Viridian Gate Online: The Lich Priest: A litRPG Adventure (The Viridian Gate Archives Book 5)

by James Hunter

  I turned back to the Alliance fighters. There was no celebration for them. They lingered around in a loose circle while the cleric—a willowy Dawn Elf with golden skin in brilliant white robes edged in silver—knelt beside the fallen Dwarf. Her hands roved over his body, a wash of golden light bleeding from her palms. But whatever she was doing seemed fruitless. The Dwarf didn’t move. Didn’t twitch. Didn’t bat an eye.

  “Everything okay here?” I asked, striding forward, edging my way into the circle.

  “I’m afraid not, Lord Grim Jack,” she said, dipping her head in respect. I’d tried to stomp out the lord nonsense, but the Alliance members wouldn’t budge. At least lord was better than king, which had almost caught on. The Cleric turned toward me, her lips pressed into a thin line, her forehead creased in worry.

  She lifted one hand, the thick cuff of her robe falling back to reveal 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.

  A Malware Blade. The weapons were far too common these days.

  “Is he gone?” I asked, nodding to the Dwarf.

  “There’s no way to tell,” the healer replied with a shake of her head and a grimace. “Sometimes, I can tell if I get there in time. But he was already dead when I started my prayers. There’s no way to know until he either respawns … or doesn’t.” Real Death.

  I stared at each of the fighters in turn, making sure they met my eye before moving on. “Good work out here, today,” I said gravely. “I know this is tough, but we’ll get through this. I’m not sure how, not yet. But I’ll find a way. Please make sure that dagger gets to Vlad. The rest of you get some food and some rest.”

  Before they could reply, I turned and marched across the field toward the knot of Imperials standing idly at the gate, watching the drama unfold. Their lieutenant, wearing his stupid crested helm, was grinning, one hand resting on the pommel of a glowing gladius.

  The smug grin slipped off his face the closer I got. “I was just following orders,” he stammered, eyebrows climbing in shock and unease.

  “Tell that to the guy who might not be coming back,” I spit, before winding back and launching a swift jab into his teeth. I didn’t put much muscle into the blow, enough to knock out a handful of Health, but nothing more. “I understand that Osmark is your boss, but we’re here helping you. This is your city, not ours. We don’t need to be here. We can let you burn. Understand me?”

  “Yes, Lord Grim Jack,” the lieutenant said, dropping his gaze and rubbing his chin with one hand, blood leaking from his mouth.

  I glared at the rest of the soldiers, making sure each one got a piece, before nodding. “Good, don’t let it happen again.”

  Devil, let’s go see the emperor. A gust of wind slammed into the Imperial soldiers, flattening the grass around them and sending cloaks fluttering back as Devil touched down, his black, scaly mouth covered in gore, his six purple eyes burning with dull fire. The Shadow Drake, who had become as much of a symbol of the Alliance as I had, pulled back reptilian lips, baring wicked black fangs at the Legionaries as I swung into the saddle on his back. Smoke and flames curled from his nose, and the Imperial soldiers all took a step back on instinct.

  Maybe they were smarter than they seemed.

  I pulled back on Devil’s reins, digging my heels in as he wheeled around and broke into a run before launching us into the air. His leathery wings pumped furiously as we left the ground behind.

  TWO_

  Rivals

  We cruised over New Viridia’s wide ramparts, and I eyed the destruction of the latest incursion. Siege weapons smoked and smoldered, bodies lay scattered along the walk, while even more lay crumpled at the interior base of the wall, surrounded by halos of crimson blood. Those were the lucky ones. So far, the Vogthar hadn’t invented a way to create projectile weapons tainted by the Thanatos Virus, which meant all of those players would respawn. Respawning was far from fun, but it sure beat Real Death.

  Devil pumped his wings, and then the outer wall was behind us and we were over the city proper. We cruised toward the inner wall and the colossal citadel sitting on a hill smack-dab in the center of the metropolis. The wind whipped at my face, carrying with it the faint whiff of battle, smoke, and death, but up here it was almost possible to forget the war. Of all the cities I’d visited inside of V.G.O., New Viridia was easily the most beautiful. Only Ankara, the capital of the bird-winged Accipiter, came close.

