibility, levitation, bind points, and other routine skills that distinguished the magician from the warrior. But without the transmutation of mana, I'd be as useful as a rock.
And so, all that I had left were a precious few talent points. Absolutely compulsory were the armed combat skills. Mana was a funny thing. One minute you had it, the next you didn't! This was why many in our group were melee fighters. Only a single cleric was a pure support caster.
I wondered how many elite elders from the upper political and economic echelons were ready to pay for her services. Two measly units of mana for a Greater Heal allowing you to say goodbye to all your aches and pains? Who could we test this on?
I opened the combat skills tab and sighed. No wonder the developers had designed the Death Knight as a hybrid tank. The number of skills, combos, special attacks, auras, and other precious commodities was simply incredible.
Even at the start of the project, the character development model was declared "dynamic and scalable." No one would reach the cap. No one could say, "There. I'm at the maximum." The skills grew linearly at first, and then later pseudo-intelligently, varying depending on how they were used, on the player's group, and his or her style of play. I mostly fought in raids, so the engine gave me group bonuses. Had I been doing a bit of PK on the sly, I would have gotten bonuses for fighting other players. Had I fought solo, I would have gotten a damage increase or some other kind of bonus, calculated by some big-headed professor using tricky formulas.
They may have been formulas, but they’d become the laws of our universe. Admittedly still soft and malleable like a newborn that hasn't yet gained its strength, but... Hold on, AlterWorld. In the miserable centuries to come, the universe would have to expend energy on a cosmic scale in order to counteract them. It wouldn’t be like now when willing something to happen was all it took. Oh, no.
At level 300, I had already acquired all of the basic skills that lured young knights with promises of murderous damage and pretty special effects. Beat them with your shield, slice them with your sword, strike their limbs, open up their bellies. The bright-colored bacchanalia of Asian slashers had long been the leading trend for the world's MMORPGs.
I bit my lip, longingly looking at the couple of dozen talent points that remained. I hadn't become a master of combat, or even turned into a specialized fighter. All I had available was one or two signature combos leveled far enough to create the impression that they must have come from a level 300 player.
I studied the abilities, indecisive, constantly switching to the internal interface. It was a miracle the forum hadn't packed up yet. Over time, it was threatening to turn into the planet's last remaining information portal.
I was getting frustrated because the top players were in no hurry to divulge their secrets. There were tons of "Histories of Success" and "Golden Leveling Schemes" from players up to level 100. Level 150+ players weren’t so generous. Those who’d managed to level any higher maliciously gave you the finger. They needed neither the cheap fame nor the additional competition. It looked like I was in it on my own.
I began to pare down my options, arranging them according to the weapons I had available to me. The Children of Night had captured many, but it was the Vets who’d presented me with my key asset.
It was a custom-engraved two-handed sword of epic proportions as if it had been taken from the trophy wall of a mountain giant's castle. It had dozens of restrictions for its usage, from a strength parameter of five hundred to friendship with the dark side. Though far from being adamant, it was the notable Dragon Claw Cutter. Yep, that's exactly what some ogre had imaginatively called his family toothpick.
Its blade was meant to mangle or ignore any armor below Unique, getting a crit strike fifty percent of the time, and sometimes feigning a block and parrying the enemy steel—but it was a one-hit wonder. You unsheathed it, brandished the hundred-pound blade in the air and hit your enemy, then waited for the cooldown to expire while studying your opponent. If he was still standing, then you’d probably missed. If he was smeared along your blade or split in two, then there was justice in the world.
That brought the available choice of weapons down considerably. Out of the suitable two-handed swords, I favored the Fury and Colossus Smash the most.
Despite its grandiose name, the Fury didn’t negatively affect Intellect but gave a significant increase in physical resistance to damage for a short period of time. A miniature Scandinavian berserker, minus the requirement to munch on toxic mushrooms, drool and bare your teeth.
