Viridian Gate Online: The Artificer: A litRPG Adventure (The Imperial Initiative Book 1)

by S. R. Witt

  “You seem pleased with yourself,” the woman said with a wink. “Copper for your thoughts?”

  Osmark chuckled and licked his lips.

  He didn’t know this merchant, and he wasn’t going to tell her even a fraction of the truth about his thoughts. She might be nothing more than an NPC, but tipping his hand to anyone this early in the game could be a fatal error. And V.G.O.’s NPCs were far from the standard MMO fare. Though the NPCs were procedurally generated by drawing on a host of information from all over the internet—history books, Facebook profiles, novels, movies, games—each one could pass the Turing Test with ease. They could be just as cunning and just as dangerous as any of the player characters.

  “I’m just glad I woke up in the same place I fell asleep,” he replied with a shrug. “How far to Tomestide?”

  She grinned. “So you do know more than you’re letting on. For that, I’ll tell you what the driver told me this morning. We’ll likely reach Tomestide by nightfall.”

  Osmark grunted and glanced at the sun, which was dipping below the horizon, painting the land with streaks of gold, red, and dark purple. Another hour until full dark, at least. That was an awful lot of precious time to waste in the back of a wagon. “I’ll just check with the driver. Maybe we’re running ahead of schedule,” Osmark said, gaining his feet and squeezing past the woman.

  The wagon wasn’t more than fifteen feet long, but walking through it took Osmark most of a minute. Between the uncertain footing caused by the wheels bouncing through ruts and the jumbled cargo occupying almost every free inch of floor space, it was far more of a challenge than Osmark would’ve liked. He’d almost reached the driver’s bench when the wagon suddenly veered hard to the left, the horses shrieking in protest up ahead.

  Osmark lunged, grabbing at the back of the bench before he crashed to the wagon’s floor. The pain filter was amazing, but he wasn’t too keen to experience any more pain than strictly necessary. His fingers closed over the rough wood, earning him a few more splinters. “What the hell?” he shouted, a flash of anger swelling in his chest.

  The driver turned to Osmark and shouted right back at him. “Get down! There’s—”

  Blood jetted from the man’s mouth and splattered across Osmark’s chest. The driver slumped to the side with a thick arrow jutting from the side of his throat, dead. The smell of fresh-spilled blood panicked the horses, and they reared back, legs flashing in the air as they crashed into one another. Osmark tried to grab the reins from the dead driver’s nerveless fingers—to restore order to this mess—but the leather was slick with blood. It slithered through the guard’s hands and vanished over the lip of the driver’s bench. Gone.

  Bestial howls filled the air.

  The terrified horses screamed and bolted from the road, but in their blind panic, they tangled in their traces and lost their footing. The horse on the left, its hair black as midnight, crashed onto its side and dragged its partner, a chestnut brown, down on top of it. The screaming beasts slid down the grassy embankment next to the road in a jumble of kicking legs, gnashing teeth, and thrashing heads.

  Osmark saw the disaster coming but was helpless to stop it. The falling horses dragged the wagon hard to the left, pulling it down the hill behind them. The wheels dug into the dirt like plows, and broken earth mounded up before them. The wheels on the wagon’s downhill side burst under pressure, splinters of wood and bits of iron flying free like shrapnel. The front axle lurched and dropped, burying itself in the dirt as a thick wooden pole bucked up against the bottom of the wagon and momentum did its work.

  In seconds they were airborne, the wagon flipping onto one side with a groan.

  Osmark sailed away from the driver’s bench and toward the field beside the road, tumbling head over heels before crashing into the dirt with bone-jarring force. The impact knocked the wind out of his lungs in a muffled bark. Everything went black, and then a new game message floated into view:

  <<<>>>

  Debuffs Added

  Stunned: Movement reduced by 75%; duration, 1 minute

  Concussed: You have sustained a severe head injury! Confusion and disorientation; duration, 1 minute.

  Blunt Trauma: You have sustained severe Blunt Trauma damage! Stamina Regeneration reduced by 30%; duration, 2 minutes.