  The Storme Marshes were something straight out of a fantasy novel, their towns built among twisted, moss-covered trees. Their buildings were crafted from an amalgamation of wood, mud, and palm fronds, all joined together with odd bits of leather, tangles of luminescent green moss, and gobs of silvery spider silk. They were fantastical and incredibly unique, true, but there wasn’t a lot of curb appeal. And though Rowanheath was a sprawling, thriving city, it was built for form and function: a place of hard lines and towering walls, perfectly suited for a long siege.

  Not New Viridia, though.

  The streets were all neatly paved cobblestone. The buildings were tall and stately, each carved from gleaming white marble and accentuated by fluted pillars, arched windows, and blue capped domes. Colorful awnings dotted many of the side streets, marking out the street markets. Instead of the rough-shod travelers you might find in Rowanheath, however, the market-goers all wore colorful togas, expensive furs, and gleaming, top-notch armor that hardly looked worn. Not so much as a dent or scratch to be seen. And the players themselves were almost universally Imperial. Humans.

  There were a few golden-skinned Dawn Elves and the occasional richly clad Dwarf or Wode. But there were no Risi. No dusky Dokkalfar or Accipiter.

  I pulled my officer commlink up with a thought. “Cutter, Abby, Amara. You guys doing alright?”

  A soft buzz-click followed as a new voice filled my ears. “Yeah, I’m okay, Jack,” Abby said. “Though one of those Vogthar high priests nearly took me out while I had my back turned. Jerk had a cursed blade, too. Felt like walking over my own grave.”

  “Same,” came Cutter’s voice a second later as he joined the group chat. “One of those bloody Ragna-Wolves mauled the nine hells outta my leg. The bastard came outta the trees like a ghost, but Amara and I put it down right and proper. Got some good loot off it too, for once. These Vogthar are a stingy lot, but this one actually had gold on him. And none of those blighted square Vogthar coins either. Real Imperial gold marks. Which, by the way, I fully intend to spend at the tavern as soon as I get a chance.”

  Devil and I cruised over the inner wall, a set of powerful ballistae below homing in on us, though not firing. The inner ring of the city—called New Malibu by the residents—was even more upscale. Instead of simple columns, buildings featured intricate statues of gods and goddesses, and the arched windows were covered by sparkling stained glass, some depicting blooms of roses, others showing off epic battles, forever frozen in time. Crystal-clear streams and creeks lined many of the walkways, while elaborate gardens covered in a riot of colorful and exotic flowers blossomed everywhere.

  “What the idiot thief means to say,” came Amara’s voice, “is that we are fine and ready for whatever mission you have for us, Lord Grim Jack.” I could practically hear her eyeroll through the commlink. Those two had a strange relationship that mystified me no matter how hard I tried to understand it.

  “Glad to hear it,” I said offhandedly, eyeing the finely clad nobles strolling at their leisure below. In New Malibu, all were Imperials, and almost none wore armor or even carried weapons. Instead, they wore shimmering linen robes. They joked and laughed. Men and women moved arm in arm, like lovers enjoying a relaxing afternoo
n walk. Looking at them, you’d never suspect there was a war for survival being waged just outside the city gates. These folks, I knew, were the wealthiest players from across the globe. The upper crust of the upper crust.

  “Unfortunately,” I continued, tearing my eyes away from the Imperials, “celebrating is gonna have to wait. I need to have a stern chat with Osmark, and I could use backup in case things get ugly. Can you three meet me over in the foyer outside the Palace War Room in”—I paused, eyeing my interface clock—“let’s say, ten minutes?”

  “I’ll be there, Jack,” came Abby’s prompt reply.

  Cutter didn’t respond, though I could hear him mumbling disgruntledly under his breath. “I’ll be there,” Amara added a moment later, “and I’ll make sure our resident thief is there as well.” The line buzzed again, then clicked and fell silent. I glanced up as Devil banked right and swooped down, dropping toward the domineering Imperial Palace jutting up from an immaculately manicured hill at the center of New Malibu. The Palace was surrounded by yet another wall, this one fifteen feet high and made from rose-quartz granite and inlaid with gold.

  The Palace itself was a work of art, all looming spires, delicate archways, sweeping terraces, golden murals, and breathtaking gardens.