The Colossus Smash was exclusively two-handed, offering a decent chance of killing your opponent in a single hit. If the kill was carried out under Fury, your character received full healing as a bonus—not bad at all. Talk about a single-hit wonder. He came, he saw, he conquered.
Unhesitantly I invested a dozen points into each and grinned. Ha! These damned things seemed to be expanding! Now, Fury covered the whole group and Colossus Smash extended a full hundred and eighty degrees.
Now we were cooking!
I nodded to myself in satisfaction and gently removed the heavy body of Tommy the snow leopard off me. He was pretending to be a rug and had no intention of moving.
"It's time," I quietly whispered into the beast's ear.
Tommy cocked his ears and glanced unhappily at me, but got up. He stretched, yawning wide, then looked up at me in curiosity.
I pressed the button for the portal to the alter and repeated, "It's time."
Chapter Five
Five o'clock in the evening. Once upon a time, this was prime gaming time. But now it was impossible to wander around idly. Working through the aftermath of the rupture of the worlds could steal any amount of free hands for many years to come.
And yet—somewhere over your head or, to be more precise, under your feet—was the enormous expanse of Inferno, left without its Master and luring you with its ownerless treasures. High above was the encapsulated Seventh Heaven which had taken along with it its angels' secrets and a long list of quests, items, and ingredients available only to them. And somewhere nearby was the mysterious Valley of Death, which currently was successfully being reclaimed by American and Korean farm guilds. Our own groups had failed to complete the cluster quest and summon the Ghost Messenger. The said quest had turned out to be, how could I put it, very special.
In any case, all these sub-regions were much closer to us than Mother Earth. Not that we were looking for the easy path, on the contrary: we’d been relentlessly forcing ourselves through a closed door. Blow after blow, will before fear, until finally the lock would begin to give, wood chips flying. Then we’d be going home!
The concrete cocoon of the portal hall was a regimented place, crawling with security. All clan members had their itemized tasks which they were supposed to be doing—in which case, why was the place crawling with those wishing to see us off? The underground hall with its perfect acoustics buzzed with a multitude of excited voices.
I looked at Orcus, who just shrugged. The power of the grapevine.
I shook my head disapprovingly, but didn't even attempt to disperse the crowd. There are limits even to my powers. I'm not the right kind of feudal lord and can punish and pardon only with a cautious eye. Discipline in the anarchic e
nvironment of gamers and distinguished retirees is as tender and vulnerable as a blade of grass struggling to break through the tarmac of a highway.
I looked at the clock, took out a scroll from its tube, and dramatically looked around. The time has come, brothers! Long goodbyes, more tears.
Clad in his divine armor, Snowie was once again distressing Bomba. The enormous bulk of the albino in shining armor hung over the troll. Holding her by the shoulders, he caught her moist, fleeting gaze and said something slow but weighty. My little solder had become a man! The mighty warrioress in front of him looked as fragile as any other wife sending her spouse off on a war campaign.
Sending, yeah right!
Snowie frowned in exasperation, apparently unable to convince his strong-willed wife. The young hound sitting nearby slowly backed away. Apparently desperate, the albino looked around himself helplessly, searching for allies in the crowd.
Now: Act Two. I wasn't really supposed to know about it. “Act Two” was purely the initiative of my clan mates, but Lurch, loyal and omniscient as usual, managed to send me a word about their plans.
Dana walked toward Bomba with her son in her hands, carefully stepping on the dull concrete. Her weighty and accusatory speech quickly found the gaps in Bomba’s defense. The warrior maiden lost all her ferocity and confident posture. Slouching, she couldn't take her eyes off the googooing child.
I heard her say,
"But what the hell are they going to do without a tank?!"
I hid my smile behind the visor of my muffled helmet. Act Two wasn’t finished yet.
Stepping out from the crowd was Fuckyall, the top paladin of the Russian cluster. He had changed his colors to Dark, taken a princess as his wife, built his own castle in the best gothic traditions, lead an army of the undead into battle and so on, and so forth... This man was well and truly legendary.