  <<<>>>

  Osmark lay on his belly and struggled to fill his lungs with air. A high-pitched ringing filled his ears. His vision drifted out of focus, snapped back, and then drifted away again. His body felt like someone had dumped him into a burlap sack and then kicked him for a few hours. Lying in the grass seemed like the best idea he’d had in a long time. His eyes slipped closed, and he took a deep breath of the cold air. But the smell of burning hair curled in Osmark’s nostrils like a barbed wire noose and immediately brought him back into the moment. The stench ignited a primal fear that screamed for him to move.

  To run, before he, too, was burning.

  Osmark fought to gain his feet, but his current debuffs made it almost impossible. Crawling was all he could manage, so that’s what he did. He wormed away from the wagons and the screams and the fire, pulling himself along an inch at a time, his fingers and knees scrambling for purchase while his head throbbed and his thoughts bounced around inside his ringing skull like rubber balls thrown against a brick wall. What the hell happened back there?

  When Osmark reached the tall grass a few yards from the road, he turned back, scanning the road and the chaos. Most of the wagons had crashed and spilled over in the road or beside it, their dead horses still tangled in their rigging. A frightening number of arrows had punched through the faithful beasts’ hides, and the pooling blood had turned the dirt into a muddy mire.

  Figures moved through the bloody wreckage in the red light of the sinking sun, their faces lit by the dancing flames of the torches they clutched in their meaty fists. Some were human, their golden hair and pale skin marking them as Wodes. Their allies, however, were much too large to be men. Standing a good foot taller than their human companions, these creatures’ bodies bulged with misshapen muscles. Their faces were distorted by tusks that jutted from the sides of their mouths beneath their wide upturned noses and piggish nostrils.

  Risi.

  Osmark inched forward another inch, then two, watching the unfolding carnage with wide eyes.

  The Wodes and their Risi allies stalked through the wreckage, kicking at burlap bags, smashing open wooden crates, and butchering any survivors they came across. Wicked axes and pitted steel swords scythed through the merchants and guards who tried to stand their ground and fight. It was a hopeless battle; the guards and merchants were outnumbered five to one, and most were injured from the wreck to boot. Quickly, Osmark surveyed the battlefield for any signs of the female merchant from the wagon. He saw dead guards and slaughtered horses, but there was no sign of the woman.

  Had she run? Maybe.

  That hopeful notion died when he saw one of the few remaining drivers break and flee into the night. Shaggy-maned wolves, larger than any Osmark had ever imagined, exploded from the shadows to pursue the fleeing man. They were massive creatures with gray hair, oversized jaws filled with far too many teeth, and beady yellow eyes. They were almost hyena-like.

  Fifteen yards from the road, the wolves caught up to the runner, circling him like sharks smelling blood in the water, their lips pulling back in silent snarls. The obvious leader—a great white beast with a black blaze marking his forehead—howled. Then he lunged, and his pack joined in the slaughter. The man’s screams went on far longer than Osmark would have believed possible.

  He was torn to shreds before his cries faded away.

  Despite the horror of the situation, Osmark had to admire the artistry of the scene. He’d created this, even if only indirectly. His tools, his machines, his programming, had fashioned this barbaric scene from the nothingness of electronic space. It was incredible, in a cold, pragmatic way.

  And it would’ve been even more amazing if those impre
ssive beasts his programming had spawned hadn’t turned and headed in his direction.

  The bulk of the bandits were busy divvying up the spoils of their attack, but a lone Wode had split off from the rest of the group to search for survivors. He followed a trio of wolves, their black noses pressed to the ground. Sniffing. Searching.

  They have my scent, Osmark thought. Fear, real and primal, took root in his guts. He froze, unable to run, unable to even think. The wolves were less than thirty feet away. If he moved, they’d see him and run him down in seconds. If he stayed put for much longer, they’d stumble right over him, then shred him into dog chow. He needed to do something. Anything was better than lying there like a terrified rabbit waiting to die.

  But what to do? He didn’t have a weapon. He didn’t have any skills.

  The search party drew nearer to Osmark.