  Devil folded his wings up against his body before touching down lightly on the marble walkway which led to the massive double doors. Those doors stood open—wide and inviting. Another sign that what happened out there was of little concern to the people drifting dreamily through life inside New Malibu. This is the kind of corruption I’m fighting against, I reminded myself. Just because these people had been wealthy and connected IRL didn’t make them better than the Dwarf who died at their gates not five minutes ago.

  Tightly controlled anger burned inside my chest as I dismounted. I ran my hand over Devil’s scaly muzzle, petting him the way someone might pet a dog—though Devil was bigger and meaner than any dog that had ever roamed the world. Good work today, I sent, before dismissing him back to the Shadowverse, where he could get a little rest and relaxation. He disappeared in a swirl of cloying smoke, and before the cloud had fully dissipated, I was moving on, boots click-clacking on the walkway.

  A pair of thick-necked, brooding Legionaries stood watch at the palace doors, hands wrapped around heavy spears as they tracked my every motion. They watched me the way a weary hunter watches an encroaching grizzly—I did have something of a reputation, after all—but made no move to stop me. I had an open invitation from Osmark, himself. All of my faction officers did, though the guards still treated us like dangerous delinquents that were likely to loot the Palace given half a chance.

  It didn’t help that Cutter had looted a ton of pricey gear.

  I made my way through the halls, absently glancing at the pricey artwork adorning nooks and crannies as I took familiar turn after familiar turn. Up one corridor, down another, before climbing a circular staircase, which let out into a series of wide hallways studded with columns and archways. The Palace was a sprawling monstrosity, bigger than the Rowanheath Keep and the Darkshard Keep combined. Honestly, it was a small city with a population to match.

  I offered the roving guard patrols polite nods as I passed. They were cool and professional, but rarely friendly. But there was also an army of staff that took care of a thousand different chores. Servers bustled by carrying heavy trays loaded down with food or steaming pitchers of coffee—the aroma bold and heavy in the air. The guards might have been icy cold, but the servers at least were warm and kind, each one offering me a friendly smile or a polite dip of the head.

  I returned each one. Despite the fact that these people called me lord, I was one of them.

  I rounded a bend and saw Abby stride into view from a nearby connecting corridor, her brown hair threaded with red highlights, bouncing, her crimson skirt swirling around her legs. She saw me and faltered, a lopsided smile growing on her lips as she waited for me to catch up. Abby was a short, curvy woman with dark skin who looked almost identical to how she had IRL, though everything was refined and dusted with the sheen of over-perfect VR. That made me smile. A little piece of home in an unfamiliar land.

  She stretched out a hand, taking mine in her own. “It’s good to see you, Jack,” she said, before leaning over and pecking me on the cheek. “Seriously. Every time I go out these days, it feels like the last time I’m ever going to see you.”

  I squeezed her hand tightly. “It’s good to see you, too. And try not to worry too much. We’ll figure this out. We survived the end of the world once—we’ll survive this, too. Assuming we can get Osmark to play ball.” We rounded another bend, which connected to the antechamber outside the War Room. Osmark spent most of his days secluded inside. I faltered in my tracks as my gaze landed on Amara and Cutter. The Huntress paced restlessly, eyes locked on the shut doors leading to the room behind. Cutter, by contrast, lounged against one wall, foot propped up on the stone while he munched on an apple.

  “How the hell did you beat me here?” I asked, incredulous.

  He arched an eyebrow and grinned. “’Cause unlike you, mate, I know the backways. The servants have a whole network of passages that’ll get you anywhere in this drafty old place in about half the time as the main routes. Now, what’s the play, eh? We about to go punch ol’ Osmark in the teeth? If so, I call first dibs on any loot in the room.” He paused, eyeing the closed doors. “I’ve cased that place, and there’s some expensive merchandise just waiting for an enterprising delinquent such as myself.”

  “Yeah, something like that,” I replied. “Don’t attack, but be ready to defend yourself if push comes to shove.”

  I pulled my warhammer free, hand clenching around the grip, and slammed the double doors open with one solid kick. The doors swung wide with a whoosh, banging against the walls with a hollow thud that reverberated in the air. I marched in without missing a beat, projecting the anger rolling through me like a storm. Unlike the rest of the Palace, the War Room was a spartan affair, dedicated to functionality. The floors were plain granite, as were the walls—though it was hard to tell since every inch of wall space seemed to be covered by maps.

  Maps of everything. Of every city and province. Maps that depicted Legion movements, and others that displayed the location and dispersion of Alliance troops. A few that showcased corrupted Vogthar dungeons. A huge mahogany table, surrounded by high-backed leather chairs, dominated the center of the room. On its surface was yet another map—this one a finely detailed topographical map of Eldgard. In the center of the map was a glowing emerald the size of a softball, which projected a holographic stat table up into the air. The shimmering green holoscreen displayed New Viridia’s current fortifications.

  They were upgrading the city.

  Three pairs of eyes looked up at me as I stormed in. Osmark stood at the far side of the table, hunched over, hands planted on the wood. Instead of traditional armor, he wore a sleek black suit—vaguely Victorian in design—studded with brass gears and covered with colorful, holographic thread that created intricate patterns and elaborate sigils. Brass goggles with multicolored lenses decorated his face, while a fancy top hat sat atop his head. He looked as out of place in Eldgard as any of the toga-wearing dandies strolling in New Malibu’s gardens.

  He was far more dangerous than he looked though.

  To his right loitered his chief assistant, Sandra Bullard—a striking Dawn Elf woman with golden-brown hair, a lean athletic build, sharp green eyes, and a severe face that constantly looked disgruntled. I’d discovered through the rumor mill that she’d served as his right-hand executive assistant back IRL and seemed to serve the same function here in the V.G.O. She was a Rogue class of some sort, though I wasn’t sure what exactly her specialty was. Still, I’d seen her fight a handful of times, and she wasn’t someone to screw around with.

  On his other side was Osmark’s chief goon, Jay Taylor—a squat, shirtless beef slab who wore baggy trousers and soft-soled shoes, but no armor. His head was shave
d down, save for a small black topknot. His chest and arms were covered in brand-like tattoos, burned directly into his skin. A Runic Blood Monk. I’d tangled with him a couple of times too, and although I’d come out on top, it’d been a near thing. He was smart, fast, and had a wide range of combat options, from melee tanking to midrange spellcasting.

  He was also a pro gamer with a knack for reading player strategy.

  Osmark paused, his eyes narrowing to slits as his gaze flickered from my face to my hammer. Slowly, he straightened himself, folding his hands behind his back. “Sandra,” he said, ignoring us completely, “please get those reports to General Peng. I want those siege towers ready tomorrow. Tomorrow. I don’t care what he has to do. And make sure Gallo knows what’s on the line if she fails. She still isn’t back in my good graces yet, make sure she knows that, too. Let her know I’ll be sending Garn along to ensure she does her job.”

  “Of course, Robert,” Sandra said before edging around the table and beelining for the door. She nodded at me in passing, offering me a tightlipped smile. Ever the professional, was Sandra.

  “And what can I do for you today, Jack?” Osmark continued as his assistant disappeared from the room. “Do you have something to report from the field? I’m busy, so let’s make it quick.”

  “Don’t give me that,” I snapped, fist flexing even tighter around the haft of my warhammer. “What the hell is your problem, huh? You’re actively ordering the Legion to leave the toughest fighting to my troops. I know it.” I paused, lips pulling back. “I’ve seen it. And while I’m out there fighting for you—for your city—you’re in here behind your sculpted walls, drinking coffee. I’m sick of it, Osmark. I understand how big a threat the Vogthar are, but I refuse to let you use my men for cannon fodder.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Jack. Of course I’m here. Planning. That’s what a real leader does. They plan. They lead. They don’t fight every battle because they have peons to do that for them. And as to your other accusation, it’s a numbers game—it only looks like your troops are doing more of the heavy lifting because you have more troops here than I do. The rest of the Legion is spread out all over Eldgard, stomping down these Vogthar fires. I don’t suppose I need to remind you that the bulk of my troops are up north, trying to reclaim Wildehold? Maybe you’d like to switch? I’m sure my men would be glad to be here instead of camped out in the snow, fighting an unending battle on every side.”