  Osmark eyed the towering Wode leading the little party. The blond thug had a massive battle-axe resting on his shoulder and a blazing torch in his offhand. Sapphire-blue tattoos curled from under his mane to frame his face in intricate and fearsome designs, which made him look almost as monstrous as the Risi. The Wode’s blond hair was plaited into elaborate braids that dangled down his back like golden ropes, swaying past his belt as he turned his head from side to side in search of prey. His armor was nothing more than crude hides that revealed almost as much of his skin it covered.

  The lead wolf threw back her head and howled. She lowered her muzzle, and her eyes blazed like swamp fire in the last rays of the dying sun. The wolf charged.

  Straight at Osmark.

  His paralyzing fear shattered.

  He hadn’t come this far, accomplished this much, to be gutted on his first day in V.G.O. He leaped to his feet and ran, only realizing his host of debuffs were gone when he didn’t immediately fall to his knees again. His head still ached from the wreck, but he wasn’t injured. Now, he just needed to stay that way. Before he’d taken three steps, however, a jolt of savage pain tore through his calf as jagged fangs clamped down, puncturing skin and digging deep into the muscle below. With a guttural snarl, she jerked him off his feet and tossed him away with a twist of her head. Stars flashed across his vision as his head bounced off the dirt road.

  The wolf snarled again and curled back onto her haunches, muscles tensed to lunge.

  Osmark stared into her wild eyes. Blood stained her muzzle and slicked her daggerlike teeth.

  His blood.

  Well, this is a disappointing start, he thought. He wasn’t even scared anymore. Frankly, he was disgusted by his failure. Yes, he’d respawn, but it would cost him precious time he didn’t have to waste. He’d lose eight hours, which wasn’t much in the grand scheme of things, but with the Imperial Advisory Board meeting just days away, he needed every minute to accomplish his goals. He had to establish his presence in Tomestide, earn both his class and specialization, and come up with a plan to deal with Sizemore before the senator could undercut all his efforts.

  No, death was far too inconvenient at this point.

  The wolf leaped for his throat, its slathering jaws spread wide.

  And then it yelped, and blood splattered across Osmark’s face. The hot and sticky spray blinded him, but temporarily blinded was better than dead. Osmark cleared his eyes with the palms of his hands and stared in disbelief at the dead wolf sprawled in the dirt, its yellow eyes already glassy.

  A lean man wearing burnished leather armor loomed over the fallen wolf, his feet spread wide, his gaunt face tense, a gleaming silver sword raised and at the ready. In an instant, he lashed out at the next animal, splitting it almost in half with a two-handed chop that caught it mid-leap. The third wolf, surprised and off balance, didn’t have a chance. The man feinted left, shot right, then lunged, driving the bloodied tip of his blade through the wolf’s gray hide and into its heart.

  “Don’t just lay there gawking, lad,” the man said, jerking his weapon from the dead wolf’s twitching corpse. “My name’s Horan and I’m here to help. But if you want to live, you best get ready to fight.”

  FIVE:

  Blood Rage

  The tattooed bandit rushed to the attack before Osmark could stop staring at the dead wolves, much less prepare himself for the brutal onslaught. The Wode charged through the tall grass with his gleaming axe spinning over his head. A chilling hunting cry burst from his open mouth as he brought the axe down at Horan’s face. For a split second, Osmark thought his guardian NPC was as good as dead.

  But Horan was an experienced soldier, steeped in discipline and technique.

  The barbarian’s reckless attack cleaved the empty air left as the mercenary pivoted away, and the axe buried itself in the earth instead of Horan’s skull.

  Horan darted forward with a grimace, his sword whistling out in a tight arc, slicing through the off-balance Wode’s unprotected throat. A fountain of blood gushed from the wound, painting the evening air with a vivid crimson mist. The barbarian warrior leaned heavily against the haft of his axe, a stunned look sprinting across his face, then keeled over onto his side to vomit up his last, bloody breath.

  “We should get clear of these maniacs, sir,” Horan said, his voice gruff and no-nonsense. He wiped his blade on a fistful of green grass and shoved his weapon back into its sheath. “I was hired to keep this caravan and its passengers safe, and this place is a hell of a long way from that.”

  The thieves continued to loot and slaughter as they prowled through the burning remnants of the caravan. It was clear they intended to take anything valuable, kill anyone who opposed them, and burn whatever they didn’t feel like dragging away.

  Horan was right. This place wasn’t safe.

  But Osmark didn’t give a shit about safe. Who did these animals think they were to attack an Imperial caravan? A cold rage stuck in his chest like an icicle through his heart. “We’re not leaving.”

  Horan glanced at Osmark, lips pressed into a tight, thoughtful line. “Then you’d best grab a weapon, lad. The killing ain’t over for those who stay here.”

  A weapon, Osmark thought. He padded back toward the caravan with Horan beside him, stealing along the tree line to avoid detection. But it can’t be just any weapon. Every choice made in V.G.O. had consequences, especially during the opening sequence. Most players didn’t understand the scope and depth of the game’s analytical tools. Even those who did know that every action, even every word, was recorded and picked apart by V.G.O.’s AI gods, didn’t understand just how much their choices changed the world around them.

  Osmark, on the other hand, knew exactly how his decisions affected V.G.O. The Master Artificer character class would give him an edge over his enemies, but qualifying for it was extremely difficult. To even have a chance of gaining that class, he’d first have to find a trainer. And then he’d have to convince that trainer he was a good candidate for a student. If he didn’t make just the right choices now—including which weapons to use—he’d never have a chance of passing that test.

  Horan elbowed Osmark in the ribs to knock him clear of an attacking Wode who burst out from behind a fat elm. An axe as long as Osmark was tall whooshed through the air over his prone body.

  The golden-haired berserker howled in rage at his missed attack, spinning with the momentum of his wild swing, redirecting the axe blade toward Horan’s face. The veteran fighter staggered back to let the hungry crescent sweep past his eyes.

  “Get a weapon, man!” Horan shouted, his sword flashing out, batting aside another attack.

  Osmark scrambled away from his guardian NPC in search of a crossbow. The engineered weapons relied on brains rather than brawn, and its mechanical design would earn Osmark faction points with the Master Artificers. Plus, he’d much rather stand at a distance and pepper his enemies with streaking black bolts than go toe to toe with the filthy warriors.

  An enormous Risi charged at Osmark from behind a burning cart. The massive ogre wore spiked black platemail and wielded heavy black blades in each hand, the we
apons poised for both offense and defense. The barbaric creature snarled at Osmark, its face a rictus of rage, its tusks dripping with foaming saliva. Osmark knew instinctively that even with a weapon, he was no match for that thing. Not on his best day. Osmark was many things, but a brawler wasn’t one of them. Without a weapon, though, he’d be sliced into bite-sized chunks before he could so much as kick the Risi in the shins.

  He did the only reasonable thing.

  He ran for all he was worth.

  This is getting to be a habit, he thought.

  The ambush had been a disorganized charge. The wolves had terrified the horses, which sent the wagons spilling in every direction. Most of the overloaded carts had splintered their wheels and shattered their axles as soon as they left the road. Their contents were scattered across the grass and dirt, ripe and ready for looting, pillaging, and burning. Not every cart was getting the same amount of attention, however, and the one ahead of Osmark was still upright. Its right wheel was shattered, true, and the horses had burst from their traces, but the bonnet was still intact, and it wasn’t on fire.

  Best of all, the dead guard was still on the bench with a fistful of arrows punched through his face and chest.

  Osmark beelined for the crippled wagon and prayed he would be faster than the Risi on his heels, eating up the distance between them.

  Behind him, Horan shouted in victory or pain, it was impossible to tell which, and Osmark didn’t have the time to stop and check on his only ally. Osmark knew his guardian NPC was a grizzled fighter with years of experience, but there were a lot of bandits still in the fight. Osmark silently prayed Horan was skilled enough to hold off their attackers until he could contribute to the fight.

  The Risi’s rasping breaths echoed in Osmark’s ears. The barbarian was close—and getting closer every second—but so was the wagon. Osmark thought he had enough of a lead on his enemy to gain the high ground on the driver’s bench before he was cut down.